Billy Ray Cyrus Lives in Toronto.
He lives. He walks. He drinks Frapp's at Starbucks, and he wears normal colored jeans with a reasonable fit. No overly snug, stone washed rinses in sight.
He's fairly bright-faced. Smiling, often. He has shoulder length, straight brown hair that curls itself into a half smile when it meets his neck - he's well aware that mullet's are scoffed at openly in the metropia. He doesn't demand immediate attention, anymore. Everyone's Achey Breaky Heart has been burried in the 90's timecapsule in the football field at the back of their old elementary schools...or middleschools. He doesn't live in the past. He has an acting career now, on primetime Canadian TV. He's a new type of turnover celebrity. Sorta like when Bon Jovi got that reoccuring role on Ally McBeal (before it got cancelled without warning).
He smiles and waves back at the people who gasp and recognize him, and he walks off at a slow pace. The small groups behind him whisper their loves and/or hates towards this one hit wonder and wander around wondering what to do with the sighting of that once and before superstar.
They wait. Stare. Try to make him out, walking down Spadina Rd. amidst the thick-like-ganja-smoke Toronto smog that looms over his concrete footprints.
And he's gone. Like that. And they return to their listless chatter whilst harassing another poor server girl for extra foam on a soy milk,decaff, extra tall latte with cinnamon sprinkles. Make that an iced latte, please.
They open up the newspaper and forget what just happened, content with knowing that it just doesn't matter anymore.
Billy Ray Cyrus lives in Toronto. And he's just another random man who really likes Frapp's on a hot summer's day.
He's fairly bright-faced. Smiling, often. He has shoulder length, straight brown hair that curls itself into a half smile when it meets his neck - he's well aware that mullet's are scoffed at openly in the metropia. He doesn't demand immediate attention, anymore. Everyone's Achey Breaky Heart has been burried in the 90's timecapsule in the football field at the back of their old elementary schools...or middleschools. He doesn't live in the past. He has an acting career now, on primetime Canadian TV. He's a new type of turnover celebrity. Sorta like when Bon Jovi got that reoccuring role on Ally McBeal (before it got cancelled without warning).
He smiles and waves back at the people who gasp and recognize him, and he walks off at a slow pace. The small groups behind him whisper their loves and/or hates towards this one hit wonder and wander around wondering what to do with the sighting of that once and before superstar.
They wait. Stare. Try to make him out, walking down Spadina Rd. amidst the thick-like-ganja-smoke Toronto smog that looms over his concrete footprints.
And he's gone. Like that. And they return to their listless chatter whilst harassing another poor server girl for extra foam on a soy milk,decaff, extra tall latte with cinnamon sprinkles. Make that an iced latte, please.
They open up the newspaper and forget what just happened, content with knowing that it just doesn't matter anymore.
Billy Ray Cyrus lives in Toronto. And he's just another random man who really likes Frapp's on a hot summer's day.
posted by Revolt at 10:00 PM
6 Comments:
what, is that achey breaky doctor show on the cbc too?
is it the number one rated show up there? c'moooonnn, we all know it is.
excellent. reminded me of a chic newspaper column.
you mean 'gossip column'?
i ain't seen him once.
i want my money back.
I resent that 'gossip column' comment.
And I resent that you'd demand to see Billy Ray, fully well knowing he was at the ART GALLERY! Hmph.
yeah. he was probably lost too.
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