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| *"Charades" as sung by Maxwell Caufield in the movie Grease 2* "I'm all dressed up in my finest attitude Pretending I don't care Guess I really messed up....by trying to be two When only one heart can be there Why can't I be just what I am And speak my love Without any shame Why can't she see what I am Is a costumed fool trapped in a tragic game " That scream. Those screams. Those deafening, ear piercing, blood curdling screams that stay with me for hours after I've finally closed my eyes--closed my wall that I am forced to open day in and night out no matter how much I don't want to. "You have to," they say. "It's part of who you are," they offer as a reason. Is it? Since when did wanting to be known for my singing and dancing abilities entail having to smile pretty no matter how pissed off I am? The flashes that blind me and linger as if stuck in my contact lenses for what seems like ever. The spots, I call them. The spots that follow me everywhere. A blank piece of paper suddenly looks like the coat of a dalmation if I'm seen out in public for just five minutes. Damn Kodak for making disposable cameras that people sell at stores on every damn corner. This wasn't part of the deal, this wasn't an obligation. It wasn't written in the contract last I checked. "Become a soulless piece of meat," are words I don't ever recall reading. And why, why do they have to scream when my name is mentioned? Why? When did "Justin" become synonymous with "scream your fucking head off like it will do you any good?" What was that shit I said awhile back?? There's two of me. The "Public eye Justin" and the "Brushes his teeth twice a day Justin". That's true, there is. And when I said that "Brushes his teeth" doesn't get enough attention, I meant it. Yes, I did. I fucking meant it. Ya know, not one day... Not one day has passed since we gained the fame we stupidly sought out that I haven't had my hair grabbed. My clothes torn at. My personality questioned. My face captured on some damn teenagers, or worse -- her mother's -- insta print film so it can develop and I can sign it like the good boy I am. Not one day. And when I say that I wouldn't give it up, I"m not lying. I wouldn't trade my fame in for anonymity, ever. But, why is it that I can't get past the fact that I'm Justin Timberlake. That I am in *NSYNC. That I was on Mickey Mouse Club. That I wore that fucking *ugly* shirt and *stupid* looking cowboy hat paired with that pair of jeans that made my legs look like chopsticks when I was on Star Search. Why can't I get past that for one day? Meet someone who knows who I am and says "Hey, that's pretty cool that you do that. Let's talk sports" or some shit like that. But, no. When I meet someone, they meet *the* Justin. Not just Justin. Why? Because that's who I've become, and that's all anyone wants to meet. A connection. A hook up. A groupie fuck that I just don't do because, surprisingly enough, I'm not that kind of guy. If someone got to know who I was, they'd see that I'm as scared of people as I am of snakes and sharks. That I speak above a whisper in fear that something *so* stupid will escape from my lips and it will be audible enough for someone to hear it. And you know what that means... TABLOIDS. My new best friend. I've learned a lot of things about myself by reading them. If I was this fucking interesting in real life, I wouldn't be sitting here in this corner crying my eyes out, would I? No. I just wish there were people out there who saw me for *me.* Granted, they probably wouldn't know who I was were it not for what I do, but do I dare to think that there's people out there who care about the person as much as they care about the performer? They have to be out there. Charades and pretty lies They hide What's deep inside me. Charades do disguise All the love I keep inside me. Charades Can't see me, But can you feel the real me,the real me Behind my charades This fucking bandana. What the hell did I start? In an effort to keep my obnoxious curls in check and keep the sweat from dripping into my eyes and stinging the ever loving shit out of them, I've created the hottest trend amongst teenage girls since Pearl Jam was "cool" to like because they thought Eddie Vedder was hot. Everywhere I go, I see thes damn bandanas. They're on CABBAGE PATCH KIDS for Christ's sake. Whoops, sorry. Anyhow. It's ridiculous. I should have bought stock in the damn Bedazzler. Then I could quit this and really cash in. No, seriously, I didn't mean that. I just, I just wish that people saw that I perform because I love to. I don't need all of this attention. I mean, come on. LOLLIPOPS? That's a bit too much, walking in a mall and thinking that some girl bought this lollipop and is sucking on it thinking "This is Justin, this must be what he tastes like". No. I do not taste like damn Banana Berry, sweetie. Sorry. Just once I wish they could see that I LOVE THIS, I just don't always love what comes along with the territory. The old saying "Grin and bear it" should be tattooed across my chest. But, wait. That would start another trend. Nevermind. "Oh, please don't mind me Performing at my hardest As I paint upon the air You won't find me Cause it's a portrait of the artist As a man who isn't there " This sweat. Do they see how drenched I am? Sure, they do. But know what they think when they see it? They think, "Wow, that's so hot. Look how sexy he is." Do they stop to think *why* I'm so sweaty? *How* I got this way? That I am sweaty because I work my fucking *ass* off on that stage, dancing and jumping around like someone who has a disorder. All to make them smile. But, it makes me smile, too. The blood. Yes, I bleed. When girls scrape their nails along my skin when they reach out to get a touch of "Justin." When they rip at my clothes in hopes of getting some small patch of material that they can say is part of my shirt, and nobody will believe them anyhow. The blood that gets drawn on my knuckles when I punch the wall because it's all I can do to not rip my hair out at the root and slash my face so they won't want pictures anymore. I sound pretty psycho, huh? I'm not that bad. I do have these thoughts, but they're passing. No worries. I'm not crazy. The tears. If people knew how often I cried myself to sleep, well, they wouldn't care anyhow. Poor little famous pop star has it all and now he doesn't want it.That's not entirely true. I *do* want it. But the price is steep, and all the money in the world can't pay it. The loss of character I've endured is something I never prepared myself for. Not to say I could handle it better if I'd been "warned" or notified that this would become my life. How I'd love to be able to go to a sports grill and eat a *big* *fat* hamburger and watch sports *any* sport. I'd even watch curling or pool. Just to feel like a *man* again. I'm not saying I feel feminine... It's more androgynous. If it wasn't for the girls pining for me with every blink of an eyelash, I'd wonder what sex I still am. Even with the constant reminder between my legs that meets with my hand to serve my *only* form of release more often than people would imagine, I have to question it sometimes. The options are there, but who wants to take them knowing the true motive? I'm in this to make music, not sleep with someone new beside me in every city. Shocked? I am, too. *Who* am I? Wouldn't this be a *wonderful* question to be asked. Think it's happened yet? No. Think it ever will? Guess again. If I could write out a question to be asked in an interview, *this* is what it would be. Not my favorite color. My favorite song. My inspiration. Who I'm dating. *Who* *cares*? Ask me who Justin is when he's not on stage. Ask me. So I can tell you about the scared, shy, reserved person I am. The person who'd kill to be able to go to a movie and sit and chew on my popcorn as loud as I want and throw gummy bears up at the screen so they stick and make the actors' faces look funny. The man who would love to spend a Saturday afternoon in a park playing basketball all day to the point where he was so sore he could barely walk home. The person who would love to go and sit in church all day on Sunday and then go to a big brunch with his family, and not get bothered for "famous people bullshit." The person who *every* *night* counts seven stars, and on the seventh night makes a wish before he closes his eyes. The *man* I am. Not the "21-year-old superstar". The man who's forgotten behind the age and the elaborate costumes and loud overbearing interruptions for some reason I *still* can't explain. Why do I do that? Why do I stop them from talking? I don't know. I've gotten better lately, though. Or, so I'd like to think. I'm trying. Damnit, if only people could see that. I do, I try. I keep saying that some day, someone will walk up to me and give me the biggest compliment I can possibly think of at this time. I think about it all the time. She's faceless. Her voice has no definition to it, other than it's feminine. I can't tell her age. I can't tell her body type. I just hear her voice and hear the words. "I think you're a great person." And it's said with sincerity. It's not a line. It's not a plea for a connection. It's a truth, and it's something I *plead* with *God* that I'll get to hear sometime soon. Someone sees Justin Randall behind Justin. Someone has to. "Come on Justin, it's showtime," Chris is calling for me. And once again, it's time to be Justin. The ever-smiling, ever-happy entertainer. Sure, I smile when I see their reactions. The smiles. The tears. The jumping. The singing along and dancing in step with us. I'll admit it. That makes me feel good. It's what happens when we're off of that stage. When I should turn into a person again. The performer is left with the stage. The music courses through my veins, I'll never lose that. The music is half of my heart, half of my soul. The music *is* part of Justin. I just wish more people realized that that isn't all there is to me. "Justin we're up," JC is hollering now. And as I get up from this cramped corner and bang on my feet until they wake up again, I put on my stage face and hope that maybe, just maybe, that person who thinks of me as a PERSON, as a *man*, is out there. Feedback Back To Main Menu |