There's great danger for the loneliest ranger of all.

Monday, October 25, 2004

Sorry for the prolonged absence from this thingamablog, but I've been fairly busy, and last week I was on vacation, so there.

I have something to get off my chest. A lot of you have commented on my recent and very public performance on a certain television show that, for legal reasons, shall remain nameless. My real fans are bolstered by the knowledge that it wasn't my fault, and once I've explained the situation to you in great detail, I trust you will come to the only conclusion--that I am merely a victim of circumstance, of fame, and of those jealous hos (just follow the odor below, M.C. Blowfish) who will stop at nothing to destroy me and deny the world-at-large my considerable talents as vocalist and it-real-keeping songwriter.

I arrived at this nameless studio for a sound check promptly at 7:15 p.m. Eastern, a good 10 minutes before schedule. In fact, I treated my driver to a lavish Starbucks scone as a reward, which, without a second thought, I dissected into 17 perfect sections so that he could feed his family that night. I did this without complaint. I even let him pick the station, since he was driving. It was the working-class thing to do, behavior most of my devotees experience every day. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I got to the studio, blah, blah, blah, greeted the producers, hello, hello, hello, swiped a handful of complimentary finger sandwiches, munch, munch, munch, and took my place center stage, within the "X" so thoughtfully taped to the floor beneath my feet. The floor had some scattered crumbs on it and what looked like a fossilized roach in repose, yet I did not complain, though you can be sure I will write a stern letter to the network's maintenance division, but I will begin the letter nicely with "HI!"

The band and I rolled through the motions, plying two singles from my most recent album, which shall remain nameless for legal reasons. I was tight as usual, but my backing musicians left something to be desired. However, I did not sense there would be trouble, even when my lead guitarist, who apparently went to school or something, came in a half-second late on the hook, and you could've raised a family in the spaces between the drummer's catatonic fills. And don't even get me started on the bass player. He was wearing a fucking green turtleneck with merlot corduroys, for Christ's sake, and that was just the least of his problems. Of course, my manager, who shall remain nameless for legal reasons in 14 states, went booku ballistic on all three of them, and rightfully so. It's their job to make me hella tight--I'm the focus, I'm the focus--so that I may broadcast my natural abilities like a satellite to the worldwideliest audience possible. My breasts detonate on this drumbeat, my ass tips 40 degrees north on this authoritative bass-plunk, and when the deejay is hot my personal-trainer-flattened abs glisten with post-coital glory, right on cue. I mean, I just knew the live show would be, like, slaughterhouse ass. What the fizzo.

The first song goes OK. I'm up there singing, "Oh, honey, when my lips excite/two hearts ignite/cool down with Sprite/first things first/obey your thirst/your thirst for me," and I'm thinking it's going well. The band actually stumbles into place, like they managed to find the beat without resorting to consulting the map or stopping at a gas station in their brains, and they're rightfully ecstatic. Afterward, the lead guitarist, who shall remain nameless because fuck him, said, "That little flamenco flourish you showed me backstage did the trick." "I learned it from Jimmy Page," I said, a little flustered from working my tail off up there while the rest of those lazy pricks plunked and banged, and having to save the whole performance by improvising a few more swivels than my manager and I'd initially choreographed. "Hey," he yawned with a dumb idea, "why don't you do a solo of your own? I mean, you obviously play the damn instrument better than me, and I look stupid out there knowing of your power." "Right," I said. "Leave me to do more than I already do, which is pump out paychecks for your low-life by-the-hour asses while I dazzle the universe with my vocal virtuosity." "Whaddayamean?" he barked. "You're lip-synching to a pre-recorded vocal track, you cocksucking bitch!" Then he tried to lick my neck and apologize, going, "Ohmmmm, ohmmmm, make me dirty, make me wet, lip the drip you won't forget," a nod to my rival, Britney Spears, which only infuriated me further. Little did I know that he was trying to plan my downfall, and that I would be an unknowing naif in his pathetic headlights.

So a few more sketches go by, and then the host, who shall remain nameless because he hasn't been in anything I've seen, comes up on the stage and he's like, "Once again, Cory Frye!" and the response from the audience could make a deaf man so deaf that the very sight of another deaf man would make his head explode. This was my night. The comedy wasn't pretty, the host wasn't helping, so everyone was relying on me, ME, Cory Frye, teen savior of the known cosmos, to salvage this sinking barge with a hot blast of Awesome. I was ready for this close-up. My breasts were perfect. My ass was like a half-donut on cracked pheasant. My abs could've demolished a BMX, killed its rider, and left no trace of either. I was at the peak of my power. The very apex. The very zenith. The very thesauritical summit. My brunette tresses tumbled suicidally down my back. The force of a thousand generations of pop stars pushed against my back, egging me on. I felt the ghost of Sinatra in my armpits, passing the sceptre from one great performer to another. The spirit of the late Harry Connick, Jr. enveloped my soul, then backed off when it realized I was waaaaay better. My training was complete. My time was now.

Then I noticed the lead guitarist smirking evilly at me. Not even my spirit guide Temuculah and his thousand horsehooves of hotcha-wedgie apocalypse could've stopped what was coming next. He deliberately began playing the opening riff of Gryphon's "Second Spasm," which threw me way the hell off because I was expecting the deft theft of the bass lick "Don't Stand So Close To Me" that typically begins my second hit single, "Don't Stand So Far Away From Me." And once that happened, anything went. I stood there dumbfounded by this betrayal when suddenly my own voice came through the speaker--all of this set up by my detractors, my band, those who will perish in a house fire next April if I have anything to say about it. I could do nothing but dance my way out of it, and I did. The audience response was tremendous, and I tiptoed offstage, triumphant, making a mental note to destroy my backup minions. The fury has begun.

Once i can get in contact with the webmaster, everythings getting deleted. It doesn't matter anyway, there's too many important people behind my career to stop it now.


Blogger DeAnn said...

OK, I'm so curious right now. Are you sure there are legal reasons you can't tell me the name of all of the stuff you hid (except your manager; I don't really care about that).

October 27, 2004 at 9:51 AM

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