I don’t know what to tell you.
I hurt my knee jumping off the space shuttle, but I’m a finisher. I’ll just get a new joint and go again. Are you getting all this? Cool, ’cause later I need you to take me to the moon. I’m gonna back flip that thing.
Anyway, I’m ripping. And that’s what’s happening, hot stuff. I’m here today, gone tomorrow, but you can catch me on tour next year. I’m like a 70s FM song—all frequency rock and modulation cock. Elbow nudging about what I got.
It’s quite a lot.
Check the backpack, yo.
No, not yours. Mine. It’s newer.
All I need is a chance. And yeah, I know I’ve already had like 300 in the last year, but I need another. I want the shoe. I want the hat. I want the system. And if it takes skills, I’ll want those, too. Just throw them in the roll-away luggage when you send my next package.
The hot thing? I already know what’s going to happen. Even before I know it’s going to happen, I know. That’s confidence, man—with a couple capital Is in the middle somewhere. I got switch, I got fakie, I got mannys to rails to shitty scratchers in secret pools. And I got spots. And my filmer’s got spots. Spots like a dalmatian, spots like those things floating in my eye, like … other stuff you’d associate with spots. For daze, foo.
But those are crap. I’m about to carve some notches in some El-Toro-type famousness. I want my Wallenberg. I want my Carlsbad. I want my LOVE fountain. I get what I want, too. Ask my MySpace friends.
This food-truck hype is out of hand. QP’d, rasta’d, and back lipped—it’s still bound to leave you a little gassy. But if you got that Grant Taylor hunger, you’re just going to get something anyway. Photo: Jon Humphries
But let’s not talk about my thoughts on all them—at least not out loud. Dudes are weak. Especially compared to my strong-ass, almost grown-ass self. I’m not hatin’, I’ve just seen better … mostly when I’m hittin’ rewind. That’s right. You haven’t seen me skate until you’ve seen me skate my spots, my town, my own damn program.
Publicists and agents and management consultants have seen my tapes, and they’re bringing me the papes. Might have to change my last name, they say. See what the market will bear. See what the experts have to pronounce. They want my photo, they want my name up in lights. I’m the one the biters bite. The fakers fake. The deal-makers make.
Don’t get too close to my fantasy.
And from what I hear, life is a series of dangling carrots, temptations, and all that. And it’s all supposed to be resisted. You know, for the greater good. But if the rock stars really suck, and you’re telling me that the reward for saying no to all of it is just … nothing, I guess I still I don’t know what to tell you. I’m more into somethings than I am nothings. Way more into them.
I mean, look at me. Don’t I just exude lots of something?
What? You can’t see me? Won’t see me? Well, that’s just how I planned it. When you don’t see me, that’s when you better really get ready. ’Cause I’m coming attcha.
For the rest of the foreseeable future.