What I Really Do
I must admit, I lied. My workdays are the same, every single day.
First thing I do in the morning is clear the bed of strippers and beer bottles. I have a service that comes by every morning to pick those up from my front porch. My chauffeur pulls the stretch minivan around to the rear of my house and I crawl in, still in my silk pajamas.
The windows are tinted enough that I can see out but nobody on the street can see me changing and showering in the back of the van. By the time I’m ready to go, the Birdmobile has arrived at my private Starbucks near Cambridge. Breakfast is always a treat.
It’s a short ride from there to the studio complex so I only have time for one phone call. I usually make this my high-profile call of the day, shooting the shit with Keith or Mick or the President (of the Universe, mind you, Obama’s too damn busy to take my calls still).
Once I hit the studio the doors are hermetically sealed behind me. Inside there awaits an army of piano tuners, session musicians, backup singers, and engineers. There’s also another private Starbucks in there, but this one can put a shot of Irish Cream into my coffee. REAL Irish Cream.
After a long hard day of songwriting and recording I stuff myself back into the Birdmobile where my sushi chef has already laid out dinner for me. I eat en route to that evening’s party, for which I am always fashionably late.
Unfortunately, I can never recall what happens between then and the beginning of the next day.
Photo by Mingo.nl
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