Will it get better? Is it up or down or to the side? Watching Ricky at today's presser was a mixed bag of thoughts and emotions. None of them made too much sense when compared to the others. Where does he fit? Does this have to make sense? Is what I'm feeling irrational? It doesn't matter all that much:
Willie Nelson was up there for everybody, speaking a common language, his own bottomless talent drawing from the raw humor and emotion of working-class experience. Try as he might to please the crowd in his sequinned outfit, Bob Dylan couldn't help but be a glorious weirdo, up there for himself, the iconoclast chasing his own visions. We still need both. The pity is that they won't be around forever.
The Wolves are never going to work like a normal team. The script you've been told and sold since birth doesn't exist at 600 First Avenue. There is no common language. There are no cliches in our land. We are the glorious weirdos of the north country. Ricky found the right side of I35 and the best we can hope for is that our crazy POBO, with our abnormal rebounder and his fellow team of misfits can be lead to a place that actually matters by a kid that is impossibly sincere, sheltered, fabulous, marketable, impossible and international all at once. The six characters of Mr. Zimmerman are wholly and necessarily appropriate for the journey that began today. None of it will make sense. It shouldn't work and it only will (can) if it is gloriously weird. The other blueprints will never fit. Enjoy the surrealism until we wake up next November.
Viva los glorious weirdos.