He Must Be Some Kind of Genius

Date: July 2005
 
In the largest city in the most influential nation in the world, there are thousands of girls screaming. They are screaming louder than the highest volume the human ear can process. They are screaming only as loud as the human vocal cords can vibrate, and the vibrations are trying desperately to crash through the sound barrier, like Vikings. The vibrations are trying desperately to escape the park, like parents, like older siblings.

Before the crowd there is a boy on stage. He’s thin, but he’s healthy. His skin is sun kissed tan, his cheeks are fleshy and warm. He has blonde hair the color of sand, and it gleams subtly, but conspicuously enough. It keeps falling in his eyes, but instead of pushing it aside like any normal person might, he stares wantonly through it. It swishes and washes back and forth. His lips are moving, pressing against the black foam of a cordless microphone. (Let it be known that he does not think about whose dried spit might be serving as some kind of bacterial feeding ground, some kind of agar on the porous maze of this foam, even though you can smell it.) Some sun reflects off the hair in his eyes, and for a second he is sporting lemon highlights. This boy must be some kind of genius.