Day 21-U is for U2 RPF
Title: And You Give Yourself Away
Fandom: U2 RPF
Character: Bono
Rating: R
Wordcount: 700
Notes-Takes place on the 1987 Joshua Tree tour filmed for "Rattle and Hum."
Thanks to Beta Goddess Carol for walking with me where the streets have no name.
You think of something Janis Joplin said about performing: it’s like making love to ten thousand people and going home alone.
Sometimes alone is better. Even after ten thousand, twenty thousand, however many thousand. Now that you’re playing the stadiums and arenas, the numbers have become unreal, surreal even, considering where you started. The gigs where the band was lucky to get a few friends to come round to whatever rundown dive would have them.
Back then it was a big deal if you could pull some drunken slag and have it off in the van after the show. Now you’ve got Allison and the kids, not to mention as many groupies as you want anytime you want them, if you want them. Not saying there haven’t been times, mind you. A fellow gets lonely and you’re not a saint or trying to be one, no matter what the press tries to lay on you just for wanting to help a few less fortunate souls.
On the other hand, the cameras are along for the ride this time and you don’t want the documentary turning into a Fellini movie, much less Spinal Tap.
You call home where the kids are just waking up and tell them you love them and you’re in Pittsburgh, except it might be Philadelphia. You could call down to the front desk and find out. Call up a limo. Go out and be a Rock Star, but right now you’re just not in the mood.
That’s fuckin’ pathetic, man.
You know that’s what Lynott would say. He never got tired of it. Cruising around Dublin in his limo and leathers, groupies and booze everywhere, always half-pissed no matter what time of day. Phil loved the life and it killed him.
Everybody gets into the business wanting to be the Stones and if you’re there, OK, maybe not there but close enough to have some idea, then you realize you don’t want to end up like Mick or Keith, even if they’re bloody survivors and the alternative is dead in a pool like Brian Jones or some other Rock and Roll Babylon fatality.
Bloody hell! Now you’re being self-conscious and self-righteous when you should be having a good wank and getting some sleep. Hopefully Adam and Larry are out on the town with the camera crew, seeing the sights of Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. Although this scene could add some spice to the movie, in case the police stopping the taping in LA isn’t enough.
So, about that wank. That’s not as easy as it used to be either. If it wasn’t your lucky night with one of the local girls than it was you and your own right hand when you got home, dreaming of being a star, dreaming of fucking the girls who wouldn’t even look at you. Back then you barely had to think of pussy and you’d be hard. Now it takes more than that.
Janis was right about making love to the audience. On this tour, things have reached levels of mass orgy, but nothing will ever top that day at Wembley. You remember the heat and energy and the sheer power of looking out at that crowd.
The image goes straight to your prick and now you’re ready. You prowled the stage, owning all fifty thousand of those motherfuckers and everyone watching all over the world. Prowling the stage, stretching “Bad” into a symphony by adding songs, pulling that girl out of harm's way and then dancing with her.
Oh god! Fucking bloody hell! You’re pulling your cock harder and harder, hearing Edge’s guitar whip the crowd into frenzy, feeling like you're getting the best blowjob in history and it’s going to go on forever.
And you come remembering the applause and the screams and the look on Geldof’s face when he hugged you, hoarse, but still screaming, “That’s how you do it, boyyo, that’s how you fucking do it!”
Fuck!
The critics would love it, wouldn’t they? You, jerking off to images of your own glory? They already think you’re a pretentious wanker and now they’d have proof.
Well, fuck ‘em all and feed ‘em fish.
And goodnight Pittsburgh. Or Philadelphia.
Fandom: U2 RPF
Character: Bono
Rating: R
Wordcount: 700
Notes-Takes place on the 1987 Joshua Tree tour filmed for "Rattle and Hum."
Thanks to Beta Goddess Carol for walking with me where the streets have no name.
You think of something Janis Joplin said about performing: it’s like making love to ten thousand people and going home alone.
Sometimes alone is better. Even after ten thousand, twenty thousand, however many thousand. Now that you’re playing the stadiums and arenas, the numbers have become unreal, surreal even, considering where you started. The gigs where the band was lucky to get a few friends to come round to whatever rundown dive would have them.
Back then it was a big deal if you could pull some drunken slag and have it off in the van after the show. Now you’ve got Allison and the kids, not to mention as many groupies as you want anytime you want them, if you want them. Not saying there haven’t been times, mind you. A fellow gets lonely and you’re not a saint or trying to be one, no matter what the press tries to lay on you just for wanting to help a few less fortunate souls.
On the other hand, the cameras are along for the ride this time and you don’t want the documentary turning into a Fellini movie, much less Spinal Tap.
You call home where the kids are just waking up and tell them you love them and you’re in Pittsburgh, except it might be Philadelphia. You could call down to the front desk and find out. Call up a limo. Go out and be a Rock Star, but right now you’re just not in the mood.
That’s fuckin’ pathetic, man.
You know that’s what Lynott would say. He never got tired of it. Cruising around Dublin in his limo and leathers, groupies and booze everywhere, always half-pissed no matter what time of day. Phil loved the life and it killed him.
Everybody gets into the business wanting to be the Stones and if you’re there, OK, maybe not there but close enough to have some idea, then you realize you don’t want to end up like Mick or Keith, even if they’re bloody survivors and the alternative is dead in a pool like Brian Jones or some other Rock and Roll Babylon fatality.
Bloody hell! Now you’re being self-conscious and self-righteous when you should be having a good wank and getting some sleep. Hopefully Adam and Larry are out on the town with the camera crew, seeing the sights of Philadelphia or Pittsburgh. Although this scene could add some spice to the movie, in case the police stopping the taping in LA isn’t enough.
So, about that wank. That’s not as easy as it used to be either. If it wasn’t your lucky night with one of the local girls than it was you and your own right hand when you got home, dreaming of being a star, dreaming of fucking the girls who wouldn’t even look at you. Back then you barely had to think of pussy and you’d be hard. Now it takes more than that.
Janis was right about making love to the audience. On this tour, things have reached levels of mass orgy, but nothing will ever top that day at Wembley. You remember the heat and energy and the sheer power of looking out at that crowd.
The image goes straight to your prick and now you’re ready. You prowled the stage, owning all fifty thousand of those motherfuckers and everyone watching all over the world. Prowling the stage, stretching “Bad” into a symphony by adding songs, pulling that girl out of harm's way and then dancing with her.
Oh god! Fucking bloody hell! You’re pulling your cock harder and harder, hearing Edge’s guitar whip the crowd into frenzy, feeling like you're getting the best blowjob in history and it’s going to go on forever.
And you come remembering the applause and the screams and the look on Geldof’s face when he hugged you, hoarse, but still screaming, “That’s how you do it, boyyo, that’s how you fucking do it!”
Fuck!
The critics would love it, wouldn’t they? You, jerking off to images of your own glory? They already think you’re a pretentious wanker and now they’d have proof.
Well, fuck ‘em all and feed ‘em fish.
And goodnight Pittsburgh. Or Philadelphia.