Despite my chronological age of thirty, I am suspended in an emotional adolescence. When I discover a new passion, whether a television show or a band, I obsess. And I don't let go, or get over it. While this has made me "charmingly quirky," even I can't dismiss the sickness and oddness of the latest object of my desire: John Rich.
Yes, that John Rich. As in the latter half of Big & Rich. It goes against every rational fiber of my being, and bewilders my friends, to fixate on him. But in the last month, I haven't been able to supress the desire/fantasy of him. In a broom closet. For an hour.
A few weeks ago, I got word that Sebastian Bach (formerly of Skid Row) was taking part in the second season of "Gone Country." Baz, in my city, for 10 days? All plans on hold, just in case he called. And called [actually, texted] he did: he let me know where they were taping, and I showed up. The first night, I headed to 12th & Porter to see Sebastian and the other contestants in action. The gig was emceed by John Rich, as he's the brainchild and host of the show. He was onstage, cowboy hat and booze in tow, and I was impressed by his cocksure, smooth delivery as he introduced each band. It was strictly a professional admiration, as I like to watch other performers and gauge their interactions and banter with an audience. He was good, but I was focused on Sebastian, who was even better.
The finale was housed at the Wildhorse Saloon, my stomping ground. Again, another Sebastian-fueled night, but as John Rich took the stage to warm up the crowd, I began to watch him as a fan, not from a clinical, professional perspective. Suddenly, I liked John Rich. I liked his over-the-top bling, I liked his attitude, I even liked his weird facial hair. I found myself singing "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," a song that I'd shunned for the last few years, even as I am now forced to play it twice a night. Where that repitition failed, his swagger and pride succeeded.
As fate would have it, I'd be thrown into the range of his tractor beam again much sooner than I would have expected. A friend of mine received a trip to the ACM Awards in Los Vegas and invited me to come with her. I showed up at the airport at 430a, running on fumes since there'd been no time to sleep the Friday night before, singing "Save a Horse" complete with lasso pantomime. On our flight? Big Kenny. One degree of seperation...
We were given tickets to the ACM after-party, and while I was skeptical at sticking around, as we felt that the city of Nashville had been transported to Vegas and the show was nothing we couldn't see in any local bar, I changed my tune when it was announced that John Rich was the host. My poor travelmate was doomed - she knew there was no escaping the party until I'd had my fill. Even the stories of friends of hers that had dated him wouldn't deter me. I watched that man until she finally had to feign a headache to get away.
She can't understand my obsession, and neither can anyone else. They keep pointing out his flaws and faults, hoping I'll snap out of it. But as I just spent 10 minutes of worktime gazing at a muted television screen because he was performing, I realized this is not going away anytime soon.
At first, I thought it was just the proximity - I'd seen him three times in two weeks, and maybe I'd developed a familial view. Then, I delved deeper: it must be psychological. Perhaps I was turning lesbian - I mean, wouldn't John Rich be the last step down that hallway? But as a number of guys have told me: being attracted to a douchebag confirms and affirms my heterosexuality. So what is it? The Alpha-male status? The commanding presence? The attitude? It sure can't be the music...
And still, I have just scoured the CMA Fest schedule looking for his appearances. He has one, and it conflicts with my work schedule. I am trying to figure out how to get out of my job for the night, and I'm still not sure why. Its not Joe Elliott, its not Sebastian Bach, its not Gale Harold, heck, its not even a free drink. And yet...I'm looking to saddle up my horse and have myself a [big and] Rich time.
01 June 2008
I Hate Myself for Loving You
Despite my chronological age of thirty, I am suspended in an emotional adolescence. When I discover a new passion, whether a television show or a band, I obsess. And I don't let go, or get over it. While this has made me "charmingly quirky," even I can't dismiss the sickness and oddness of the latest object of my desire: John Rich.
Yes, that John Rich. As in the latter half of Big & Rich. It goes against every rational fiber of my being, and bewilders my friends, to fixate on him. But in the last month, I haven't been able to supress the desire/fantasy of him. In a broom closet. For an hour.
A few weeks ago, I got word that Sebastian Bach (formerly of Skid Row) was taking part in the second season of "Gone Country." Baz, in my city, for 10 days? All plans on hold, just in case he called. And called [actually, texted] he did: he let me know where they were taping, and I showed up. The first night, I headed to 12th & Porter to see Sebastian and the other contestants in action. The gig was emceed by John Rich, as he's the brainchild and host of the show. He was onstage, cowboy hat and booze in tow, and I was impressed by his cocksure, smooth delivery as he introduced each band. It was strictly a professional admiration, as I like to watch other performers and gauge their interactions and banter with an audience. He was good, but I was focused on Sebastian, who was even better.
The finale was housed at the Wildhorse Saloon, my stomping ground. Again, another Sebastian-fueled night, but as John Rich took the stage to warm up the crowd, I began to watch him as a fan, not from a clinical, professional perspective. Suddenly, I liked John Rich. I liked his over-the-top bling, I liked his attitude, I even liked his weird facial hair. I found myself singing "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," a song that I'd shunned for the last few years, even as I am now forced to play it twice a night. Where that repitition failed, his swagger and pride succeeded.
As fate would have it, I'd be thrown into the range of his tractor beam again much sooner than I would have expected. A friend of mine received a trip to the ACM Awards in Los Vegas and invited me to come with her. I showed up at the airport at 430a, running on fumes since there'd been no time to sleep the Friday night before, singing "Save a Horse" complete with lasso pantomime. On our flight? Big Kenny. One degree of seperation...
We were given tickets to the ACM after-party, and while I was skeptical at sticking around, as we felt that the city of Nashville had been transported to Vegas and the show was nothing we couldn't see in any local bar, I changed my tune when it was announced that John Rich was the host. My poor travelmate was doomed - she knew there was no escaping the party until I'd had my fill. Even the stories of friends of hers that had dated him wouldn't deter me. I watched that man until she finally had to feign a headache to get away.
She can't understand my obsession, and neither can anyone else. They keep pointing out his flaws and faults, hoping I'll snap out of it. But as I just spent 10 minutes of worktime gazing at a muted television screen because he was performing, I realized this is not going away anytime soon.
At first, I thought it was just the proximity - I'd seen him three times in two weeks, and maybe I'd developed a familial view. Then, I delved deeper: it must be psychological. Perhaps I was turning lesbian - I mean, wouldn't John Rich be the last step down that hallway? But as a number of guys have told me: being attracted to a douchebag confirms and affirms my heterosexuality. So what is it? The Alpha-male status? The commanding presence? The attitude? It sure can't be the music...
And still, I have just scoured the CMA Fest schedule looking for his appearances. He has one, and it conflicts with my work schedule. I am trying to figure out how to get out of my job for the night, and I'm still not sure why. Its not Joe Elliott, its not Sebastian Bach, its not Gale Harold, heck, its not even a free drink. And yet...I'm looking to saddle up my horse and have myself a [big and] Rich time.
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