imperialme
God, I love me
Do what I tell you and don't ask questions
Really, Matt?
"Springsteen used to write about people he knew, now he writes about people he reads about."
I can't remember the exact source of this quote but it was one of Bill Simmons' friends. I wish I could give the name since I truly believe ultimate credit is due. There is more truth in that quote then most people will ever realize. Springsteen made his bones singing songs about guys he grew up with. Working class, Jersey guys. Even with Nebraska, he was writing songs from a perspective that he understood, even if he didn't know the actual people. He still thinks he's that guy, and that's the problem. He hasn't been that guy in at least 25 years. He could still make good music in the 80's by remembering what it was like, but he's been removed from normal life for so long that he just can't do it anymore.
I bring this up for this reason. People, and I even include myself in this, lend way too much credence to what people with a mic or a camera perpetually attatched to them have to say. Dylan has influenced my life almost as much as anyone I actually know. Springsteen, Neil Young, Clint Eastwood, George Carlin, Lenny Bruce, Steinbeck, Kerouac, "The Dead Poet's Society", "Good Will Hunting", hell, even "Tombstone" have all had a fairly dramatic impact on my life and how I view things. It bugs me to some degree, but there's no point in lying about it.
However, I can say, whole-heartedly, that every bit of impact any of them have had is based on the art created and not in what they have to say in real life. With the notable exceptions of those who the one is completely based on the other (Bruce & Kerouac, mostly). I still love Pearl Jam's first few albums, but there's no way in hell I'll pay to see them live at this point. The last thing I need is to drop $50 to listen to the Vedder Monologues. I love Minor Threat and Fugazi, but if I had to hang out with Ian McKaye for any extended period of time, I'm pretty sure I'd kill one of us. Matt Damon has made a couple of my favorite movies, but even the idea of listening to him talk about politics makes me need a drink.
What prompts this whole diatribe is "The People Speak". It's a very well done History Channel special where a bunch of mostly famous people read other people's words about other people's lives. It is blatantly and unapologetically slanted to the left. It's essentially a commercial for socialism. There isn't a single opposing view in the whole thing. And I'm ok with that. It's entertainment, nobody said it has to be unbiased. But it just reminded me of all the things I hate about celebrity activisim. Vedder commiting the sin of covering Dylan, and badly. Springsteen singing a Guthrie song. Damon reading the Joad monologue from "Of Mice and Men". At least when Dylan covered Woody it made sense. He started out as a Woody clone. Plus, Dylan has always been the king of leaving it in the song. He doesn't spout off anytime someone gives him the chance like most of the rest of them do.
I'm amazed Paul David Hewson didn't find some way to muscle in on the thing, but from what I could tell, they were all American citizens. So that much was good.
Lastly, the meaning of the title of the post is this: Does Matt Damon really think he's worthy of Steinbeck? Steinbeck actually lived, purposely, what he wrote about. He traveled the country during the depression to write his books. That alone is enough for me to put him above his contemporaries. I have learned to accept that Hemmingway was actually a good writer and Fitzgerald was one of the greats, but neither of them (or any of the rest of the Lost Generation, for that matter) were on Steinbeck's level. Matt Damon is just a good actor and sometimes screenwriter. That's it. That's all.
Steinbeck lived it. Guthrie, Langston Hughes, Mohammed Ali, Malcom X, Caesar Chavez, Susan B. Anthony, John Brown and everybody else that got quoted in this thing actually lived it. I'll listen to them. But if Damon or Strathairn or Vedder or any of them think that they belong in the same sentence, then they're kidding themselves.
I Absolutely Hate Being Petty, But......
OK, so we've established that even with pre-existing material to make fun of, I still can't make myself keep any kind of regualr schedule with this thing, so I give up. I'm not even going to pretend anymore. If you want to check in every now and then, you may actually be surprised to find a new post or two, but I wouldn't bet on it. I'd say I'm probably good for one every couple of months or so. Because, after all, I am a lazy son of a bitch. Anyway, that being said, I need to rant for a minute.
I like to think that I'm better than the vast majority of you. Truly, and for many reasons. And if you know me at all, you've undoubtedly heard at least a half dozen or so. Say what you will about it; at least I'm honest. But what it really comes down to the most is pettiness. I hate pettiness. I try, very hard, not to be petty. I hold a clinic in self-loathing every time I find myself being petty.
Like now, for instance.
I hate myself for being hugely irritated that my daughter calls my son's "father" Da-Da. I get that it's his name to my son. I accept that. And I understand why she calls him by that name. But I can not begin to explain why and in how many different ways it makes me want to choke somebody every time I hear it. My son calls me Nate because it's what he's known me as since he was four, and so when she says it, I hate it, but I understand. I simply explain to her that, to her, I'm Daddy. It hasn't happened in a while, and I'm very happy for that. But to hear my little girl call that piece of shit "Da-Da" makes me want to put him through a wall all over again. Every time.
I make myself be civil to this guy when I see him. I honestly, in the past, have even tried to see the situation from his point of view (something that is as normal to me as, say, eating glass). But ever since he didn't so much as speak to my son for three months (including Christmas for fuck's sake), I have done everything but wish death on his worthless ass. And my daughter calls this fuck "Da-Da".
I understand that, in the long run, it means nothing. And that's why it bothers me that it bugs me like it does. But I can't help it. I wasn't the perfect husband, and I'm not the perfect father. But there is nothing in this universe more important to me than my kids. It's at the root of why I got divorced in the first place. So I simply can't fathom how this piece of shit can treat my son like a hobby. Like I treat this stupid fucking blog. I don't get it. I never will.
And so, I can't stand hearing my daughter call this motherfucker "Da-Da". And I hate that it bugs me in such a profound way. It really just makes me want to stomp on his head even more than I already did. So I sit here and admit to all of you (luckily, nobody reads this, so I don't have a whole lot to worry about) that I hate myself for wanting to stomp this motherfucker out for something as simple and ultimately meaningless as what my 3 year old daughter calls him. But that doesn't change the reality that I hate it, and him, on a level that I can't even properly explain.
And to think, I used to consider myself a writer.
I like to think that I'm better than the vast majority of you. Truly, and for many reasons. And if you know me at all, you've undoubtedly heard at least a half dozen or so. Say what you will about it; at least I'm honest. But what it really comes down to the most is pettiness. I hate pettiness. I try, very hard, not to be petty. I hold a clinic in self-loathing every time I find myself being petty.
Like now, for instance.
I hate myself for being hugely irritated that my daughter calls my son's "father" Da-Da. I get that it's his name to my son. I accept that. And I understand why she calls him by that name. But I can not begin to explain why and in how many different ways it makes me want to choke somebody every time I hear it. My son calls me Nate because it's what he's known me as since he was four, and so when she says it, I hate it, but I understand. I simply explain to her that, to her, I'm Daddy. It hasn't happened in a while, and I'm very happy for that. But to hear my little girl call that piece of shit "Da-Da" makes me want to put him through a wall all over again. Every time.
I make myself be civil to this guy when I see him. I honestly, in the past, have even tried to see the situation from his point of view (something that is as normal to me as, say, eating glass). But ever since he didn't so much as speak to my son for three months (including Christmas for fuck's sake), I have done everything but wish death on his worthless ass. And my daughter calls this fuck "Da-Da".
I understand that, in the long run, it means nothing. And that's why it bothers me that it bugs me like it does. But I can't help it. I wasn't the perfect husband, and I'm not the perfect father. But there is nothing in this universe more important to me than my kids. It's at the root of why I got divorced in the first place. So I simply can't fathom how this piece of shit can treat my son like a hobby. Like I treat this stupid fucking blog. I don't get it. I never will.
And so, I can't stand hearing my daughter call this motherfucker "Da-Da". And I hate that it bugs me in such a profound way. It really just makes me want to stomp on his head even more than I already did. So I sit here and admit to all of you (luckily, nobody reads this, so I don't have a whole lot to worry about) that I hate myself for wanting to stomp this motherfucker out for something as simple and ultimately meaningless as what my 3 year old daughter calls him. But that doesn't change the reality that I hate it, and him, on a level that I can't even properly explain.
And to think, I used to consider myself a writer.
Laziness as an Art Form
Ya know, truth be told, after I realized that being a lawyer isn't all about arguing and making people cry on the stand (not to mention a whole lot more class time), I never really knew what I wanted to be when I grew up - for that matter, I'm almost 35 and I still don't. The only thing I did know is that I didn't want to go 100 grand or so in debt trying to find out. I had absolutely no intention of going to college after about the 7th grade. The rest of my scholastic "career" spoke directly to that decision. I repeated 8th grade (although, the school that held me back refused to take me back. That always makes me chuckle). In my junior year they changed the system to reduce the impact of exams on the final grade, thus destroying my "show up every couple of weeks, do nothing, ace the exams and end up with a D" strategy that had gotten me through high school to that point. I was going to fail 11th grade anyway when we all agreed that me parting ways with the Prince William County School System was really in the best interest of everyone involved. Except my parents. But, hey, I was 18 so they didn't really have a say in the matter. Walking out of school that last time, cigarette in hand, is still one of my favorite memories. Getting a 1380 on the SAT with a raging hangover a couple of months later (and mailing the results to my old principal) is on the list, too. Basically, for me, high school existed simply to annoy me. It's really just there to get you to college, and since I wasn't planning on going to college, it held absolutely no importance for me.
So I spent the majority of the next decade tossing sautee pans & liquor bottles and trying to convince myself that I was a writer. But the more I think about it, the more I think that I never really wanted to be a writer any more than I ever really wanted to be anything else. The idea of it just appealed to me. No set hours, you can do it from anywhere and if you're good enough, at some point people will convince themselves that you were some kind of god even if you just filled pages with broken sentence fragments and stilted dialogue while you drank yourself into a coma (Hi Ernie!). "Hell," I thought, "now there's a job I can get down with". Sadly, the complete lack of an attention span doomed that idea before it was even truly formed.
Anyway, today's assault on your brainpan is my attempt to explain my inherent sloth and apathy to the piece of paper I wrote it on. It even has a title!
When I was Young
I wanted to be a writer but I didn't have the words
I wanted to be a poet but I didn't have the soul
I wanted to be a rockstar but I didn't have the magic
I wanted to run forever but there's nowhere left to go
I wanted to be a lover but I didn't have the time
I wanted to be a fighter but I didn't have the balls
I wanted to be a genius but I didn't have the vision
I wanted to be a martyr but I couldn't find a cause
I wanted to be a hero but I never really cared
I wanted to be a leader but I couldn't play the part
I wanted to be alone but I couldn't lose the voices
I wanted to a savior but I didn't have the heart
Now, I know what you're thinking. "But, Nate," you say, "you obviously wanted to be so many things. It even says so in those twelve ridiculous lines." and I understand your confusion. Here's the explanation. I'm lazy. Sure, I've "wanted" to be many things in my life, but I've never wanted to be anything enough that I was actually willing to do something about it. It's just so much easier to lament my shortcomings in small word groupings that normally didn't even span a second page. Hell, as I've made plainly aware, I can't even maintain a proper blog. I work like a sherpa when there's a paycheck involved but thast work ethic has never carried over into the rest of life. I'm like an Ox in a way. Hook me up to the plow, and I'll work all day, but in my downtime I can be perfectly happy wandering around my pen, grazing and fucking. Although, I must admit, I can even be too lazy to bother with those two.
Go in peace.
So I spent the majority of the next decade tossing sautee pans & liquor bottles and trying to convince myself that I was a writer. But the more I think about it, the more I think that I never really wanted to be a writer any more than I ever really wanted to be anything else. The idea of it just appealed to me. No set hours, you can do it from anywhere and if you're good enough, at some point people will convince themselves that you were some kind of god even if you just filled pages with broken sentence fragments and stilted dialogue while you drank yourself into a coma (Hi Ernie!). "Hell," I thought, "now there's a job I can get down with". Sadly, the complete lack of an attention span doomed that idea before it was even truly formed.
Anyway, today's assault on your brainpan is my attempt to explain my inherent sloth and apathy to the piece of paper I wrote it on. It even has a title!
When I was Young
I wanted to be a writer but I didn't have the words
I wanted to be a poet but I didn't have the soul
I wanted to be a rockstar but I didn't have the magic
I wanted to run forever but there's nowhere left to go
I wanted to be a lover but I didn't have the time
I wanted to be a fighter but I didn't have the balls
I wanted to be a genius but I didn't have the vision
I wanted to be a martyr but I couldn't find a cause
I wanted to be a hero but I never really cared
I wanted to be a leader but I couldn't play the part
I wanted to be alone but I couldn't lose the voices
I wanted to a savior but I didn't have the heart
Now, I know what you're thinking. "But, Nate," you say, "you obviously wanted to be so many things. It even says so in those twelve ridiculous lines." and I understand your confusion. Here's the explanation. I'm lazy. Sure, I've "wanted" to be many things in my life, but I've never wanted to be anything enough that I was actually willing to do something about it. It's just so much easier to lament my shortcomings in small word groupings that normally didn't even span a second page. Hell, as I've made plainly aware, I can't even maintain a proper blog. I work like a sherpa when there's a paycheck involved but thast work ethic has never carried over into the rest of life. I'm like an Ox in a way. Hook me up to the plow, and I'll work all day, but in my downtime I can be perfectly happy wandering around my pen, grazing and fucking. Although, I must admit, I can even be too lazy to bother with those two.
Go in peace.
Cuz who doesn't want to be a Rockstar?
My son has a toy guitar that he's had for years and one day my 2 year old daughter handed it to me and picked up a little plastic hockey stick. She pointed at me and said "Agh!" so I started strumming. She leaned into the hockey stick in a full on Vedder pose and started howling. I couldn't believe that she was actually doing it, so I stopped strumming and she pointed at me again and yelled louder. I started again and she started signing again. It is one of my all time favorite moments to date. So now I have two guitars that I have to try and learn how to play. I mean, if she wants to be a Rockstar, Daddy's gonna do everything he can to help.
I've always said that Rockstar is the best job in the world (the top five rounds out at #2 - Cult Leader, #3 - NFL player, #4 - Actor and #5 - Dictator of a small Carribean island country). After all, name another profession where all of your natural, self-destructive tendencies are not only over-looked, but actively encouraged. Slap a groupie with a shark & trash a hotel room and people will think you're the greatest band ever, even if the only thing you have going for you is a world class guitarist and an obscenely long song about absolutely nothing.
Now, of course, I don't want my daughter to be that kind of Rockstar (I'm thinking Tori Amos without the obvious daddy issues), but I always wanted to be. As I got older and realized that the whole literary icon thing probably wasn't going to happen and my best friend (like every other brother, apparently) kept thinking he was gonna drop an album at some point in his 20's and liked to try and rope me into it, I started thinking about songs. Not that I have any kind of inate musical ability (or, as I'm sure you're coming to realize, any kind of creative spark at all that doesn't involve avoiding jail time), but hey, I can make shit rhyme as well as half the song writers populating the pop charts, so I thought "what the hell". Here, as far as I can remember, is the first song that I ever penned. I leave the music up to you.
I am the Outcast
The Loser
The Freak
Not like you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
You look down on me
You look over me
You try not to look at me
As you insult me
Because I'm not like you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
So I have a mind
So I have a soul
I never sold mine
To fit a role
What you see is me
I choose to be the freak
I never liked your rules
Or your games
Or you dramas
Or your fames
I'm not like you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
But know this
I am stonger than you
I am smarter than you
Simply for the choice
Not to be you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
Nothing like classic teenage angst coming from a 24 year old. And to be completely honest, I was never really an outcast. My jackass friends wouldn't let me be. They kept dragging me out to parties I didn't want to go to so I could hang out with people I didn't want to talk to. And a good number of the people I hated in the few hours I bothered to spend in high school, I ended up hanging out with in my vagabond restaurant years. I was a hell of a lot more judgemental than any of the "cool kids". It's hard to have a raging superiority complex and feel shunned at the same time. Oh, and I'm pretty sure this was a blatant Korn ripoff, but to slightly misquote TS Eliot "immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." So there ya go.
I've always said that Rockstar is the best job in the world (the top five rounds out at #2 - Cult Leader, #3 - NFL player, #4 - Actor and #5 - Dictator of a small Carribean island country). After all, name another profession where all of your natural, self-destructive tendencies are not only over-looked, but actively encouraged. Slap a groupie with a shark & trash a hotel room and people will think you're the greatest band ever, even if the only thing you have going for you is a world class guitarist and an obscenely long song about absolutely nothing.
Now, of course, I don't want my daughter to be that kind of Rockstar (I'm thinking Tori Amos without the obvious daddy issues), but I always wanted to be. As I got older and realized that the whole literary icon thing probably wasn't going to happen and my best friend (like every other brother, apparently) kept thinking he was gonna drop an album at some point in his 20's and liked to try and rope me into it, I started thinking about songs. Not that I have any kind of inate musical ability (or, as I'm sure you're coming to realize, any kind of creative spark at all that doesn't involve avoiding jail time), but hey, I can make shit rhyme as well as half the song writers populating the pop charts, so I thought "what the hell". Here, as far as I can remember, is the first song that I ever penned. I leave the music up to you.
I am the Outcast
The Loser
The Freak
Not like you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
You look down on me
You look over me
You try not to look at me
As you insult me
Because I'm not like you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
So I have a mind
So I have a soul
I never sold mine
To fit a role
What you see is me
I choose to be the freak
I never liked your rules
Or your games
Or you dramas
Or your fames
I'm not like you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
But know this
I am stonger than you
I am smarter than you
Simply for the choice
Not to be you
All of you
Your conformity would crush me
Nothing like classic teenage angst coming from a 24 year old. And to be completely honest, I was never really an outcast. My jackass friends wouldn't let me be. They kept dragging me out to parties I didn't want to go to so I could hang out with people I didn't want to talk to. And a good number of the people I hated in the few hours I bothered to spend in high school, I ended up hanging out with in my vagabond restaurant years. I was a hell of a lot more judgemental than any of the "cool kids". It's hard to have a raging superiority complex and feel shunned at the same time. Oh, and I'm pretty sure this was a blatant Korn ripoff, but to slightly misquote TS Eliot "immature poets imitate; mature poets steal." So there ya go.
Booze: The Would-be Literary Lion's Best Friend
In the wise, wise words of the immortal Mr. Bojangles, "I drinks a bit". In fact, there are good solid chunks of my 20's that live on in the fog banks of my memory. Scotch has long been my best friend in the world of spirits, but due to many reasons (mostly cost related) I have always spent the majority of my time with beer. I'm a fan. Beer, Scotch and Vodka were constant companions throughout my restaurant years.
I bring this up for really only one reason. It could help explain the next jumble of words I'm about to subject you to. Although, I must admit that it is a personal favorite. I even remember writing it, drunk, when the evening it chronicles finally ended. Grab a drink and enjoy.
The Dimestore Wisdom pours from my mouth
As the liquor pours from the bottle,
And I'm exactly where I like to be.
Wrapped up inside the Golden Buzz.
Still mostly aware
But at the same time, oblivious.
Just kind of drifting.
I'm drunk and amusing myself
(And everybody else, for that matter)
With tales of my escapades
And one-up games with the rest of the reformed fuckups.
And we're killing the time
And our minds
And it all seems a little surreal.
But I'm happy for a change
And who cares if I look like an idiot?
I'm not here for them anyway.
And they're definitely not here for me
It's just that nobody likes to drink alone,
It takes all the fun out of it.
"Another round!" we cry
As we delve into the history of time
And the meaning of life
(Not to mention who we'll end up with
When the lights come on)
And here I am again,
Searching for the profound.
I tend to get philosophical when I drink.
The answers may not be at the bottom of the bottle
But for me, at least
The questions sure as hell are.
But no time for that now!
There's a beer to be drunk
And a shot to be shot
And a very cute waitress to deliver it all.
"A whole hour til last call?"
So what if I have to work in the morning?
I'm talking Kerouac dammit!
And this blonde on the right might my next ex.
No, Tequila is not my friend
But I've been through Hell and back with Vodka
And we still talk.
Suddenly the place gets bright.
Time to go already?
What the hell, I've got Scotch at the house
And no sleep is better than a little.
Fundemental truth of life.
So the higher level drunks retire to my aboad
To continue the revelry
(And the blonde comes too).
And so we finish the evening right;
Blissfully, catatonically drunk as the sun comes up.
Work in two hours?
But I've still got beer
And half a bottle of single malt.
Fuck it, I've done it before.
One by one the drunks abandon me
For their homes or my floor
And I'm alone and drunk
And still amusing myself.
Screw work.
(Editor's note: This "poem" brought to you by the words And & So)
And that, Gentle Reader, is a pretty good summary of my early 20's. My liver thanks you for your support.
I bring this up for really only one reason. It could help explain the next jumble of words I'm about to subject you to. Although, I must admit that it is a personal favorite. I even remember writing it, drunk, when the evening it chronicles finally ended. Grab a drink and enjoy.
The Dimestore Wisdom pours from my mouth
As the liquor pours from the bottle,
And I'm exactly where I like to be.
Wrapped up inside the Golden Buzz.
Still mostly aware
But at the same time, oblivious.
Just kind of drifting.
I'm drunk and amusing myself
(And everybody else, for that matter)
With tales of my escapades
And one-up games with the rest of the reformed fuckups.
And we're killing the time
And our minds
And it all seems a little surreal.
But I'm happy for a change
And who cares if I look like an idiot?
I'm not here for them anyway.
And they're definitely not here for me
It's just that nobody likes to drink alone,
It takes all the fun out of it.
"Another round!" we cry
As we delve into the history of time
And the meaning of life
(Not to mention who we'll end up with
When the lights come on)
And here I am again,
Searching for the profound.
I tend to get philosophical when I drink.
The answers may not be at the bottom of the bottle
But for me, at least
The questions sure as hell are.
But no time for that now!
There's a beer to be drunk
And a shot to be shot
And a very cute waitress to deliver it all.
"A whole hour til last call?"
So what if I have to work in the morning?
I'm talking Kerouac dammit!
And this blonde on the right might my next ex.
No, Tequila is not my friend
But I've been through Hell and back with Vodka
And we still talk.
Suddenly the place gets bright.
Time to go already?
What the hell, I've got Scotch at the house
And no sleep is better than a little.
Fundemental truth of life.
So the higher level drunks retire to my aboad
To continue the revelry
(And the blonde comes too).
And so we finish the evening right;
Blissfully, catatonically drunk as the sun comes up.
Work in two hours?
But I've still got beer
And half a bottle of single malt.
Fuck it, I've done it before.
One by one the drunks abandon me
For their homes or my floor
And I'm alone and drunk
And still amusing myself.
Screw work.
(Editor's note: This "poem" brought to you by the words And & So)
And that, Gentle Reader, is a pretty good summary of my early 20's. My liver thanks you for your support.
God Bless This Man!
Turns out, not all Brits are poncy wankers. Who knew? But it's good to know that, not only am I not alone in my completely justifiable hatred of Paul David Hewson, but it also seems that a large portion of the land across the pond (and at least one lovable Aussie) share my bile for the loathesome mick. My only fear is that The Bono Army may have pulled some sort of black op on the author since the most recent post is almost a year old. That's almost as frightening as the "fan fiction" itself.
A Portait of the "Artist" as a Young Man, Part Deux....
I suppose there's something to be said for introspection. It can be a good thing to take an honest look at yourself, sometimes. However, when you make a career out of it, it can get to be a little monotonous. Plus, you risk the possibility of becoming obnoxiously self-obsessed. Or of just simply tuning yourself out. Being that I've pretty much always been kind of legendarily narcissistic, self-obsession is just part of the package, but when you can't even hold a decent conversation with yourself, well, you've probably hit some kind of existential wall. Or something. I don't really know.
The point is, I spent a huge amount of my youth locked inside my own head. After all, I was supposed to be a god. I just couldn't figure out how to do it, and that bothered me. Anyway, I'm just warning you (all two of you) that while I torture you with my decade or so old ramblings, you will notice a theme. And it will almost surely annoy the shit out of you (hell, I wrote 'em, and it annoys the shit out of me). So, anyway, back to me at 22 (I think. Definitely 22 or 23. I do know that I was working at Red Robin at the time. Yeah, envy my life). You have been warned.
Coffee and words
And thoughts
I want to be Kerouac
Or Dylan
Or Steinbeck
But no
I'm me
Whatever the hell that is
Trying to keep my sanity
Through literary therapy
So much in my head
Wants to get out
Be heard
But I can't seem to get it right
It's never right
Just words on paper
I'm hoping for some dam to burst
And pour out profound floods
Through my pen
And I guess I'll just keep trying
And waiting
You're welcome. And feel free to bill me for the aspirin, I understand. See you soon, Gentle Reader.
The point is, I spent a huge amount of my youth locked inside my own head. After all, I was supposed to be a god. I just couldn't figure out how to do it, and that bothered me. Anyway, I'm just warning you (all two of you) that while I torture you with my decade or so old ramblings, you will notice a theme. And it will almost surely annoy the shit out of you (hell, I wrote 'em, and it annoys the shit out of me). So, anyway, back to me at 22 (I think. Definitely 22 or 23. I do know that I was working at Red Robin at the time. Yeah, envy my life). You have been warned.
Coffee and words
And thoughts
I want to be Kerouac
Or Dylan
Or Steinbeck
But no
I'm me
Whatever the hell that is
Trying to keep my sanity
Through literary therapy
So much in my head
Wants to get out
Be heard
But I can't seem to get it right
It's never right
Just words on paper
I'm hoping for some dam to burst
And pour out profound floods
Through my pen
And I guess I'll just keep trying
And waiting
You're welcome. And feel free to bill me for the aspirin, I understand. See you soon, Gentle Reader.
You can blame my ex-wife
Years and years and years ago, I was convinced that I was going to be the next literary giant. A god. Hemmingway, Kerouac, Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Eliot. I would be mentioned in the same breath as these men. I would be taught in schools hundreds of years after my death. I would, of course, be unappreciated in my time, but lauded post-mortem. This was simply what I was born for.
Yeah, then I grew up. It's amazing how profound a 17 to 25ish-or-so year old can kid himself into thinking that anything he has to say hasn't already been said, better, hundreds of times before. My first glimpse of the reality of my unoriginality came while watching Carlin on HBO roughly a decade ago when my girlfriend at the time said something to the effect of "Holy shit, he's your real father, isn't he?". It really was like I was on stage. He was saying all of the shit I had said for years. And I never once bothered with Carlin before that night.
That's when it first really occurred to me that nothing I have ever thought, said or felt, hasn't already been thought said or felt by god knows how many people. That's a crushing moment by the way. After all, I was convinced that I was supposed to be a god. I was clearly different than everybody else. I had insight dammit! Ah, youth. God bless it. Anyway, in the decade or so since my painful realization, I have come to discover that I'm really just your average hateful angry bastard. Nothing special. Just me.
But, my ex-wife recently found a bunch of my old "poems" and thought that I might want to keep them for my daughter when she grows up and wants to know what daddy was like when he was young. I like to think that I haven't really changed much in the last 20 or so years, but looking at this stuff makes me realize just how much different I am in my 30's. It's actually kind of painful.
So, in the interest of catharsis (and the fact that I'm obviously too lazy to keep up with this thing through any kind of regular circumstance) I have decided to dedicate this spot of the interwebz to my 17 to 25ish-or-so year old self's sometimes incoherent ramblings. Cause, after all, the world deserves to hear (read) my oh so important words.
We start with one of my all-time favorites. There's nothing quite like a 22 year old under-achiever questioning his place in life. God help you all.
Am I really what I appear to be?
Am I really this self-destructive, Gen-X posterboy
I make myself out to be?
Is there depth beneath the surface?
Or is that all there is to me?
Am I fooling myself by thinking
I go beyond what I show?
Is the act really the truth?
Is there something behind
The image?
Or am I just another wasted mind
On a tired planet? (Editor's note: Holy fucking cliche Batman! Wow. Just, wow)
Is the real reason I fight society
Because I know I'd fit in all too easily?
Or do I fight just to fight?
Am I really giving secret handshakes
The whole time I'm looking
Down my nose at humanity?
Am I really that much better than
The rest of them
Or do I just tell myself that
To keep my sanity?
Is the image real
Or just a reflection of my surroundings?
Should I honestly believe
That I posess some special insight
Into the rest of the world?
Do I honestly believe it?
Do these words I write really mean anything
In the end
Or am I just indulging myself?
If I stick to my guns
And keep fighting
Am I really going to be any better off
When it's all done?
If I saw god
Would I believe it's him?
Yeah, that's right. Soak it in. I was so, like, deep and stuff. But have no fear, I have many, many more for you. And it just gets better. Til next time kiddies.
Yeah, then I grew up. It's amazing how profound a 17 to 25ish-or-so year old can kid himself into thinking that anything he has to say hasn't already been said, better, hundreds of times before. My first glimpse of the reality of my unoriginality came while watching Carlin on HBO roughly a decade ago when my girlfriend at the time said something to the effect of "Holy shit, he's your real father, isn't he?". It really was like I was on stage. He was saying all of the shit I had said for years. And I never once bothered with Carlin before that night.
That's when it first really occurred to me that nothing I have ever thought, said or felt, hasn't already been thought said or felt by god knows how many people. That's a crushing moment by the way. After all, I was convinced that I was supposed to be a god. I was clearly different than everybody else. I had insight dammit! Ah, youth. God bless it. Anyway, in the decade or so since my painful realization, I have come to discover that I'm really just your average hateful angry bastard. Nothing special. Just me.
But, my ex-wife recently found a bunch of my old "poems" and thought that I might want to keep them for my daughter when she grows up and wants to know what daddy was like when he was young. I like to think that I haven't really changed much in the last 20 or so years, but looking at this stuff makes me realize just how much different I am in my 30's. It's actually kind of painful.
So, in the interest of catharsis (and the fact that I'm obviously too lazy to keep up with this thing through any kind of regular circumstance) I have decided to dedicate this spot of the interwebz to my 17 to 25ish-or-so year old self's sometimes incoherent ramblings. Cause, after all, the world deserves to hear (read) my oh so important words.
We start with one of my all-time favorites. There's nothing quite like a 22 year old under-achiever questioning his place in life. God help you all.
Am I really what I appear to be?
Am I really this self-destructive, Gen-X posterboy
I make myself out to be?
Is there depth beneath the surface?
Or is that all there is to me?
Am I fooling myself by thinking
I go beyond what I show?
Is the act really the truth?
Is there something behind
The image?
Or am I just another wasted mind
On a tired planet? (Editor's note: Holy fucking cliche Batman! Wow. Just, wow)
Is the real reason I fight society
Because I know I'd fit in all too easily?
Or do I fight just to fight?
Am I really giving secret handshakes
The whole time I'm looking
Down my nose at humanity?
Am I really that much better than
The rest of them
Or do I just tell myself that
To keep my sanity?
Is the image real
Or just a reflection of my surroundings?
Should I honestly believe
That I posess some special insight
Into the rest of the world?
Do I honestly believe it?
Do these words I write really mean anything
In the end
Or am I just indulging myself?
If I stick to my guns
And keep fighting
Am I really going to be any better off
When it's all done?
If I saw god
Would I believe it's him?
Yeah, that's right. Soak it in. I was so, like, deep and stuff. But have no fear, I have many, many more for you. And it just gets better. Til next time kiddies.
Fuck Vick
That is all.
Even lazy bastards have to chime in occasionally
I'm still here, I just don't really have anything to say. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, I offer you this little diversion:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuMWXhT5ewg
Enjoy. All two of you.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuMWXhT5ewg
Enjoy. All two of you.