Apologies, comrades, for my delinquency in providing you with regular dispatches concerning the puzzling anomoly that is my professional life. Personal issues take precedence, to say nothing of the seemingly endless torture of legal entanglements which are an omnipresent aspect of my alleged career.
The band known as Sweet Black And Blue is no more. Scheduling band practice had become a comedy of errors which would've left us four months between rehearsals. Further, the nagging suspicion that I have perhaps outgrown the need (not to mention the desire) for the band mentality and all the drama it entails (and which I once found so delicious) blossomed into a full-blown conviction in a brief moment of clarity over an Indian buffet at Oak Park's Khyber Pass restuarant; it may have only been the curry talking, but the revelation struck like a lightning bolt: "Brother," spoke an angelic voice, "you don't need this shit."
Ah, so! That bitter taste in my mouth wasn't just the lemon from the glass of Kingfisher at my side after all! A few mumbled amens gave way to a vision in which the path to my glorious future was laid out. I followed the trail of happiness, sprinkled with lotus petals and lapis lazuli, towards the promised land where the record label owners always send royalty checks on time, the monitors are always in working condition, and the credit card companies prefer to receive payment in lollipops and smiles.
Traveling by my side were the amiable and absurdly talented wife and husband team of Jenny Choi and Philip Stone, late of SBB. Next to them strode an unidentifiable figure, his grizzled visage cloaked in earthly shadows. But as the approach of the promised land became imminent, the rays of the life-sustaining sun penetrated even the angry clouds surrounding this wretched soul, who was, in a flash of heavenly light, revealed to be none other than my former traveling companion and partner in musical hijinx, Joseph King of North Hampton, New Hampshire. The John the Baptist to my Messiah!
"I see!" I shouted, to the surprise of Patel the busboy, who was attempting to re-fill my water glass (as busboys often do) while I reveled in the glory of my vision. "It's all so clear!"
"For the love of Pete, use your inside voice!" admonished my wife.
"Yes," I answered, taking it down a few decibels. "But don't you see? I've been going at this all wrong! New band, schnew band! It's my stuff - why not put it out there under my own name?"
"Didn't you try that already?" asked the sweet one to whom I'm wed.
"No, no, no! That was a project, not a band. 'Ben Weasel' version 2.0 will be a band, but it will be a band whose personnel can constantly change according to my needs and whims; the illusion of a solo gig that masks a legitimate band, minus all the real-band baggage. I've already got the nucleus - now it's just a matter of charting the course and setting sail."
"Are you going to eat your tandoori chicken?" asked my wife.
"And the great thing is," I continued, "when somebody screws up and gets canned, or quits, the fans won't even be able to discuss it properly. How can you complain about someone getting kicked out of 'Ben Weasel'? It's brilliant!"
And so it was, until I got home and started wondering how the hell I was going to get all those people together for a rehearsal.