U
unclever name
Guest
Stumbling out of the Chicago Theater, on the Feb 10th gig, i expectidly winced at the sight of what is a "Morrissey Fan". Is this a generalization?...yes, but accurately so. I have always had the personal experience of leaving concerts slightly downcast, because after the drapes close and the band waves bye, the night ends and so does the fantasy that i be seen and loved above all the rest of the shouting idiots.
Though Morrissey didn't say, "Yes, you, i like you best" or anything of the like, i was surprisingly contented that i was not of the rest, seperated by the very single fact that i stood there with vertebres that worked, not some less-handsome imposter or groveling characture. The Chicago Theater that night was an ugly sea of shabby side-burns and tiresome vintage glasses, all with this artifical smugness where mounds of people, perhaps you, pranced around as some Morrissey incarnet, secretely conviencinging themselves, yourselves, there is this mystical bond in being the same. I stood there in the pit adoring the man, making eye contact several times, somewhat unnerved that i was just another spinless clone. I left the show that night, semi-charmed, wondering how a Morrissey-devout rests at night knowing in the back of their silly brains they are the less successful version of the one on stage, the anonomous immatator looking up at the one who is, literally, looking down at them.
Though Morrissey didn't say, "Yes, you, i like you best" or anything of the like, i was surprisingly contented that i was not of the rest, seperated by the very single fact that i stood there with vertebres that worked, not some less-handsome imposter or groveling characture. The Chicago Theater that night was an ugly sea of shabby side-burns and tiresome vintage glasses, all with this artifical smugness where mounds of people, perhaps you, pranced around as some Morrissey incarnet, secretely conviencinging themselves, yourselves, there is this mystical bond in being the same. I stood there in the pit adoring the man, making eye contact several times, somewhat unnerved that i was just another spinless clone. I left the show that night, semi-charmed, wondering how a Morrissey-devout rests at night knowing in the back of their silly brains they are the less successful version of the one on stage, the anonomous immatator looking up at the one who is, literally, looking down at them.
