I'm a baby and my ideas suck – but I'll be back tomorrow

What I find utterly baffling, and at this point in my music career, I really still shouldn’t, is how fucking difficult it is to simply play or put down on record the ideas in your head. I can imagine all sorts of awesome shit, multiple melodies going everywhere, rhythmically inventive phrasing, and yet when I sit down to work the things out, what I end of conveying is a laughably botched version of what’s in my head.

The magic going on in your head ends up becoming banal and unexciting in reality. What’s worse, is the  ideas are often just okay.

I would be fine with finding out an idea itself sucked a fatty. Great, at least I know I can get rid of the thing. But if it turns out so-so? When you finally have it recorded, and basically the whole idea in its entirety ends up sounding, well, ‘alright I guess,’ what the fuck do you do? I know what I do.

I stare at the computer and slouch in my chair, depressed and disgusted, listening to the idea over and over again, hoping there is some further genius hidden in my crappy tracks.

There is hardly any further genius hidden in those crappy tracks.

However, the only responsibility I have is to keep working on this stuff. Every damn day. I’ve sacrificed a lot already to get to this point where I can comfortably spend the time to work out these ideas, and I plan on sacrificing more. Why? Because I’ll be fucking miserable if I don’t. Being miserable and working out this stuff beats being miserable and not working out this stuff. Easy. Its not really the most romantic and compelling way to frame the decision to work on the things you love, but then every true artist* needs to learn not to take the pussy route and assume you’re climb to success will entail sunshine and handjobs from beautiful girls. No. Its the kind of thing that gnaws at you, and you either relent and do your work, or you take some other route and let it fester inside.

Either way, its up to you. I know I’ll be back tomorrow.

*My definition of a ‘true artist’ is not a successful one, nor an unsuccessful one, but one who works on their craft as much as possible, almost every day. Read The War of Art by Steven Pressfield if you want to get good at this.

Oh, you're calm and composed huh? Well F&#$ YOU!!

Having begun my personal drinking career around 18, an admittedly late age, I’ve since then been one of the many casualties in the inevitable resolution of an excessive evening – the hangover.

You know how people tend to refer to things involving death when questioned about their innermost fears or intense dislikes? Yeah. Well think about this:

During the course of the shittiest hangover you’ve ever had, I GUARANTEE at some point in the following day that you’ve either thought or said aloud:

“Somebody fucking kill me. Seriously.”
And meant it. I mean, really meant it.

Death is not the worst thing ever. Death is not even close, because you’re at least, you know, dead.

It is merciful that the hours preceding the hangover are characterized by a typically boisterous and uncaring sort of demeanor. The casually dismissive attitude that damns the consequences of drinking 4 shots of bad tequila and half a bottle of scotch to catch up with you. Stupid.

What I find comically tragic about the whole experience of getting bombed into oblivion is that past a certain level of booze, you’ve reached the point of diminishing returns. And yet no MATTER HOW APPARENT THIS MAY BE, THE POSSIBILITY OF STOPPING IS LAUGHABLE AND GENERALLY MET WITH DISDAIN.

“What, stop now? I’m already beyond the point of no return. Besides, these girls aren’t going to pass out on top of themselves.”

I could take a more philosophical route and posit that people do this because they are trying to rid themselves of the Ego and find the Self, that pure and uninhibited state that all narcotics and alcohol users seek. The problem with alcohol is that at some point, as uninhibited as you might become, your motor-skills take the “fuck you” route and do not join in the crusade – and then you look like every other deserved fucking idiot – too drunk to stand, too drunk to talk, and too intellectually weak to contribute to meaningful conversation. Grunting, using uncoordinated hand motions to direct others’ actions, and spilling things on people are not considered contributing to meaningful conversation.

Things You’ve said while Drunk

“Wow, you’re really cool. We should hang out more.”

9 times out of 10, you will never see this person again.

“Oh, dude! Great idea! We should totally start a band/group/movie/porn site/company/internet company/investment blah blah/cult/.”

All of these things, and their having been mentioned, will be forgotten by morning.

“I wonder if that girl I wouldn’t have shaken a stick at 2 hours ago fucks a lot. Thank god for alcohol. I wonder if she wants to fuck now. I’m tired of jerking off.”

I’m still consistently amazed at how much you’ll end up doing something even when you’re tired of it.

Those individuals with more self-control and awareness that tend to avoid this slide into worthless – I salute you and applaud your maturity.

Sort of.

I’ll catch up to you someday. I’m almost there. I swear.