I am OUTTA HERE, fuckers! The last straw was the ward talent show, when two alkie limo drivers and a glue-sniffing high school shop teacher decided it would be a good idea to perform “We Didn’t Start the Fire” as a gangsta rap accompanied by a kazoo. Everyone’s staring at ME while this is going on, and my counselor squeezes my arm and says, “Can you feel the love behind the satire? It’s important to embrace your sense of whimsy.”
Whimsy THIS, bitch!
After this, sitting through 6 hours of a “modernist ballet” interpretation of “Vienna” and two dozen DAILY calls (I shit you not) from Elton obsessing about his tour wardrobe and how much is it going to cost to ship a 40-lb. sequined tuxedo jacket to Budhapest is going to feel like a beach vacation.
GOD, I need a drink.
My counselor tells me I have to get over my “elitist attitude”. Shit, I’m just a regular guy from Long Island, y’know? But whatever. She asks me if I’m going to be in the ward talent show. She says Mariah did it, and Liza did too. I told her I didn’t realize this was the MTV Divas Wing, and do they have a Wing for SERIOUS ARTISTS? She would NOT back down until I agreed to spend some time in the Common Room. Common Room indeed!
So I sit down at the piano, what the hell, I figured I’d give ‘em all a thrill. Looking around the room I figure I’m better off playing something from The Stranger instead of River of Dreams. These people look mean enough as it is. I start in on “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant” and people start circling the fucking piano! I shit you not! And my counselor INTERRUPTS me waving her hands, and pulls me out to the hallway. She says the other patients are getting antsy, with all the talk about “a bottle of red/a bottle of white”. Can I sing something without alcohol in it.
First she nags me about not mingling with the others, then she presumes to dictate my artistic choices? This place is no better than the outside!
Phone call from Twyla this a.m. Do I think Sargeant O’Leary should be in the big dance number. How the fuck should I know? I’m the SONGWRITING GENIUS, not the fucking choreographer! Jesus, it’s no wonder I’m in here. These people have driven me here.
No sooner did I get off that phone call than the costumer calls (WTF is her name, anyway). Should the guy playing Anthony stuff a sock down his pants. Fucking hell, now I’m the costume supervisor??? I don’t think I can handle much more of this.
Today is visiting day, but still no Alexa. She seems to blame ME that she is a bitter bug-eyed brunette and not a leggy blonde supermodel. I don’t see her lamenting her DNA when allowance time rolls around. The credit card bills that girl racks up! It’s no wonder I’m here! What does a teenager need with botox anyway?
Speaking of ALEXA’S MOM, the guy who changes the sheets decides he has the right to tell me “Uptown Girl” is a shitty song. No shit, Sherlock! He tells me “I liked it better when you were with that other chick. You know, the “Just the Way You Are” chick. I told him when he started fucking supermodels, THEN I would take his advice.
Morons! Where the hell do people get off?
Elton John called today. He asked what happened, how I ended up in here. I told him it was the pressures of having my show open on Broadway. I figured he’d understand. You know he had the NERVE to say that there wasn’t any pressure on in me to launch a show with songs that were already written?!?!
This is the support I get? GO BACK TO WRITING THE CARTOON SONGS, NANCY BOY!
I’m not leaving my room ever again! I went into the Rec Room just to stretch my legs, and there’s a PIANO in the corner. I could just FEEL everybody’s eyes going back and forth between me and the piano, me and the piano. Some guy walks up to me but I beat it out of there before he could say “Sing us a song…” (and I KNOW that’s what he was going to say. After all these years you just get a sense for these things.)