PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

My Musings

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New Musical Act: "The McVay Four"

I think I’m ready to start a family band. Look at us – we’re so darned awesome in our matching pantsuits! My five year old daughter serves as frontgirl. Her microphone-swinging is positively Roger Daltry-esque, and she does an amazing impression of Beyonce dancing (whose performance during halftime of the last Super Bowl was declared to be “much better than the baseball game.”) She does not sing, though, which is a good thing.

My son plays the pickle jars. He is an expert at dissonance, such that the listener assumes he has never set foot in a music class in his life. Not true! His style is heavily influenced by Beck, I believe, the main difference being that Beck’s occasional dissonant sounds are much more interesting than my son’s. The recycled jars of Nathan’s kosher halves, which are filled with varying amounts of water, create the exact dissonance my son is aiming for. He also plays Nathan’s Sauerkraut jars, as well as random collections of spent beer bottles I always seem to have lying around, and the cat.

My wife is on the computer keyboard. Her lightning quick typing sounds are no different than those one might hear on any given day in the office. Sometimes, when we’re onstage in front of large crowds, I glance over at her to signal a key change, and find her eyes darting across her laptop screen in a way that is entirely consistent with reading e-mail or reviewing a work document. And then she begins typing again rapidly, as though she is responding. It’s cranked up loud and the fans love it!

I, of course, do the vocals. I am hidden in the darkest recesses of the stage shadows, except I sometimes light an e-cigarette, which tips the fans off to where I am, or drink a bottle of e-wine, which glows a deep reddish-purple hue and envelops me in its warm radiance. I don’t sing as much as talk, reading verbatim from highly-praised high school valedictorian speeches and/or the Bible. Sometimes, I catch up on Harpers during a performance, reading in a highly stilted manner with virtually no tonal variation.

We become wildly rich and famous, darlings of fans and critics alike, and ultimately the wealth tears us asunder. But we patch up our differences by the year 2030 and reunite for a benefit tour aimed to replenish the coffers for mom and dad’s inevitable stumble into life’s “golden” years.  

Need to find an agent.     

Dearly Beloved
Leftover Lunch
 

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Monday, 18 December 2017

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