Ballot.
The biggest thing to remember is that I love him. What I did wasn’t out of malice or spite, or a perverted desire to see him fail where others have succeeded. It was more out of an innate terror of that very success. When he finally achieves it, he will become cocky beyond redemption, which many have said has already come to pass.
Lord
knows he’s worked for what he’s gained.
Lord knows there was a heavy price for the glittering fame and fortune
he’s amassed…and yet…I still feel as though he should work for more. Countless others around me say he’s deserving
of every accolade he receives, but…somehow I venture to guess that many of them
are wearing the same crimson-colored blinders as his ridiculous fans.
I
don’t think that he put out the best album of 2001. I don’t think that musically he can offer
what others can’t; change the hair and the voices and essentially the music
remains the same. *NSYNC songs are not
easily distinguishable to the uninitiated by a single chord. There aren’t signature sounds and ideas that
set them apart from the others. Perhaps
Max Martin can receive such kudos; he paints his sound with his standard
palette, never deviating far from his prescribed color scheme…but the boys
themselves…they are but five in an endless sea of similar faces, and it breaks
my heart to tell him so.
Doubtless
you’re wondering how I can claim such love and devotion when I proclaim my
dissention from the ranks of the believers so readily. Perhaps it’s more out of hope for what may
come to be rather than what is…or what was.
Perhaps it’s my own blind faith in the man I’ve grown to love. And perhaps my own blinders are firmly
secured around my eyes, and I choose not to notice them.
He
asked me yesterday if he thought they stood a chance. And I stared at him, stance askew, head cocked to one side, and asked why he was asking. Was he searching for my support, or seeking
my professional opinion? He confessed a
little of both…and I told him that if he would be beaten, it would be by Elton
John and U2…and then his face fell.
I
guess he was expecting some kind of pick-me-up.
As usual, I had misread the signals.
As usual, I didn’t spot the needy look in his eyes until it was far too
late. He brushed me off, muttering
something or other about how rock journalists always side toward established
artists anyway, and then he went upstairs with his little easel and started to
paint things. I sat downstairs watching
the dreary mist fall over
Of
course, round and round it went, like a demented version of
spin-the-bottle…will I/won’t I? How can
I stay/why can’t I leave? What good is
this/how bad can it get? Cursed contradictions
and angry voices argued in my troubled mind until I positively could not see
straight. I didn’t feel the tears until
they splashed against the cool table…and I didn’t
realize how tense my jaw had become until I tasted the sharp tang of blood on
my tongue and felt the sting in the torn flesh of my lip. On and on, the rain will fall…
So
you see, things aren’t always what they’re cracked up
to be. Just as an actor learns to tame
an expression of surprise or frustration, or stifle a rushing river of
laughter, so too can I hide behind a careful gaze of neutrality. So too can he shrug off brutal losses and fruitless
anticipation, the way he has done year after year. I’ll be there, once again, to pick up the
pieces…waiting in the garden, standing in the
shadows…biding my time until he comes to me, shoulders slumped and hands
trembling…and I will allow him to apologize, the same way he has done for two
years now. I will accept his apology and
offer one of my own, in secret.
I’m
sorry you didn’t win, baby. I’m sorry
for helping to make it so.
© 2002 ~A.