“What? Two minutes? That’s impossible! How can I possibly gather my wits and be ready to give the performance my public deserves in only two minutes? I need to meditate, medicate, practice yoga, and do something to get my head together before the red light goes on and I’m live on the air. I mean, what about me? What about my plans? What about the tours?”

One minute, thirty seconds to airtime!

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not fighting off the purple snakes coming out of the speakers while trying to figure out how to get tickets for Justin Timberlake. And what about food? I’m gonna need some nourishment if I’m going to see Art Garfunkel, Canned Heat and Poison The Well. Gonna need some high-octane fuel, for sure. Maybe burgers deep-fried in lard and sprinkled with sugar. Oh, oh, here come those snakes again! Better duck!”

One minute to airtime!

“And what about the voices in my head screaming out for Gov’t Mule, The Pretenders and Bob Dylan? I mean, I’ve tried to ignore them, but they keep egging me on, urging me to buy tickets for Deftones and figure out a way to get backstage for Dixie Chicks. They’re whispering to me right now, telling me I should chuck all of this and just go out and follow Bowling For Soup from city to city. They’re getting louder, more demanding, I don’t know how much more I can take and… and…”

Thirty seconds to airtime.

“Shut up, already! Sheesh. It doesn’t matter if it’s thirty seconds, thirty hours or thirty years. I’ve got to figure this out. How can I see Red Hot Chili Peppers in East Lansing if Fischerspooner is playing the same night in Denver? Oh, why does my life have to be so complicated? And what’s up with those gophers that live in my toilet and amuse themselves by jumping through the hole in the seat? Uh???”

Fifteen seconds to airtime!

“Oh, the pain! The agony! I shouldn’t have to put up with all of this suffering. I’ve got to get a hold of myself and figure out which shows I’m going to see. There’s gotta be a logical way to do this, but Powderfinger, David Crosby and Tony Danza are crying out. They’re saying, ‘See me. Buy tickets for me.’ I’m telling you, I can’t take this much longer. Now I know how Robert Blake feels.”

Ten, nine, eight…

“Oh, crap! I’m almost out of time. What’s it gonna be? Beat Junkies? Or Del The Funky Homosapien? My mind is racing, my pulse is throbbing! I feel like… like… like I’m gonna explode! Look out folks, I’m gonna burst!”

Five, four…


Three, two…

“Grrr… Grrrr… Greee…”

One. It’s showtime!

“Greetings fellow Americans. With one half of my brain tied behind my back and talent on loan from God, this is Rush….”