Dark Star: Confessions of a Rock Idol Read Online Free PDF

on the outside; I was scarred within. I had not pleased my parents. My life brought them no joy. I really never felt accepted. The close family ties some of my childhood friends enjoyed were only fiction to me, and as I got older, I began to view such fairy tales with disdain and resentment.
    But fame and fortune would heal my wounds, I was sure. Popularity and power were the pinnacle of life itself. If the whole world knew me and I had more money than I could spend, those would be the keys to life. Strike it rich and the contest would be over, right? The game of life would be won.
    Not so fast.
    I had everything— everything —the world craved. I didn’t deny myself one tangible thing or any pleasure. If I was on the road in New Mexico and had a craving for spaghetti with brown sauce from the New York Spaghetti House in Cleveland, I would have it flown in. If I was lonely and wanted a female companion or two, groupies were lined up everywhere; I simply took my pick.
    Yet, it all turned out to be futility—like chasing the wind.
    Where was the real contentment and lasting joy?
    I was mad!
    I had worked hard to get where I was. I deserved peace and happiness…so where were they?
    I couldn’t buy them.
    My frustration reared its ugly head in my music and lyrics. My apathy was reflected in the coldness I showed toward our fans. I vented my lack of fulfillment onstage by smashing microphones, guitars, and amplifiers—and by stirring fans into furious frenzies.
    One afternoon in San Antonio, Texas, after our sound check, I was describing my discontentment to Madam Endora Crystal in a cold, concrete-block dressing room backstage. Endora, wearing a leopard-skin top and black skirt, sat amid a cloud of her own cigarette smoke on a white leather couch. Having taken off my T-shirt, I plopped down on the folding chair next to her, wiping the sweat from my face and neck with a large white towel.
    “I’ve had it, Endora. I’m sick of the road; I’m sick of the band—I’m ready to bail. This is not cutting it for me anymore.”
    “Everett, let me ask you a question,” Endora said patiently as she sat up to pour me a shot of whiskey from the makeshift bar on the coffee table in front of her. “What would make you happy?”
    “I don’t know.” I swore, throwing back the drink, which barely burned my throat. “Maybe I need to go out on my own, cut a solo album…start a new band. I don’t know, but something’s got to change.”
    “Why don’t you change, Everett?” said the intriguing redhead whose dark brown, almost-black eyes seemed to penetrate my mind like laser beams. “You want to be happy, right?” Endora filled my glass again. “Accept the praise of the people. They are blessing you every night. They are here to worship you. Receive it. Bask in it. This will give you the renewal you long for.”
    Without a word I hoisted another shot of Jack Daniels and helped myself to one of her long menthol cigarettes.
    “Your popularity was planned by the gods,” she said soberly, looking deep into me. “Your fans are crying out to you with adoration. Realize that you are accepted and loved—and enjoy it! Monumental things await you down the road, my dear. I know, because—”
    “But you know the fans, Endora. They just want—”
    “I’ve told you before, Everett, you are here, you exist , to help people—potentially millions of people—overcome their discontentment with life and their skepticism about death.”
    “How am I supposed to do that? I’m no preacher; I’m a musician.”
    “Oh, but you’re wrong, young man. In a way, you are a preacher. You are on a mission from the gods.”
    I smirked, continued to wipe my sweat off, and pretended I wasn’t interested.
    “People will listen to you; they’ll do whatever you say. I see it every night from behind the curtains in the wings backstage. The gods have given you the charisma to—”
    “Endora! Don’t brownnose me like everyone else. I hired you