I'm staying at a big mansion a block from the shores of Lake Michigan. Tom Petty's song "It's Good to Be King," is playing. I'm here with a four-legged friend. I am the care-taker for the weekend.
I am living like a King here. Sort of a low-rent, temporary, just for the weekend King, but a King none the less. I'm in charge. No one is around to contradict or disagree with me. A King. A lonely King. A King with no real subjects. No one around to subject to my whims, unless you count my four-legged friend, but him, I give a pass. He's just such a good buddy. He's a bit like my own furry Court Jester.
Here I do what I want, when I want. Play guitar. Sing songs. Make pasta. Eat frozen yogurt. I'm on my own time-table. I am a master of myself. The weather has turned for the better. So even the sky, the sun, the stars and moon seem like they belong to me.
No problems. No effort. No feedback or noise. A sort of weekend paradise. So yes, a King of no consequence but a King for sure.