fan mail

The day I found out that Jack White was the last rock star, I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table, a pot of English breakfast tea in a white and blue tea pot and buttered toast on a plate. Revolutions often begin in a field and revelations hang around at doorways waiting for someone to trip over the propped up feet. I imagine trains were moving especially slow back in Eugene. People waited while coffee cooled. In Portland, we were a long morning with nothing going on except a piano to play and a bathroom to clean, and the newspaper said:

He (Jack White) was bigger than the room, and gave every impression of always being bigger than every room. Because Jack White is a rock star, and not just a rock star, but possibly the last rock star.

Rock star, according to this article, means: strut-strut-strutting like you own the place and once impregnated the landlord's daughter, charmed his wife with a smile, and left town on your own terms, everyone shaking their heads a little but loving you the whole time. Furthermore, you have replaced Metallica. It is implied that this is something you are to be proud of. You are a finite resource, like fossil fuels. In a world of oil, you are the rumor of a new field in sub-Saharan Africa.

As the last rock star, your duties include (here the article is vague) being Jack White, whatever Jack White happens to be. Nowhere and everywhere mostly.

The burden of being the last rock star is heavy. Un-sleeping are the eyes that wear the crown; the grave diggers are on duty from 12 am to 12 am. Once you are the last, you are doomed to die be you gold fish, child, dog or Mohican. As long as we pretend and flirt behind closed hands, death is a poem and most poetry is printed on paper. Paper doesn't do much except biodegrade. It is when poetry is spoken with throat, breath, spit, and teeth that you need to worry. So perhaps Jack White should be worried. Shovels clank. The diggers don't realize. They're marking time with marks in the dirt, milling and humming, telling dirty jokes. As the last rock star, you face a horde of over-educated, yet incredibly dumb indie kids on the one side and on the other side are the haters of the human spine who want to thrash and throw themselves around like dog toys. In the empty spaces live everyone else. In a crowd, everyone becomes a single face and personal taste is like specialty organic tea in an over-mountain town: unheard of and unnecessary.

As the last rock star, there are expectations of extraordinary living. There are rules and shoes, both dictating an interest in night and cocaine when night becomes tedious. Five women or a controversial wife. You must live in a perpetual state of breakdown without actual full-out insanity. If you get tired, crash a motorcycle. It worked for Bob Dylan.

The day I found that Jack White was the last rock star was the happiest day of my life. The waiting is over. The time is come. Prepare the torches, the pitchforks and the black flag. Run those colors. No doubt the feeling is similar to Jerusalem's Jews upon meeting the Messiah. However, they were doomed to disappointment. God came to die and rock stars "sell out." But like perfection, selling out is primarily a matter of perspective. I think when people say "Sell out" what they really mean is that they are bored or confused, two human emotions already prevalent in every other aspect of our lives and life is too short. So I will stand in different corners and sometimes the middle of the room.

It is with great relief that I pass on this information to you, reveal to you, remind you, petition, bribe, and imply: Jack White is the last rock star.

Unless, of course, Meg White is.