sweating in the dark we feed on the forms in the light; on the floor we're the flood...

my recent shawn harris encounter inspired me to dig up this vignette written last year. it is still one of my favorite pieces. amusez-vous bien...

mr. shawn harris

shawn harris is the guy with eyes like drugs and lips the color of bubble gum. the girls at his concerts think he's handsome because his face is chiseled strong like that of a flawless statue and when he sings, he flashes his gleaming teeth like a beacon drawing the audience towards him and sings.

parents say to be this captivating is dangerous. they don't want their precious kiddies to die their hair black. they don't want their children jamming on instruments in the garage. they read the newspaper articles that warn how dangerous this new generation has proven themselves to be and are worried. that's why they don't like these young musician role models. shawn harris i mean.

mr. harris, who taught you to play your guitar like slash? and if i position the guitar's strap over my shoulder and grab the neck with my left hand and hold my pick just right, will you teach me?

i like your violet coat and those shoes you wear, where did you get them? my parents say idolizing someone so is unhealthy, but i want to make shoes just liek yours, like your white ones with the rhinestones, just like those. and one day, when i'm at a concert, maybe this summer, i'm going to ask you where to buy a violet coat like the one you have.

the record companies, who wouldn't sign your band to their labels, back before when your band was called the locals, back before when you were a teenager just following a dream and trying to make it in this crazy world and all those people were waiting for you to give up and you didn't, you didn't, mr. harris, and since then, your band changed their name to the matches and signed to epitaph records and has put out three albums and headlined tours. those big name record company executives spend sleepless nights knowing they lost out on something extraordinary.

the rumors that are spread to the naive older generations, they're not true. you sing every song as if it was your last, as if no one would have the pleasure of hearing the sweet notes again, mr. harris. what do you think of when you perform like that? and why do you seem to encompass the talent of connection better than any other performer? after the show, when you make your way off of the stage and into the crowd, you still draw an audience. you thank your fans; you are a gracious host. you don't become conceited, mr. harris. you smile at your admirers as you take pictures and sign autographs, enveloping yourself farther into a crowd that loses itself in your every word.

mr. harris, do you sometimes wish you could disappear? do you wish your tour van would drive into the middle of nowhere far away from all the stages, far away and maybe your tour van would stop in front of a cottage, a samll one with a king size bed and a full sized refrigerator and a staircase that would lead to a room meant just for you. and if you opened a little window latch and gave it a nudge, the window would flap open, all the endless sky would fill the room. there'd be no set list instructing you on what to play each night, no house lights and microphones, no fans and autographs and photos. only space and more space and plenty of clean clothes. and you could relax, mr. harris. you could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes and doesn't liek your music. you could sing your lungs out and you wouldn't have to worry about what people said because you never cared anyway and nobody could make you worry and nobody would think you're crazy because you like to laugh and laugh. and no one could criticize you if they heard you at the crack of dawn belting notes, belting notes along with the crows without someone judging you, without somebody saying you aren't good enough, without the whole industry waiting for you to fail when all you want, all you want, mr. harris, is to achieve and to achieve and to achieve and to achieve, and no one can call that wrong.