Gray saunters onto the stage, sporting a swag he has not used in years and years.
Disco died a slow death in his wake when he retired from the clubs. But then, such is the price of fame. With the new digital cameras, singularly held in one hand while the other balances on the fence, the rag mags are still after him. No casual poses to be discovered, though. Just snaps through the kitchen window of him in his boxers and T-shirt, swigging a beer or two on Tuesday.
At last, at center stage, Gray scrapes his wooden box upright and tries to mount it. Finally, after a few failed attempts, he manages to stand up, swaying a bit off balance in the process, only to forget why he was on his soap box again.