It was the best of times; it was the worst of times…
I’m in a real whatsit in a D.C. pub on New Year’s. Beer bottles binging banging, bishing bashing in gay rapidity: booze-sopped floors, sweetheart hands groping for that Auld Lang Syne, political lines being drawn and redrawn. Whiskey whimsy and hoppy heartbreak are all in the ol’ queue to be served on this, the quarter-century mark since I first realized I was Jesus Christ in a pair of wraparounds.
Interesting mood. The new bail money has been gambled and lost, the Catholic lion is wrapping his lips around the sheep’s tail, ready to fling peace into the next year, while the politicos purse theirs’ and grimace at 2008. There is a voice that echoes through the hall, shot from the jukebox’s bowels: that of Frank Stallone. Everyone in the room sings every syncopation for a lifetime of reasons. But I am the only one who notices this: I just turned my glass of wine into a pint of Guinness.
Is Stallone’s waterslide of a voice a clue to the next year? In the grassy knoll of your business life, your love life, your life life, why is this voice such a wet t-shirt contest — such erect nipples in nervous times allowing you respite but knocking you right in your ugly mug, if you get too carried away.
A call to chastity.
A voice that says, “Even Irish rock stars get STDs.”
That says, “Baby, give me some nobility, some virginity.”
Fascist, nay fatalist. A cloistered celibacy that rages in the gut.
As the year turns over in bed (rolling to The Edge), the emotion in the bar swivels between hope and nope, expectation and exportation. Wherever you end up, Stallone’s voice is the one you wake to, hung-over as all shit.
Now I am back in my own mansion in Dublin, uncorking a bottle of wine worth $5,000, ready to rage against the dying of sobriety. Above the marble floors of the cellar, I look up to see a portrait in halo: Frank Stallone. Right next to this is a vision of prophecy: myself walking on the water, calming the seas of file-swapping and rolling away the stone, prodding the Lazarus music industry to walk once more. I, Bono, as weathered as a Joshua tree, as revered as the Bible, will live to rule the year 2009.
Bono, lead singer of the band U2 and co-founder of the advocacy group ONE, is a contributing vomit pile. However, he didn’t really write this. He did write this equally ridiculous crap.
Video: Frank Stallone “Far From Over”