First things first: I’m a terrible person. I’m a chronic procrastinator, and that makes me a terrible person. I think that if there were an organization for people like me—National Procrastinators Association, maybe, or Timewasters Anonymous—you could write to its president and he or she would confirm this fact. “Yeah, Eamon’s right. We’re all terrible people, every one of us. Can’t count on us for a damn thing. By the way, sorry to get back to you so late. I’ve just been really busy these past four and a half years…”
It’s not good for one to be a chronic procrastinator when one is in college. I’ve learned this the hard way. It’s gotten to the point where I leave abusive “notes to self” on my computer so I can turn on the monitor and be slapped in the face by a reminder that I really should not be checking explodingdog.com for the third time today:
1. LYDIA! 12:30 TOMORROW AT BART! DON’T FORGET!
2. LAUNDRY! LAUNDRY!
3. NOFX TICKETS – 12:00 TOMORROW, SCHMUCK!
4. PREPARE FOR POLI SCI DISCUSSION! NOW!
5. 826 JOURNAL ENTRY! JUST DO IT ALREADY! GOD!
You see how it is.
Second things second: You remember that Eamon guy I mentioned at the end of my last entry? The white R&B singer on Jive Records with the hit song about the two-timing ho? I learned soon after that entry went up that Eamon’s last name is Doyle.
I don’t think I can understate how surreal the past three months have been for me. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be an amateur songwriter and suddenly share your first and last names with the person behind the #1 song in the country? No. No, you do not. And I feel confident saying that because I am reasonably sure that you are not an amateur songwriter named Andre 3000.
After a couple weeks, it became all too weird, and I just couldn’t go on. I had to talk to this freaky alternate-universe Eamon Doyle. So I called his publicist, Maria Ho (she’s heard the jokes, I’m sure), who was nice enough to arrange a phone interview for the morning of February 5th.
[following is an excerpt from Eamon Doyle’s account of his interview with Eamon Doyle, 2/5/04]
The phone rings.
“Hello?” I say, nerves shot to hell.
“Is this Eamon?”
“Yeah.”
“Hi, Eamon. This is Maria Ho from Jive. Hold on while I transfer you to Eamon—tee hee, our Eamon, that is.”
There is a long series of modem-type sounds, and then through the crackle comes this manic guffaw: “SUP DOG! THAT’S SOME CRAZY [ISH], HUH?!”
It’s all too much. It’s surreal. Chills, I tell you, chills. His voice is a bizarre meld of accents: one part Staten Island, one part all-American wigga. To hear him speak, you’d never guess he was a doo-wop-influenced R&B singer. I’m speaking to the man behind the bestselling single in America, but he could easily be one of my brother’s ne’er-do-well buddies. I can practically see the ski cap.
I know I’ll have to adjust my conversational style to his—I don’t want to sound like some magazine bore—and I concur that it is indeed some crazy [ish]. And it is, it is.
[end excerpt]
Anyway—thank you, Eamon Doyle, for giving me the time of day. Also, if you get a chance, check out Swillfilter.com. I gave your album a good review. Maybe you could let me open for you in a few years…? That’d rule, dog. Think it over, okay? Okay? Okay.
Third things third (all right, I’ll stop now): As crazy as the William Hung thing is on a national (or worldwide) scale, it’s even crazier to be right here at the center of it. Here is my personal William Hung story. I am not making it up.
Four days after I interviewed my alter ego, my dorm held an open mic that drew an estimated 400 students. The room was mindbogglingly, suffocatingly packed. To the friggin’ gills. Chants. Screams. About eight video cameras, at least one of them run by a professional. And it was all for William, who had been confirmed as headliner several weeks prior.
It was a great show. When William finally took the stage, the noise was deafening. He sang “She Bangs” in its entirety, as well as the Pokemon theme song and a traditional Chinese ballad which he described as “very meaningful, even though it’s in Chinese.” William Hung is a class act. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
But here’s the thing: I brought my beloved acoustic and my almost-as-beloved friend Mark, and we got to open the show. We covered Eamon’s song—the chords are really easy, even for me—and about seven people seemed to get the joke.
But it doesn’t matter. For the rest of my life, I will get to say that I opened for William Hung. Life is good.
Darn, this thing is running long. I shall do my best to ensure that nothing happens to me in the next couple months, so I can use all the good stuff I didn’t get to this time around. In the meantime, I have got to get back to Liz D. And I know just how my letter will start:
Dear Liz,
I’m a terrible person.
