Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Measure of a Man

It's a pickle. That's what it is. It's a real pickle I'm in.

And damn dang if that ain't the funniest thing. A pickle. Long, thick and, whew. Ahem, sorry.

I just can't figure out what the heck happened. Everything was perfect. On pitch. On course. Straight. Aw, I mean, straight up.

I was singin' my heart out underneath those klieg lights. The nation was swept up in my small town boy making good soundtrack each week. It was a dream come true.
A steady gig. Great marketing. A panel of judges who dug my stuff, "dawg". And I was good. A good, clean American boy. Oh yes, so good, so clean. A sailor singer.

And it wasn't like they were asking me to dress up like some gnarly rocker, it was fun, boy band stuff. Lance Bass light. They ate up my Raleigh accent and my horn rimmed glasses. I was pointed down Barry Manilow Avenue with nothing but adult contemporary chart number one power ballads on the horizon. Even up to the end when I came in a shocking second, I was still playing the game.

It's been almost four years and looking back I just scratch my fool southern head wondering where I ever went wrong. I never stopped talkin' about my mom and my dad, or about the good folks back in Charlotte. I think maybe when I brought that beauty pageant girl out for a date I might have upset my fans. I think that they didn't buy it they felt jealous. You know, because they realized I was kind of taken, because my god I just loved that girl and her hot brother family. Who knows.

Then there was the weight gain. Can I help it if I've filled out a bit? God knows I don't like it anymore than the fans. Being away from home was tough. Trust me, it's much easier getting a fine piece of beef cake ass dates when you have a slender, boyish face. You know that's the only reason I've been doing those internet chats ya'll have probably heard about. I'm not looking for sex. I just want a friend. A really good friend, just makes sense that it would be a man, you know, because he could understand what I am going through in a way a woman couldn't ever satisfy me.

And the Kelly Ripa thing? Well dang, girlfriend needs to relax. I have some of the cleanest hands on tour. I carry Purell and anti-microbial freesia scented soap wherever I go. Have you seen my hands? They're a heck of a lot cleaner than Miss Thing Thing's.

Anyway, I just hope that I can find my way back to serenades and one-night stands touring and concerts. All I really want to do is sing. Sing and dance, and yes, maybe love too.


This flaming Tiger Beat post was guest authored by Amanda from The Wink. You’ll find Mrs. Chicky over at The Wink edifying the masses with a riveting post on one person achieving the American Dream.

Thanks to Kristen for arranging this Blog Exchange. Visit her site to read other posts from the February Exchange.


Anonymous said...

he...i'm proud to NOT be a claymate :)

Mayberry said...

Oh Clay...come on out and embrace the real you, why doncha?

Amie Adams said...

Poor, poor Clay. One day you're helping the kids and then're cat fighting with the "cutest" woman on TV. A boy just needs to go home.

Ruth Dynamite said...

You know, I was reading this and thinking, "Mrs. Chicky has a problem with Clay Aiken?"

Very amusing, Amanda. I feel for poor Clay, but maybe he asked for it with the title "Measure of a Man."

soccer mom in denial said...

I'm old at 38. I had no idea it was Clay. Thanks for the education.

Domestic Slackstress said...

Shizznit, that made me feel like aged cheese too. I hardly could catch on until I read the comments.

Her Bad Mother said...

forgot this fyi for Mrs. Chicky... nominated you for happiest blog over at the share the love awards...

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