The Man Hidden Within
I've never been a rock chick. I cut my teeth on early 90's house music and ketamine, and when people suggest guitar-oriented activities, I am hard pressed to drum up interest.
For about a year, though, I've been hearing all about how The 'Belt, as a lad in his early twenties, was a bona fide rock star, poised to knock U-2 into oblivion and erase Kurt Cobain from the memories of narrow-hipped boys and choppy-banged girls. I never really cared about these stories at all.
But, then, a few days ago, a bold sheet of typing paper, blocked out in bright orange and featuring a smiling cartoon man, began fluttering around the 'Burg. And, then, around six o'clock, I got a phone call from Mark, telling me that the return of The Great Rock God of the 'Burg was about to swoop.
I am mildly interested. We arrive at the Emerald, and the place is so smoky, I can feel my lungs crumpling like tissue paper.
We make the rounds, and I discuss outerwear with four or five people, all of whom tell me they procured their pieces at one Salvation Army or another, which I find to be pretty interesting, because the underlying theme in all these conversations is that used provides more opportunity for originalism than new. I don't point out that everyone who has run this perspective at me bought their pieces in the same place, because I am quite enchanted with the pride that accompanies their descriptions. The winner in all of this is a strawberry-haired New Yorker with a tailored sag to the elbows.
Mark and I gleam in butter leather and white cuordoroy, and decide to go to Bella Brava for white bean hummus and other bougie-ass bullsh*t. When we're done, we saunter back across the street, with four minutes to spare until the unveiling of forgotten talent.
And, whaddaya know, but the 'Belt f*cking rocks. He is an absolute, one in the hand, true to life, shining points of light Rock Star!! He is relaxed, confident, smart, quick, funny, and fluid. The crowd is his in the realest sense. I cannot imagine why girls are not ripping their shirts off and flailing at the railing for him. I have never seen this side of him, and he is magnificent!
The music made no sense to me. I never once got that burning, swiveling feeling in the hips, the tautness through the abdomen that makes the rump-shakin' happen. I didn't feel the shoulder-popping, ass-dropping at all, but I felt the 'Belt.
Do it again, boy! Do it again!
For about a year, though, I've been hearing all about how The 'Belt, as a lad in his early twenties, was a bona fide rock star, poised to knock U-2 into oblivion and erase Kurt Cobain from the memories of narrow-hipped boys and choppy-banged girls. I never really cared about these stories at all.
But, then, a few days ago, a bold sheet of typing paper, blocked out in bright orange and featuring a smiling cartoon man, began fluttering around the 'Burg. And, then, around six o'clock, I got a phone call from Mark, telling me that the return of The Great Rock God of the 'Burg was about to swoop.
I am mildly interested. We arrive at the Emerald, and the place is so smoky, I can feel my lungs crumpling like tissue paper.
We make the rounds, and I discuss outerwear with four or five people, all of whom tell me they procured their pieces at one Salvation Army or another, which I find to be pretty interesting, because the underlying theme in all these conversations is that used provides more opportunity for originalism than new. I don't point out that everyone who has run this perspective at me bought their pieces in the same place, because I am quite enchanted with the pride that accompanies their descriptions. The winner in all of this is a strawberry-haired New Yorker with a tailored sag to the elbows.
Mark and I gleam in butter leather and white cuordoroy, and decide to go to Bella Brava for white bean hummus and other bougie-ass bullsh*t. When we're done, we saunter back across the street, with four minutes to spare until the unveiling of forgotten talent.
And, whaddaya know, but the 'Belt f*cking rocks. He is an absolute, one in the hand, true to life, shining points of light Rock Star!! He is relaxed, confident, smart, quick, funny, and fluid. The crowd is his in the realest sense. I cannot imagine why girls are not ripping their shirts off and flailing at the railing for him. I have never seen this side of him, and he is magnificent!
The music made no sense to me. I never once got that burning, swiveling feeling in the hips, the tautness through the abdomen that makes the rump-shakin' happen. I didn't feel the shoulder-popping, ass-dropping at all, but I felt the 'Belt.
Do it again, boy! Do it again!
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