When I was unjustly kicked out of the greatest Ray Manzarek cover band to ever come out of Cincinnati, I promised myself three things:
1. Get tested.
2. Find love.
3. Never betray rock 'n roll.
The first promise was originally in regards to paternity (the kid wasn't mine, but the dog and No Fear shirts were). Since then, I've made it my life's duty to always get myself tested. Even in my pre-date pep talks, I always make sure to ask, "Are you ready to rock?" And guess what? The answer's always yes.
But, sure, down the road I was, in fact, tested again and diagnosed with "the alphabet soup of hepatitis" by a doctor I'd like to diagnose with poor beside manners. I simply had too many dreams. Though, yeah, okay, one of those dreams was to have unprotected sex with 1,000 Denny's waitresses.
As for the second promise, I did find love. Her name was Dinah, and she worked at a Denny's. The right girl is always where you least expect it, I guess. Months later, she was gone though. Tragically diagnosed with a cheater's heart. And, later, assumedly some hepatitis, courtesy of yours truly. I mean, I'm no saint. Hell, I'm barely even a hardware store assistant manager or a Bob Seger fan!
Now, we come to the last promise. I owe rock 'n roll my life. Literally. I was born to a dice inspector father and a riverboat pickpocket mother, but in actuality, it was the ghost of Eddie "Guitar Slim" Jones using my daddy's dong to pork Janis Joplin in my mama's body in that county fair detainment center. I mean, come on, that's basic science. Just because Neil deGrasse Tyson didn't narrate that cosmo-spiritual avatar sex, which I have to assume was extremely raunchy and somewhat bewildering with two adults handcuffed and drunk off "loonshine" (one part whiskey, one part gasoline from a stolen car), doesn't mean it didn't happen just like that.
Yet, decades later, thanks to Obama, I'm all of a sudden hard up for cash. I need to pay rent or my landlord will evict me. I think. His accent's pretty thick. Might be from Boston. Maybe Laos. I don't know. Geography's pretty dumb, and I did not finish high school (you just need life experience for a resume anyway).
So, after generously donating most of my belongings to local creditors, I am selling my treasured 1983 Yamaha P22.
This is a hard day. This piano got me chicks in every dive bar from Cincinnati to Covington. When I was diddling the keys, those leathered up babes thought I was playing them. And I would. Later. After I'd get too loaded to finish the set.
For the record, though, that's not why they kicked me out of the band. Let me be clear. They kicked me out because their friend Reggie owned a keyboard, and they said it made more sense to have a keyboard than a piano, and I said it made more sense to shred with real musicians instead of band geeks. And that was the last time I saw them. Well, as a member anyway. I saw them a few years ago at a BBQ. They were alright.
But back to the archangel of rock piano! Did you know, according to a survey of Ohio's greatest rock pianist, the Yamaha P22's birth was the raddest thing about 1983?
It beat out the release of the totally awesome and kick-ass Return of the Jedi, the debut of the friggin' Chicken McNugget, and the long-awaited break-up of those asshats, The Carpenters, finally quitting after they single-handedly tried to kill music like the tone-deaf children of the corn. Why Alice Cooper never ate their fingers is beyond me.
Anyway, speaking of fingers, this superbabe-magnet, once nicknamed "88 Keys for 88 Beans" by a guy who looked like Lemmy from Motörhead himself, could be yours for just $3,000.
That's right, only $3,000! And you seem like just the right kind of cool dude or dudette I'm looking for. I can only trust you or any friends or family you may know that want to save rock music and/or have a few grand. Tell them about me and this fierce wooden dragon of rad. Please. At $3,000, this blessed masterpiece is practically a gift, and rumor has it the wood is from all the stakes used in the many attempts to find out once and for all if Prince is a vampire.
This piano is like a jet ski that can magically play the intro to Meatloaf's "Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer than They Are" by heart. In fact, this piano may legally be classified as an aphrodisiac. Bet you won't find that section of Guitar Center! Shoot, this may even be the same kind of piano Billy Joel nailed his "uptown girl" on. This piano is borderline a secret that I'm only telling you about (or, again, any friends or family, maybe some well-to-do co-worker you sometimes get lunch with). Tell yourself and everyone you know that this piano could potentially make you the next Mozart (high-flyin' '80s version). Like me, you could become the class act you always promised your older brother Ted you'd be one day.
I'm telling you, here and now, this is the single greatest deal I've heard of since my French landlord told me I could keep half my security deposit.