The Fame and Fortune of Jazz

I don’t know if you’ve figured this out yet, but I’m a pretty big deal. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think of me as the Michael Jackson of the trad jazz scene, but with less crotch-grabbing. Yes, I’ve got that magic combination of smoking good looks and musical genius. And humility. I’m great at humility. No-one can do the humility thing better than me. So it’s no surprise that I’m living the charmed life of a jazz superstar. Sure, it’s fun at first, hanging out with Presidents or A-list movie stars, getting snapped by paparazzi while hanging out at my villa in Monaco with my supermodel girlfriend, or getting matching tattoos with Justin Beiber after a big night out (yes, I’m a Beleiber). Jazz superstardom is an emotional rollercoaster, dear reader. But the gloss of celebrity wears off quickly when I can’t even walk down the street without some starry-eyed girl ogling me and begging for me to sign her undergarments. Sure, they might be nice undergarments, but isn’t there more to this jazz musician than just being an object of desire with an aesthetically pleasing signature? How many more cleavages do I have to sign? I’m getting repetitive strain injury for Pete’s sake. Of course there’s nothing wrong with being on billboards, starring in movies and fronting your own line of fragrance (Eau de Professor now on sale at www.professorcunninghamjazz.com