#jazzinfor

He had been hired by MTV as a VJ during one of his rare hiatuses from touring. It would afford him some much-needed extra time with his family, which he couldn’t get when constantly travelling and living from hotel to hotel. A pattern which had proven to be especially hard for Jeannie.

As part of this new job, Jareth was currently shooting a promo for MTV, a short commercial-length clip. Much like one of his own music videos, he’d gotten his wife cast in it, the video vixen for this ad, and they were now both on set preparing to film this short scene together. It was simple enough and involved him saying the tagline I Want My MTV while Jeannie would probably strike some angular, stylish poses around him. No doubt the cartoon logo for the network would be superimposed into the shot too when the promo was finally aired.

     ❝ OH, ❞ HE admonishes, a spindly hand clad in heavy silver rings clasped over his mouth,  ❝ this will simply not do. ❞

     HER MAKE UP is stunning -- she is stunning, but he’s aiming for an angle a tad more stupefying than stunning.  The flattering, delicate shadow emphasizing her dark lashes and blue irises, the dusting of pink on the high bone of her cheek; it’s all rather pretty, but this is his album artwork, and he thinks she needs a bit more magenta, like, everywhere.  And blue.  And electric yellow and neon green.  

      ❝ i-i really don’t understand l... hm, ❞ he slurs, making little to no sense. he was unbalanced and struggling to keep himself held up. his hands are shaking, and the ice cubes in his glass clank as he raises the brim to meet his lips. he had brought jeannie along with him for some tour dates; during such tours, he tended to lose himself more than usual but it was rare that he’d take it this far. suddenly, he falls to his knees, his glass rolling across the floor and its contents spilling. he had taken quaaludes that a fan had offered him after the show -- and surely, he underestimated their potency.

It had been a lonely night, lonely night upon lonely night. The gig had been fun, that was for sure, but it had been a numb kind of fun. Fatigue had set in. This escape to Germany — David had planned it as something of a sabbatical. It had done him some good, but old habits die hard. David was fast approaching the age of thirty, the age at which old dogs struggle to learn new tricks. Every second pained him. The passage of the years, stagnant and leaden as it was, felt like a fifty-kilo weight tied across his shoulders.

When David reached home, the end of a long trudge, boots chafing his tired feet, still little more than raw bone, the first thing he did was to take an excursion to his dressing table. It always looked as though, childlike, he had smashed a Christmas snowglobe onto it. He may as well have, for all the damage that he’d done. David hadn’t bought any in months, not since he left Los Angeles. Los Angeles. There were no angels there.