[Broadcast Mind]
[The lights are low, dimmed out except for the little ghost of a candle. Or, at least, it looks like a candle, it’s hard to tell ‘cause your vantage point is on the ground and it’s a good six feet above you on a stage. The crowd’s quiet, hushed and waiting, but soon that silence is interrupted by the rough, rolling flick of a Bic’s flame. Thumbs all over start to callous as more join, a sea of little tiny fires dancing on the end of ninety-nine cents worth of plastic, available at cheap gas stations all over the globe. None of that pussy-shit with cellphone lighting here, oh no; this is Go Fire or Go Home.
[There’s a presence, some omnipotent (not to be confused with “impotent”, motherfuckers) weight that drifts over the shadows of the platform, and suddenly the light you stared at in the beginning is flaring bright. Brighter. Brightest.
[Is it any surprise that John’s up there, strapped up to an electric guitar that is half literal-axe? His orange shirt bears the black stenciling of “Vista Pines Facility for the Criminally Insane,” but the last two words seemed to have been crossed out in magic marker and replaced with “Not Insan”. One hand grabs the mic stand, the other pointing out to the sea of flickering cancer-stick kissers.]
This goes out to my friend, Dave. Wherever that bastard is. He owes me twenty bucks.
[Fingers dance over the chords of his axe-guitar, the drums catching in line, and somewhere, there’s a full dramatic orchestra. Leaning in to the mic, he closes his eyes and the light’s full of theatrical shine.]
The camel of despair
Soars, strapped to his jetpack
Of haunted memories.
[The music swells, the dual bassists competing for sound over the strong, fast chords of John’s guitar. Somewhere in the shadows, cellos and violins swelled like cysts ready to explode in oozy glory.]
But that’s not why he’s gay
He’s gay because he has
Sex with dudes.... GAY dudes!
Gay Superman!
[A blur passes by your shoulder, then another, and another. You can’t tell what it is until one gets stuck on the microphone stand and you feel the suddenly bare nipples of the woman behind you pressing up against your arm. She’s screaming in your ear, shrieking, like the bra she just tossed up on stage was the muzzle keeping her big mouth shut. It’s giving you a headache, but the Jumbo-Tron on stage makes it feel better as it starts showing pictures of these newly liberated racks throughout the audience, in all their fifty-foot bouncing independence. Let freedom ring.
[You notice a pair of lacy thongs go sailing by and wait for video to fix on a southern and sunny hemisphere, but it’s liking the northern points for now. To each side of stage, two cages rise up on smooth hydraulics, each one sporting a beautiful woman dancing behind bars, whipping her long, teased hair to the next line of lyrics and the stadium is erupting in frantic screams. Swirling into the air is the drifting, syrupy sweet scent of expensive weed flaring up.
[Best. Concert. Ever.
[And just when you think it’s over - obviously that’s what it means when there’s a gong at the end of the song, right? - the Jumbo-Tron shows a picture of a giant penis. Underneath is written, “Size is True to Life!” with John’s phone number underneath. As a shower of lingerie monsoons in from the audience, John grabs the mic and yells:]
That one’s for you, Dave! Being honest will set you free, man!
[ before the two cage dancers attempt to pull him off stage and into the privacy of a bedroom. Or a broom closet. Or a bathroom. Or…somewhere without sticky floors. Or somewhere with, since John’s never been picky.]