Oh, damn it.
But the fact that Paul's been in the B3 before makes me feel like this is a trend. Maybe he'll continue to dilute his Undead Jack Johnson brand with lame shit like last night to the point that people will forget just how he fooled them, and then forget he was ever here at all, and the only time you'll think of Paul McDonald is like cold nights on the moors when he's scrabbling at your windowpane like Cathy Earnshaw, if Cathy Earnshaw smelled equally like feet and like feet medication.
The first guy to leave the stage will be StefaPAUL! HOLY SHIT!
I talked myself down and talked myself down and totally didn't believe it, and now Paul is going home! America! How fabulous you are!
"It's been a good ride... It's gonna be fine... I'm road-worn... I've paid some dues, you know... I hope they dig it... You like my jacket? I define 'cool dude in a loose mood' and I define 'perfect imperfect boy' and I pretend everything is a concert starring me that never happened, never quite begins... Fake stoner laughter, ho-ho-ho."
J. Lo: "For your song, will you sing 'Maggie May'?"
Paul: "As the least objectionable thing I've ever done on this stage, I'd be happy to."
And then... Let's just say that disappointment and the death of all his dreams does not really impact the tenor of his performance. What, like he's going to sing the song as if he were dying? As if he were riddled with caterpillars inside his body? What would that look like, one wonders. One wonders and one moves on and one forgets there ever was a Paul McDonald, knock-kneed and shivering as his tainted soul slowly burned the cuteness out of the body decaying all around him.
WHAT THE MAN IN BLACK SAID TO RANDY
It's midnight before they come for him; Jennifer promised to stay awake, with a candle, but she's fallen asleep against the doorframe and Randy covered her with a blanket that says "Coca-Cola," so she's going to miss it. As Steven would relate later, and to which I can personally attest, that's probably for the best.
They pull up in a black carriage, outside the Kodak Theatre, its windows hung with black and ragged cloth, drawn by six fine horses with fire in their eyes, draft-horses, huge, breath steaming under the bright and sour night sky. The door creaks open and one pointed boot clashes on the paving-stones, giving Steven a start and nearly waking Jennifer from her slumber.