How To Do Anything Better: So You're Becoming a Rock Star...

You’re sixteen years old, and somewhere in the back of your pubescent brain you have acquired the notion of a menacing black abyss called The Future. The Future frightens you and not only because it will probably bring yet another smattering of pimples to your already pock-marked visage. You’re realizing that one day you will need to get a real job. In addition, you’ve just taken the Career Personality Inventory and made a jaw-dropping discovery. You are not meant to be a car salesman, a forklift operator or an orthodontist. No, you, sir, are destined to be a rock star. Your proclivity for wearing lizard skin pants should have tipped the guidance counselor off, but in her own Career Personality Inventory, she was deemed to be the ideal road pylon. In the hopes of feeding your bright forest fire of potential, the Happy Dagger has compiled some tips to help you on your way to becoming a rock legend. You may have always wanted to work in a dingy cubicle in some asbestos-stuffed office, but fate has decreed otherwise, bitch. This guide is here to ease the pain.

While being able to play an instrument or vocalize may be useful skills for a professed musician, they are substantially less important than your choice of addiction. In picking a substance to abuse, always opt for the one that will prevent you from getting fat while avoiding exercise any more strenuous than passing out on a dirty mattress covered in hypodermic needles. While Cass Eliot was a talented entertainer, the road to rock stardom is not paved with ham sandwiches. Alcoholism is also a no-no, because most people associate it with their uncle Bernie who has dermatitis and does all of his rocking in a chair on the back porch. Your addiction should demonstrate how unbelievably rich you are. Snort beluga eggs. Burn hundred dollar bills to get a high off the fumes of government-issue printer’s ink. Reroute a Syrian oil pipeline directly into your hungry veins. If you’re doing all this with due diligence, the rock gods will smile upon you.

Another frequently overlooked aspect of rock stardom is the bizarre contract rider. Absurd backstage requests are a crucial means of demonstrating your guitar-driven power over your tone-deaf underlings. Here are some possible concert must-haves: jaguar sharks, midgets that look like Tony Danza, a Beta-Max, Pegasus, an Astin Martin painted the exact hue of a cardigan your mom wore to Christmas dinner in 1988 and subsequently donated to the Goodwill, pillows stuffed only with the finest down of adolescent moustaches, weapons-grade plutonium, etc, etc. Just free-associate, something that you’ll find surprising easily to do once you’ve invested in some time into your addiction. If you ever run out of original ideas, just start combining stuff you’ve previously requested into ever more elaborate cocktails of ridiculousness.

As a rock star, you’re free to have exuberant sex with groupies but be sure to marry a supermodel. Do not, I repeat, do not marry your devout Mormon fiancé, the bespectacled candy-striper at your grandma’s nursing home or the homely girl-next-door. Unless said homely girl’s name is Courtney Love and she’s batshit crazy – then it’s okay. Avoid actresses like the blockbusting, ball-busting plagues they are – they will hurt your image by starring in romantic comedies. Besides you don’t want an anorexic; you want a woman who never eats because she’s too busy doing blow all day long. Kate Moss is basically the gold standard rock wife. Judging by Pete Doherty, she also doesn’t mind having more than her recommended daily intake of Vitamin Skeeve.

You and your drug-addled fashion vixen sweetie should drift through a delightfully hollow haze of hedonistic bliss. That means no “making a difference,” “giving back to the community,” or “finding meaning,” in your empty, empty, impossibly glamourous lives. Avoid Live Aid or any other project themed along the lines of “Music Can Save the World”. This is the surest way to become Phil Collins. If you see Bono’s vulpine mug, run the other way as fast as you can without shattering your calcium-deprived bones. I know this is a tall order when your exercise regimen consists of languidly picking guitar strings and intense shoe-gazing. Furthermore, unless you have tits or your name is Chris Martin, avoid the cover of “Rolling Stone” as though it were an actual large boulder rolling towards you.

As you dodge charities and Winona Ryder at every turn, your appearance should be the least of your concerns. Don’t worry about piffling matters such as wearing deodorant, brushing your already British teeth or procuring clean undergarments. All these problems will resolve themselves eventually. At the climactic moment of a three-day bender, pick up a rusty pair of left-handed scissors in your right hand and cut your hair. Comb your tresses only on your birthday. When you are famous enough, you will be able to completely ignore all the fundamental laws of personal hygiene. People will politely ignore the cobwebs accumulating under your armpits or praise them for ridding the studio of flies. Your stench can serve both as a test of your fans’ loyalty and a quiet “fuck-you” to those bastards at the soap companies who hate rock and everything that it stands for.

The rock’n’roll lifestyle is one of sacrifice and dedication. You may not want to get wasted every night, gallivant around dirty and half-clothed or have sex with legions of pliant young hotties. You will suffer fatigue and depression from all the debauched fun you are having. Some nights you may slither into your king-sized titanium slumber pod and dream of being a middle-aged, middle-class dairy farmer in the Midwest. There may be moments when you yearn to train as a tax auditor, but don’t despair. You have been given the gift of rock, baby, and with great power comes great responsibility.