Martine phoned me at work today and gave the the worst possible news:
Oh gawd, anything but that! Virtually every girlfriend I’ve ever had has been an enormous Crowded House fan. And why not? Neil Finn, the band’s vocalist and front man, is calm, intelligent, talented, good looking, and (if you go by his lyrics) really sensitive but not in that terribly emasculating way that was so popular in the 90s. In other words, Neil Finn is the perfect man. Or perhaps more precisely, Neil Finn makes you think your girlfriend thinks he’s the perfect man.
He can probably sing well too, but I wouldn’t really know. You see, every time a Crowded House song plays, [insert name of any girlfriend anyone has ever had] goes into a swooning trance and starts singing along, loudly. As a result, I think of Neil Finn as the backup vocalist to the world’s girlfriends. To the world’s girlfriends however, Neil Finn is everything their boyfriends can never be.
It’s not that I’m so bad, really, at least if you don’t make comparisons. But then, I don’t sing, I can’t play any instruments, and I complain about doing house chores. I’ve never in my life seen my own abs, I can’t remember a single mathematical formula, and I once shot a squirrel in the neck.
How’s that for an unfair contest?
So that’s it. I’m finished. It’s over. All the paella and paprika-dusted roasted salmon with maple-caramelized onions in the world won’t make up for the vast chasm between me and Mr. Goddamn Perfect. My only chance for survival is if the show is sold out.