He looks raggedy and unshaven, so dirty and ratty. He smells of something foul, perhaps the distinct smell of alcohol or some cheap aftershave. But it all boils down to one defining moment.
The roaring screams and cries of utter devotion. And it won't matter anymore if he's rough on the edges and lacking a few showers in the night. If he wears white after Labor Day, nobody cares. If he eats with his mouth wide open, they overlook it all. Oh, and he so seldom minds when the photographers capture a moment in time with his face hanging in the frame, but must they come so close? And they engulf him like a fish in a tank of sharks, and he feels like he's been eaten up also. Perhaps not by enormous fish, but some other man-hungry machine. And of course, there is no secret in which the answer lies. So he rebels and such with his fiery attitude and his shower-less days. No, it is not some musician strike, but his own childish way of saying 'na na na na' with his tongue sticking out. So he likes being dirty and feeling dirty with his hair in such pointy spikes in a dirtied color and his face growing somewhat of a facial mask. His clothing is rumpled and wrinkled in all sorts of ways and he feels good that way. He feels good. And what price, has it been to be this way? Oh, none other than complete and total hell in singing about puppy love. |