I know he’s an inflexible, high-functioning diva.
I know he’s a giant pain in the ass.
I know he’s also a classic eccentric, reclusive genius who’s bent at some strange angles along the lines of all the other Eccentric, Reclusive, Bent Geniuses whose music I have either worshipped or killed myself learning. (Wagner, Berlioz, Chopin, Beethoven — you don’t know the archetype until you’ve dealt with those jokers.)
And I know that I could probably spend about six minutes in close proximity to him before I’d want to strangle him out of frustration.
However, the parts of my brain that I share with a baboon — the parts I refer to as Ooga the Cavewoman — don’t care about any of that. Those parts see pictures like this:
… and all they can think is JUICY BOY OOGA WANT.
Ooga is rarely sensible. Thankfully, she doesn’t make many decisions that aren’t related to ice cream, wine, and chocolate pie — and those infrequently.
It’s all very sad.