Bob Geldof. You doubtlessly have little or no clue who Bob Geldof is. Except for that Pink Floyd movie you were too stoned to remember, or maybe Live Aid or Band Aid or AIDS in Africa, and even then – it’s iffy. He’s really not all that famous (with the exception of Europe and third-world countries and Bono), but his lack of American fame is a bit confusing, primarily because he’s got an honorary knighthood, was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, and his best man was Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran. Starfucking rock-stars like that in the states is bigger than Jesus and Bush and Strauss, in a blender – he should be a shoe-in for prime-time E!, if not the friggin’ History Channel.
Anyway, I discovered something beautiful yesterday about me and Bob Geldof. Caught him mute on the television, all flowy-haired and sunken-eyed and gussied-up to announce Live Aid 2, and it hit me hard. I felt something deep inside of me pang like a quarter or a nickel hitting my skin flat. I felt the earth spit pikes through mantle; the clouds part in the shape of knives. Bob Geldof has me.
It’s not in a sexy-dumb “let’s bump it, Bob Geldof” way, either. It’s a “I’m fourteen and I want ninety posters of Bob Geldof pinned up around my room with hearts and stars” kinda love. I haven’t heard any of his music, and I didn’t hear him speak, but as of today I can neither love nor respect another living creature aside. Bob Geldof has replaced my very being with millions of tiny pictures of Bob Geldof, and when you cut me I bleed his 8×10 glossy. He’s Irish arms, warm Irish arms like a car bomb near a crowd of old people clapping; slapping down like fish on the pavement.