Every so often, a friend offers to me the following conclusion about his current state of affairs: “My life sucks.” When such feelings of overwhelming self-pity are related to me, the complainer typically has recently had something extremely embarrassing or unfortunate happen to him. Examples of such past incidents follow:
“My life sucks. I was really hungry, so when I saw a Dominos guy about to drop off a pizza outside Village A, I yelled to him, ‘Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll give you double!’ Just at that moment, some guy two doors down was walking into his apartment with his girlfriend, and he thought I was referring to her, not the pizza. Now he wants to kick my ass.”
“My life sucks. I drank too much last night and woke up with my fly unzipped, inexplicably covered head-to-toe in blue paint.”
“My life sucks. I was at a bar, and I met a really cute girl. We started talking, and I thought we were hitting it off. I eventually lost out to an overweight, 40-year-old man with a mullet.”
I’ve always felt bad after being told such mortifying tales because I’ve never been able to offer effective words of wisdom. Coughing nervously, while trying to conceal a smile and muttering, “Yeah, that does suck,” isn’t much consolation for most people. Thank God for my parents, who recently related a story to me that I plan on recounting for the rest of my life to friends who complain to me about being down on their luck.
My parents were attending a big outdoor wedding on Cape Cod this summer when they noticed that the entertainment for the event, a solo acoustic guitar player, was playing a lot of James Taylor material. Taylor has always held a special place in my family’s hearts because of a humorous event that occurred when I was five years old. One morning, I received a phone call from an elated friend informing me that my father, who is also a balding, middle-aged white man, was on Sesame Street. Now, to a little kid, this is like being told that your father is, in fact, the personification of God. I jubilantly turned on the television to see if it was true. I was at first confused by what I saw, and then I became extremely disappointed when my mom laughed and explained to me that it was James Taylor, not Dad, who was singing along with Big Bird. I called my friend a “stupid DoDo Brain,” and the score was settled, but the story has remained in circulation at family events ever since. So you can see why the mention of James Taylor always sparks interest in my family.
Anyway, back at the wedding, my parents went to take a closer look, to see who the performer was. Sure enough, this unknown singer who was playing James Taylor songs even looked like James Taylor. They were perplexed, and they turned to a bystander, begging for an explanation. “Oh, of course that’s not James Taylor,” they were told, “that’s James Taylor’s brother!”
Can you think of anything more pathetic? When my parents told me this story, I wanted to find this guy, kick him in the teeth, and slap some pride into him. Imitating your older brother when you’re 12 is fine, but making a career out of playing his songs at weddings is just about the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. I wondered, what does this wretched soul look forward to when he wakes up in the morning? “Oh boy, looks like another day of capitalizing on my brother’s fame by playing songs that he wrote and made famous at minor events!” He makes the guy that got in the way of the foul ball at Wrigley Field, inciting the wrath of the entire city of Chicago, seem cool in comparison.
I did some research into this matter and found that James Taylor actually has four siblings, and two of them seem to be somewhat successful musicians. That’s fine, but let me offer some advice to whichever Taylor brother was the wedding singer: performing cover tunes is fine, and every musician does it. But here’s a little hint-stay away from playing your brother’s songs because it makes you look like an enormous tool and probably makes everyone you’re acquainted with feel a little sadder each and every time they see you.
I’m going to take it upon myself to make the brother of James Taylor’s existence meaningful for the first time. From now on I will relate his story to others, so that they can take solace in knowing that, no matter what, their lives are better than his. When they come to me with their future sob stories, they will be happy to know one thing. It could be worse.
Scott Conroy is a junior in the College. His life is also somewhat of a joke.
