Millionaire musicians are an underserviced community.

Duff McKagan, former Guns N' Roses bassist, who has launched a wealth management firm for rockers.

It's not an easy path to take, to dedicate your life to the service of a community so neglected, so downtrodden, that they often have walk into dressing rooms where concert promoters have "forgotten" to separate the red M&M's from the green.  "Forgot" my tuchus!  It's deliberate and intentional abuse is what it is!

"Dude--I've got a glass in my right hand, get me some left-handed Tostito chips, pronto!"

As a sort of Mother Teresa to the WPOD--White Punks on Dope--community, I've come to realize that it's not all about me, dammit!  There are people out there suffering, unable to decide whether to spend this year's ringtone royalties on a Bentley or a Maybach.  Perhaps I--burdened as I am with sub-rock star talents due to a trick knuckle on my left pinky that prevents me from bending flatted seventh notes on honking, kick-ass guitar solos--can find a purpose in life by dedicating myself to those with better skin and hair than I.

"I loved your self-indulgent double solo album!"

It's the time of the year when the burden of those who suffer is most acute.  Normally free to crank out white imitations of black music the rest of the year, they are tragically confined to the Christmas "classics" for holiday albums that violate the basic tenets of their heathen outlook on life.  Is there no God to prevent the imposition of religion on godless hedonists who'd rather be getting it on with throwaway groupies and sucking their discretionary income up nostrils divided by deviated septums?

 
*sniff* It just breaks your heart to see them suffer!

My friends ask me--why are you such a do-gooder, sacrificing your own future to work with the devastated, the drug-ravaged, the guys who have to be reminded what city they're in before they go on stage?  To them I say--I go where the need is greatest, where the eyes are glassiest, where the babes are the most bodacious.

I always break down and cry--I just can't help myself!--when you get to that part of a concert where young men who couldn't spell "church" if you spotted them the c's and the h's launch into "Amazing Grace" or "Will the Circle be Unbroken?"  I find it so comforting that Southern Comfort-swilling, drug-shooting hedonists can find time in their lives to put on the borrowed cloak of religion to calm a crowd down so they don't have to play a second encore.

But that's just me--I know I'm different from most people, who would stand idly by while a guy who's blown $50 million in his lifetime is reduced to recycling his imported beer bottles on weekends just to put gas in his antique car collection.

I can't help it.  I've got a heart as big as--well, 70's girl band Heart.