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Wannabe Rock Star Stalks Self

An aspiring, out of work, 51 year old rock singer, despondent over an unfulfilling and unsuccessful 35 year career in the music business recently took an unusual tack to jump-start his quest for fame. Pod "roKKKer" Peterson of North Hollywood, California chose the strategy after years of unsuccessful publicity attempts and failed non-events designed to expose himself to record executives and concert promoters.

Peterson called police late Saturday night to report that an intruder, "a rabid freak" as he described the intruder to police, had entered his apartment and told him that he was in love with him and wanted to marry him. The intruder, a man, armed with a boomerang and a pair of needle-nose pliers, terrorized Peterson for over six hours, Peterson said. When the intruder finally entered the bathroom to try on some of Peterson's leather pants and assorted concert apparel, according to Peterson, Peterson snuck out the window and down the fire escape to call authorities. Police arrived soon thereafter to find the intruder naked in Peterson's bed.

After a confusing and incoherent interrogation at the police station, police were surprised to learn that the intruder was in fact Peterson himself. According to police spokesperson, Anthony Antonovich, "This is the first time I've ever seen anyone stalk himself. I wish I would have thought of it. I mean... Whoopie Goldberg, Madonna, John Lennon... them you stalk. But this! What a publicity stunt! This is genius."

"Nobody else would stalk me," said the frustrated Peterson after being charged with breaking into his own apartment. Police are still trying to determine if Peterson should be charged with anything at all. "If he decides to drop the charges against himself I guess it's just a wash," said Antonovich.

North Hollywood, California is a repository of faded dreams and unfulfilled expectations for many who's wish it was to carve out an identity in the fickle business of music.

Faced with years of struggle and then the failure to produce fame or fortune with their music, starry eyed aspiring troubadours are often forced to turn inward to reevaluate their career choices. "What did I do wrong?" "Am I not talented enough?" "Do I need a better haircut?" These are some of the questions that vex seekers of the golden ring of lyrical success. So it was with "roKKKer" Peterson.

Often times, life can be reduced to one all-encompassing question: "Why can't people see what a genius I am?" It's not a question that isn't asked every day by actors, writers, directors, sculptors... anyone involved in the field of creative arts.

Indeed, it is a fact that it is often just too difficult for laymen to comprehend the quality or the value of an artistic creation. Just ask Yoko Ono. The untrained eye, like the undeveloped palate, seeks only the most workaday pabulum not unlike the veritable MacDonald's hamburger. Consequently, artists live their tortured lives, set apart from society, living in artists' colonies around the world where they can emotionally support one another.

"It sucks, man," says Peterson. "What am I writin' this stuff for? F_ckin' Moby is all over the f__ckin' charts and I'm f__ckin' sittin' here eatin' f__ckin' cat food for dinner. People are f__ckin' tone-deaf ...and don't get f_ckin' me started on the f_ckin' record companies."

Peterson fumbled with the rear view mirror of his compact one bedroom North Hollywood vacation home when he spoke to reporters. His frustration was clear as he revved the engine, clipped his seat belt and finally... chugged away. "I'll f__kin' show 'em! I'll show everybody! I'll f__kin' quit the f__ckin' music business!" shouted the singer-poet/performance artist who also suffers from Tourette's Syndrome, as he disappeared into the blinding San Fernando Valley sun in a cloud of brown exhaust. "They won't have f_ckin' "roKKKer" to f__ckin' kick around anymore!"