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Way's about 30, Granny. Time for him to put down those vanilla slices get a real job.
He does look a little weathered in some of the photos, it's true.
But who could begrudge him another album/world tour (in which he really indulges himself, no messing about with all that 'emo' nonsense this time) before he settles down to the life of an artiste who is unconcerned by the tawdry shackles of commerce. He could have pints of locally-sourced brown ale with Alan Moore; they could have a salon. The pair of them might be like old school gods, dressed in leather, silver and purple, observing with amused disinterest the likes of Peter Milligan, Warren Ellis and George, indeed, sailing on by at, say, the San Fran Comicon
'Dude, that must be, like, negative. Having to try and explain away all this crap about Batman's ass ...'
'They are unenlightened souls, my friend, feasting on the rotten corpse of the industry.'
'I guess they are. Thank god ...'
'Can I stop you there, Gerard?'
'Sorry?'
'When you talk about 'God', Gerard, shouldn't you be using the plural of the noun?'
'I ...'
'THERE ARE MANY GODS!'
'Yeah. I'm not sure if I believe in anything personally, but ...'
'THERE ARE MANY GODS!'
'All right ... Christ, man ...'
'Ah yes, Christ, the son of man; are you familiar with the Gnostic gospels?'
'Yeah. Shall I ... sorry, shall I get that guy in a Star Trek t-shirt to get another round in?'
'Why not? I may even (laughs heartily) tell you about my novel!'
'Cool ... But Alan, the crowd used to seem more handsome when I was a singer, you know?'
'Welcome, Gerard, to the life of the mind.' |
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