It is a melancholy object to those who walk through our great downtown or travel in our inner suburbs. When they see the streets, the roads, and the trendy hipster bars crowded with narcissistic singers of the male sex, followed by three, four, or six musicians, all in tragically hip clothing and soliciting every pedestrian to come and see their mid-week performance at 11 p.m. These singers, instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time gigging, to beg for sustenance for their talentless backing band, who, as they come into their own, either turn singer-songwriters themselves (for want of attention), or leave their dear native city to try to make it in Seattle, or sell themselves to Los Angeles.
I think it is agreed, by all parties, that this prodigious number of musicians clogging up our bars, cafes, basements, mothers’ spare rooms, community colleges, and service industry jobs has become not just a detriment to our once proud and beautiful city, but to these poor musicians themselves. Literally climbing over themselves, brother pitted against brother, just for the "prestigious" honor of opening for Portugal. The Man at the Doug Fir Lounge.
To say the music scene in this evergreen metropolis is saturated is the understatement of the century. ’Tis not only an eyesore for the hardworking and more valuable citizens of this fine municipality but these poor souls are also left destitute and humiliated in their endless struggle to win a spot at Rontoms Sunday Sessions. Such a tragedy to watch them sabotage each other’s reputation, throw shade, or simply refuse to mention each other’s performances on their equally unsuccessful vlog. They exude less dignity than emaciated dogs, fighting over scraps from the boarding house.
What to do with this excess of aspiring musical idols? Certainly, there is neither enough coin nor stage time to quench their insatiable egos. This issue has gone beyond the realm of an isolated incident or two, of some failure of parentage. We have on our hands a pandemic that requires a solution of a much grander scale than individual proper members of society providing a like or a subscribe here and there. You see, this abundance of needy musicians actually provides a rather unexpected solution to another problem that plagues our fair township.
I’m speaking, of course, of our houseless neighbors. I’m sure, as any well-read partaker of this deliciously bawdy publication will no doubt observe, there are several members of our community that have, by one stroke or another, found themselves on hard times. These persons now populate our streets, sidewalks, parks, medians, and underpasses of our highways. Their current furnishings are less than ideal. Be it a modest tent or a tarp held up by milk crates...clearly, these unfortunate souls want an actual roof and four walls—a warm place in the winter and a respite from the summer heat, which mysteriously seems to increase every year. As we all know, it is impossible to move them to the more-than-available vacant housing units that we must keep vacated in the event that some profit can be made from them.
Since it is not only unethical but also unthinkable to use the more than sufficient empty apartments, hotel rooms, and abandoned residences to accommodate our growing number of homeless citizens, some other manner of adequate housing must be provided.
The number of souls in this urban township is usually reckoned at slightly more than half a million. Of these, I calculate no more than seven thousand of those souls among the unhoused. By contrast, if you were to go door to door and ask every denizen of the southeast quarter of our city alone, you would find that many musical groups! And with some margin of error, each of those groups averages roughly four musicians. Should a dreaded fourth wave of ska come about in the next decade or so, expect that number to double or even triple for some performing troupes.
I shall now, therefore, humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection.
I have been assured by a very knowing serial killer of my acquaintance in Salem that a young, healthy musician—well exercised—is at twenty years of age, composed of enough building materials to construct, at the very least, a small bed, and if they are of larger stature, a small hovel.
I do, therefore, humbly offer it to publick consideration that the tens of thousands of musicians already computed above be called upon and—as quickly and humanely as possible—processed for their strong bones and taught, tattoo-ridden skin to build cheap and affordable housing for our dear houseless citizens.
Now, these abodes may not be as fancy as the angular condos cropping up as a result of accelerated gentrification, but we must maintain some stratification of class. ’Tis better than some wet, miserable cardboard box topped with newspaper.
And before you respond with shrieks of horror and disgust, do cease your needless retorts and questions of the legality and indeed ethics of such a proposal. I am not suggesting that we consume the flesh of these pitiful, hopeless droves. Think you I some eighteenth-century Irish satirist? For shame, reader!
I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavoring to promote this necessary work, having no other motive than the publick good of my city by advancing our infrastructure, providing for the homeless, relieving the musicians, and giving some titillating entertainment to the rich. I already have an apartment, so this proposal is not simply some selfish ruse to acquire for myself some delightfully post-modern and sustainable housing.
