They found him dead in a Comfort fucking Inn. A sadly poetic end for a sad character. A man who was gifted with some talents that The Machine sucked dry for all its worth. And then it left him cold to twist in the wind. He allowed his gift to be sullied and raped in that way. He allowed himself to be subjugated, to be sub-standardized, to be made into a cliche-generating robot. The actual fruits of creativity were cast aside while the fat, drool-encrusted, pig-faced maws demanded Cheez Whiz. They didn't want art to make the public think. They wanted that easy art that idiots would lap up. They wanted that easy art that made people titillated and placated. They wanted a pile of frosted bull shit that people would lap up and lap up until they were fat. They wanted processed. They wanted canned. They wanted good ol Grade A Hollywood-Americana.
And that's what he gave them. He scribbled some shit on a napkin and gave them that bullshit product that allowed them to rake in millions. One might trot out that old cliche of selling the soul to the Devil. I think even the Devil would've turned that shit off.
Eventually he came to reckon with what had happened. Long after he had been long forgotten. After he had become a shell of what he was. A rumpled heap of a man, ravaged by the many years of booze-laden obscurity. He wished he could've taken it all back, or at least that was what he said once. Then it looked like he was pulling things back together and was ready to work his way back up again.
But....there he was. Dead. In a fucking Comfort Inn.
Wow. I love it.
:cry:
:mittens:
RIP Dimebag!
damn. that was good.
:)
That was beyond awesome.
The Smooth Road To The Place You Don't Want To Be.