From the dreams to the trees to the cracks in the pavement...
Scattershot to start the shooting match:
Man, I can't get enough of Astronautalis (www.modelcitizens.org). I wonder if he'll say the same of my stuff, someday. Here's to hoping... Detroit 87, Lakers 75; even as a Magic-era Lake Show fan, it makes me happy to see that. Detroit, people. Kid Rock. Eminem. Dennis Rodman when he still looked human, but played like a machine. Alice Cooper before VH1 got ahold of him. Joe Dumars and the quiet competence that built this team and fueled the only non-Boston threat to Laker supremacy after Larry Bird got old. The White Stripes. Magic Johnson. Mitch Ryder, who warned me about that devil with a blue dress on (I should have listened, Mitch; my bad). James Jamerson and the Funk Brothers, without whom AM radio would be a perpetual stream of Perry Como or news radio. Detroit ain't a bad alternative to my beloved Nets, given that pedigree. Go Detroit. Teach them why the East is still in business, especially if it means making Shaq and Kobe cry... Coulrophobia is just a cool word. I have to find a way to use it more often, especially since this IS an election year... Good thoughts go out to my longtime sparring partner/hetero lifemate Mat, as his wife is due to deliver their first baby (a girl, no less...oh, Mathew, you poor devil...) even as you read this. L'chaim, kids... Ok, time to start focusing. I promised a sequel to the other night's rant, and I can only improve on the hastily-dropped science of the other day.
Signs and portents.
I've finally got the handle. I am at a crossroads, and while it's nice to think I have options, I really don't. Nobody who lives by a set of rules, or even a personally-crafted libertine code of conduct (I swear to God, Mike, I'll leave you out of this one as much as possible!) has as many options as they think. We are, to paraphrase Anthony Robbins, locked into the patterns we make, and until we take control of those patterns, we will always be within spitting distance of our dreams and goals, but never any closer. I know how touchy-feely, Leo Buscaglia-esque that sounds, but it's true. In addition, most of the sages who'll trod your nightstand for the low, low price of $24.95 (and up) want you to know that you have to enact change, not just react to it. Amazing. If I'd thought to compile these platitudes into a veritable phone book full of bumperstickers, I could be worth millions. That would make my dream of a big house in the hills, chock full of showgirls and vintage guitars (and no, those showgirls will never be allowed to touch the guitars; I learned my lesson when the ex-wife had Mat's sister model for her, using my beloved American-made Fender Jazz Bass...I was wiping the sweat/perfume smell off that thing for a week), a reality. As such, I have finally found my dream. I will become a self-help guru, that most popular of guests on any talk show, those uncostumed superheros who offer less contact with reality than a Superman comic, the unanointed popes of the First Church of Insecurity. Everywhere I've been has led me to this place, and I think of it less as a staggering pile of hubristic nonsense, and more as gleaming spire of folkish truisms just waiting to burst forth from the pathetic mesa of trite self-promotion.
Now, some of you may recoil somewhat from that spire, and I certainly don't blame you for your reluctance to believe in my lofty goal. How can I, a self-avowed indecisive failure, become such a staggering media personality? Can I cut it as a talking head (thank you, Marshall McLuhan, for that tag and so many others)? I know I can. You see, I was born to be famous. I was groomed for the notion of reality television before the first Real World ever aired. I was breaking the fourth wall before anyone ever put a camera on me, so I stand poised for personal greatness. They said I was mad, said I was a fool...and now they're all balding misanthropes, feeding at the very bottom of the bar scene, waiting for their chance for personal glory. I have that chance, and a full head of hair, to boot. (which is not to suggest you boot me in the head. Go back, reread it, and examine it as a turn of phrase. I repeat: do NOT boot me in the head. Violence upon the August Personage will not be countenanced.)
I have control of the patterns. I am ready to take control of my own life and many others, especially given the net worth of these self-appointed messiahs.
I can do this. Admit it: you can feel it, too. Now, all I need is a few investors to back my dream. That, and some practice showgirls.
Scattershot to start the shooting match:
Man, I can't get enough of Astronautalis (www.modelcitizens.org). I wonder if he'll say the same of my stuff, someday. Here's to hoping... Detroit 87, Lakers 75; even as a Magic-era Lake Show fan, it makes me happy to see that. Detroit, people. Kid Rock. Eminem. Dennis Rodman when he still looked human, but played like a machine. Alice Cooper before VH1 got ahold of him. Joe Dumars and the quiet competence that built this team and fueled the only non-Boston threat to Laker supremacy after Larry Bird got old. The White Stripes. Magic Johnson. Mitch Ryder, who warned me about that devil with a blue dress on (I should have listened, Mitch; my bad). James Jamerson and the Funk Brothers, without whom AM radio would be a perpetual stream of Perry Como or news radio. Detroit ain't a bad alternative to my beloved Nets, given that pedigree. Go Detroit. Teach them why the East is still in business, especially if it means making Shaq and Kobe cry... Coulrophobia is just a cool word. I have to find a way to use it more often, especially since this IS an election year... Good thoughts go out to my longtime sparring partner/hetero lifemate Mat, as his wife is due to deliver their first baby (a girl, no less...oh, Mathew, you poor devil...) even as you read this. L'chaim, kids... Ok, time to start focusing. I promised a sequel to the other night's rant, and I can only improve on the hastily-dropped science of the other day.
Signs and portents.
I've finally got the handle. I am at a crossroads, and while it's nice to think I have options, I really don't. Nobody who lives by a set of rules, or even a personally-crafted libertine code of conduct (I swear to God, Mike, I'll leave you out of this one as much as possible!) has as many options as they think. We are, to paraphrase Anthony Robbins, locked into the patterns we make, and until we take control of those patterns, we will always be within spitting distance of our dreams and goals, but never any closer. I know how touchy-feely, Leo Buscaglia-esque that sounds, but it's true. In addition, most of the sages who'll trod your nightstand for the low, low price of $24.95 (and up) want you to know that you have to enact change, not just react to it. Amazing. If I'd thought to compile these platitudes into a veritable phone book full of bumperstickers, I could be worth millions. That would make my dream of a big house in the hills, chock full of showgirls and vintage guitars (and no, those showgirls will never be allowed to touch the guitars; I learned my lesson when the ex-wife had Mat's sister model for her, using my beloved American-made Fender Jazz Bass...I was wiping the sweat/perfume smell off that thing for a week), a reality. As such, I have finally found my dream. I will become a self-help guru, that most popular of guests on any talk show, those uncostumed superheros who offer less contact with reality than a Superman comic, the unanointed popes of the First Church of Insecurity. Everywhere I've been has led me to this place, and I think of it less as a staggering pile of hubristic nonsense, and more as gleaming spire of folkish truisms just waiting to burst forth from the pathetic mesa of trite self-promotion.
Now, some of you may recoil somewhat from that spire, and I certainly don't blame you for your reluctance to believe in my lofty goal. How can I, a self-avowed indecisive failure, become such a staggering media personality? Can I cut it as a talking head (thank you, Marshall McLuhan, for that tag and so many others)? I know I can. You see, I was born to be famous. I was groomed for the notion of reality television before the first Real World ever aired. I was breaking the fourth wall before anyone ever put a camera on me, so I stand poised for personal greatness. They said I was mad, said I was a fool...and now they're all balding misanthropes, feeding at the very bottom of the bar scene, waiting for their chance for personal glory. I have that chance, and a full head of hair, to boot. (which is not to suggest you boot me in the head. Go back, reread it, and examine it as a turn of phrase. I repeat: do NOT boot me in the head. Violence upon the August Personage will not be countenanced.)
I have control of the patterns. I am ready to take control of my own life and many others, especially given the net worth of these self-appointed messiahs.
I can do this. Admit it: you can feel it, too. Now, all I need is a few investors to back my dream. That, and some practice showgirls.
posted by Thom Guthrie, Bassist and Adventurer at 2:32 PM
2 Comments:
Check, baby, check, baby 1 2 3 4...
Check baby, check baby, 1 2 3.
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