I Should Have Been a Rock Star by John Kaniecki Book Tour and Giveaway :)
I Should Have Been a Rock Star
by
John Kaniecki
Genre:
SciFi Fantasy
"What
happens when Don ‘Hypo’ Colandri mysteriously disappears from
Edward’s University on his way to a Statics exam? Why his three
roommates lie outright claiming he was kidnapped by a Satanic cult,
all to get money and score with chicks. Don, however, has been
mysteriously transported into outer space where he becomes a pawn of
one Nellie Watt against the Time Lords in a cosmic game being run by
God. Unfortunately for Myron, Slick and Psycho, (Don’s three former
roommates) they have dived into a realm where fools tread. Hilda
Thethia, a practicing Satanist, learns of the ruse and quickly begins
to blackmail the trio. Sadly Myron, Slick and Psycho realize that the
followers of Satan are more wide spread than they could have ever
imagined and none are too happy at having the name of their Dark Lord
besmirched. Meanwhile poor Don is learning the ropes of outer space
in a very hard way. Every mystery he solves only brings more
questions. Will Nellie Watt succeed in her contest against the Time
Lords and go to the Twinkling of Twilights to press the Reset Button?
Will Myron, Slick and Psycho manage to escape from the miserable maze
they created? And most important of all, Why didn’t YOU become a
rock star?
Prologue
Meet
Don Colandri
This
is the story of Don Colandri: a fictional character in a fictional
universe. Everything
else presented upon these sacred pages is potent gospel truth. We
now join our protagonist in the midst of one of his most distasteful
pastimes. He
is not studying. Oh no, studying is far from the excruciating,
intense ordeal happening.
Rather, the young college student is cramming. Observe the multiple beads
of sweat gathering on Don’s head, in particular on the glossy area
of his premature
receding hairline, where the light shines and shimmers. It is a
physical feature
that makes Don Colandri look older than he actually is, not old in a positive
sense, like he could enter into a liquor store and not be asked to
present an
ID, but rather in a merciless pathetic way. If
Don Colandri could be mistaken for a tennis star, it would without a
doubt be
John McEnroe. Of course, Don couldn’t play tennis like the
aforementioned world
champion. But you wouldn’t know that if you sat and listened to Mr. Colandri.
In fact, with frantic persuasion Don would lay down pertinent
statements
to make his case. As is his habit, his truths are laced with lies. “I
can serve
the ball over one hundred miles an hour,” he says. “My two-hand backhand
is better than most people’s forehand,” he claims. “I would
have played
in the Olympics, but I pulled a hamstring,” he laments. In fact,
such falsifications
are canted with “hyper” enthusiasm. This leads directly to Don Colandri’s
nickname. He is known by friend and foe alike as Hypo. By the way, his
two-hand backhand is
better
than most people’s forehands, as everybody who has
never played tennis is part of that which constitutes “most
people.”
Words
fail me to describe Don Colandri with only one primary adjective. Some
men, for example, are known as handsome. They have perfectly straight teeth,
creating a glistening white smile, with luscious blue eyes that
capture all the
wonders of creation and with hair in immaculate style as if
painstakingly put in
order strand by strand, all summed up in one label as handsome. Hypo,
however, is not handsome. Rather, he is far from it. In perfect
honesty, and
truthful I must be, the young man is quite repugnant. His mouth
boasts crooked
teeth, stained yellow from smoking tobacco cigarettes. He has beady eyes
reminiscent of a rat, always shifting left and right as if navigating
some grand
maze in an endless quest for a massive hunk of provolone cheese. The character’s
receding hair has been previously mentioned. In addition, these disloyal
tresses were curly and frequently greasy. Yet I am reluctant to
simply describe
Don Colandri as repugnant. For it would miss inner values, some of which
contain virtue. It is not that Don Colandri is remotely righteous.
Rather, true
to life, he is gray. Not ambiguous in that shade, for as the story
proceeds, specific
personality traits shall clearly come forth. Don Colandri, simply
put, is Don
Colandri. So let’s just call him Hypo, shall we? Now,
Don Colandri is a sophomore attending Edward’s University. As
attested by
his statics book, Don is an engineering student. At this exact
instant, he is trying
to deduce the effect of moments on cantilever beams. One day, Hypo dreams
of being a successful engineer. He has no pretense that he is working
at this
for the betterment of mankind. Rather, his mind is focused on green.
Not the green
of nature either, but rather the green of money. But before he can
count his riches,
he must attain them. This means paying some dues and attaining his college
degree. So the pressing matter at hand is the complicated sketch of a
cantilever
beam with an abundance of arrows and measurements. Why, if Don didn’t
know better, he might think the picture was some insidious drawing designed
just to cause havoc and confusion. Just for fun, Don turns his
textbook all
different angles. He looks at the drawing sideways. He looks at the
drawing upside
down. It could be that some lost pirate hid a treasure map inside the textbook
in the open disguise of a force diagram. But after a noble effort,
Don decides
that this isn’t the case. He lets out a sigh of desperation similar
to a tremor
before an earthquake. Now,
Don is not alone in his obscenely messy apartment room. Clothes of every
variety are tossed all about. So badly sloppy is the abode that if a
thief broke
in and ransacked the room, nobody would notice. Sadly, I do not exaggerate.
From these clothes emits an awful stench. The dreaded stale smell of sweat
serves as the base odor. This is masked over by cigarette smoke and marijuana
smoke. Yes, Hypo and company do indulge from time to time in smoking
some weed. It is one of their favorite pastimes, in fact. But I want
to point
out the most embarrassing aspect of the clothes strewn around the apartment.
This is, of course, the dirty underwear. Some of these white garments are
soiled both brown and yellow. Ah yes, dear reader, it is a tragedy of
epidemic proportions.
But Don and his roommates don’t live like this perpetually. They are
only slobs by convenience. They are quick to tidy up if some festive
event is to
occur, especially if there is any possibility of them getting laid. Who
are Don’s roommates, you ask, the other individuals who share the domain
known as room eight? Well come on down, Peter Bellos. You’re the
first contestant
to be introduced to the fine reader. While not the hero of the story, Peter
Bellos does play a major part in this tale. In fact, whether Don
Colandri is a
hero or not is up to conjecture. Truly he is a victim of
circumstance. But not Peter
Bellos. No, he, along with Hypo’s two other friends, proves to be opportunistic.
Take a good look at Petie. His darker-colored skin must be noticed first
in light of this racist society in which we live. Observe his
piercing brown
eyes,
two wonders that Don Juan himself would envy accompanied by the plump belly
hanging over his belt that he laughs away as “love handles.” Most prominent
of all is his long black hair, hair that is greased back with globs
of gel. This
style has earned Mister Peter Bellos his nickname: Slick. For you
see, as you
may have noticed, every one of the occupants of room eight has a
nickname. At
this present moment, Peter Bellos is lying down on the couch amongst
the dirty
laundry, his head buried in a textbook of some sorts. Slick, too,
desires to be
rich. It is a common malady of people in this story, always wanting
something that
they don’t have. But that seems most logical, does it not, dear
reader? Why would
you want what you already have? That would be redundant. Unfortunately,
the whole of mankind is swept away with coveting this illusionary
thing called money. After all, it is either green pieces of paper or digits
upon a computer. But there shall be time enough for me, the author,
to subtly
introduce my subversive feelings. So I will lay off and say that
Slick, too, was
a greedy bastard and, like Don Colandri, an engineering student. Now,
Myron Thompson, the next roommate of room eight, is a man of contradictions.
He has a deep-seated hatred of his parents for naming him Myron.
Any time that Myron hears his name called out, he cringes in humiliation.
Of course, his peers don’t say “Myron” in some normal fashion. Rather
it is more like “Myyyyyyyyyyyyyyron,” kind of in a singing way to express
a notion of mockery. Myron is a bit of an athlete. As he found out
early, he
has to be tough to live up to the name he wears. Now, Myron Thompson really
isn’t motivated to become an engineer to get rich. Rather, his
existence is void
of life and purpose. This is evidenced by the black celebrations of
room eight.
A black celebration is an event during which the attendees get
intoxicated without
any real reason to do so. It’s one thing to get plastered because
it’s New Year’s
Eve. There is some formal reason or a semblance of an excuse. It’s another
thing to do so simply because it’s Thursday. Myron Thompson is a
bit taller
than his roommates and had curly, sandy blond hair. His nickname is “M.T.”
Those are, indeed, the initials of his first and last name. However,
“M.T.” sounds
very much like “empty.” So whenever Myron’s nickname is spoken, people
point to his skull where his brain should be if it wasn’t “empty.” Occupants
of room eight laugh at things that really aren’t that funny. It is
just the way
that they are. Now
I must diverge and ask the philosophical question: Do we save the
best for
last? Well, at rock and roll shows, you have opening acts and then
out comes the
best act. They call these “headliners.” This brings me to the
title of this story: “I
Should Have Been a Rock Star!” In American culture, or even British
culture, it
is probably something that every intelligent human being has said at
one time
or
another, when you wake up from the drudgery of the job staring into
the dismal
black abyss that is your reality, gasping for air as if you were
submerged in
the sea of life being pushed down by some invisible hand directing
your worth.
But there is a very crucial thing we shouldn’t overlook, and that
is to never
lip-sync. It is an unforgivable sin, the blasphemy of the Rock and
Roll Spirit.
Transgress just once, and the ghost of Elvis Presley will haunt you forever,
singing “Love Me Tender” day and night without repose. Lastly,
I have the great pleasure to introduce Saul Griffin, and yes, like
Jesus Christ,
Saul Griffin is a Jew. What exactly a Jew is these days, I really
can’t define,
so I’ll digress. I’ll save my preaching for Sunday morning at
Chancellor Avenue.
Right now, I’m trying to tell a story. You could call it an
allegory if you like.
But I’d rather look at it as a bunch of stuff that just happened to
happen. Just
a whole lot of whoopla that excites you, and then before you know it,
the book
is over, with your tongue hanging out panting for more, more, more.
That is
Saul Griffin’s personality to the hilt. He is always looking for
that bigger
score,
trying to outdo not only everyone else but himself as well, and yes,
Saul Griffin
has a nickname. They call him Psycho. As far as a physical
description, Saul
Griffin would call himself tall, dark, and handsome. Unfortunately,
reality begs
to differ with those adjectives. Psycho is short, pale, and ugly. He
has reddish
hair with freckles out of control. Well
we had to mention Woody Guthrie somewhere, so we’ll just throw his name
in here at the end of the chapter. He is perhaps the one man in the
music business
who is mightier than a rock star. We could have thrown Lead Belly’s name
in there too, but America in 2016 is still a systematically racist
society, from
the Sunday morning cartoons, up to the man who pulls the strings of
the chief
of the Federal Reserve. But Don Colandri doesn’t care to
contemplate any of
these matters. In fact, he has blotted out even his three chums from
his shortterm memory.
In turn, he can calculate the moment of a cantilever beam. The fly on
the wall observes Don Colandri’s forehead and sees one particular
bead of sweat.
The light of the lamp has caught the drop of perspiration at just the
right angle,
making it glisten as a diamond in the rough, and that is exactly what Woody
Guthrie is. How
pretty,
thinks the fly.
John Kaniecki was born in Brooklyn, New York. Though having no memories of life there, John is proud to be called a Native New Yorker. John was raised in Pequanock Township, New Jersey. At age twenty John was baptized and became a member of the Church of Christ. Presently John resides in Montclair, NJ and lives with his wife of over twelve years Sylvia. The happy couple attend the Church of Christ at Chancellor Avenue in Newark, NJ. John is very active in outreach and teaching as part of the leadership of the congregation.
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