WE GRIMACE, THEREFORE WE ARE
Like the countless cruel-belching flotskies who sit in the countless unferned and uncedared bars of this one-horse universe grimacing into mirrors, not so much at themselves, reflected in those mirrors, but rather at the idea of those mirrors, and even then only because no more palpable object for their grimacing can be found, and even if it could, well, fuck it; like-them, the Rolling Stones make it extremely difficult to perceive their—I borrow here from Dear Meg—nice sides.
WE GRIMACE, THEREFORE WE ARE
RECORDS
THE ROLLING STONES
Tattoo You
(Rolling Stones Records)
by
Nick Tosches
Like the countless cruel-belching flotskies who sit in the countless unferned and uncedared bars of this one-horse universe grimacing into mirrors, not so much at themselves, reflected in those mirrors, but rather at the idea of those mirrors, and even then only because no more palpable object for their grimacing can be found, and even if it could, well, fuck it; like-them, the Rolling Stones make it extremely difficult to perceive their—I borrow here from Dear Meg—nice sides. But unlike those barroom flotskies, the Stones have parlayed their collective mean streak into a fame and fortune beyond the most fantastic dreams of Croesus and Kramden combined.
Such wealth affords one unimagined leisure for grimacing. One ventures, so to speak, beyond the mirror, allowing the nasty side to bloom, to grow. As the Stones wealth has grown, as their fame has come to flirt with immortality (a state achieved when ones name is recognizable to nine out of ten contestants on The Krypton Factor), their mean streak has widened to prodigious dimension.