drowning in flourecent overhead lights. blocked in and locked away. unable to type WITHOUT capitalizing the first letter of the first word after every period. programs that think they know things about you that actually aren’t necessarily always true. 401k savings. saving … saving. lunch breaks. email chains and conference calls. hoards of people that shuffle in and out of local sandwhich shops between 12pm and 1pm. that shuffle in and out of bars between 5.30pm and 10pm. and believe it or not. i say this without judgement. if this is your life, and if you are completely ok with it and even happy to do it please, PLEASE don’t take offense. or do, whatever.
i say that all to say this. god bless. growing up i always saw myself as different as not fitting in. at times it was a burden and at times it was a source of pride. now it simply is what it is but i can recall many times growing up whether listening to music, or playing sports, or applying to schools, or shopping for clothes or shit, deciding how to spend an evening and being surrounded by a ‘group’ mentality to which i simply didn’t subscribe. as we grow these decisions create our identity. they make us who we are.
i was never the tree in the school play. i always, from as early as i can remember, felt a need to stand out. to be paid attention to, more so than those around me. i sucked at sports so i got into music. i always lept for a gold star in school not because i even gave a shit about good grades but more so because i wanted to be considered as special. and for a while i assumed that everybody felt the same way i did. come to find out ….
most people fear public speaking more than death. most people would go the same lengths to fit in as i would to stand out. most people want a stable job. a happy marriage. a nice house. well behaved kids. and a relaxing retirement. the end. of that sometimes i’m judgemental and sometimes i’m jealous. if only. if only it were that simple.
i say that to say this. i don’t look down at you. i envy you. i am here chasing and will be chasing attention and fame and creative innovation and a whole load of other bullshit. my gift and my curse. i am (not) ok with being average and never will be.
it takes a lot of work to make something look effortless. faced with the despicable option of preselling tickets, i decided to do my own show. i found this amazing club in the middle of nowhere/williamsburg called ‘the acheron.’ it was/is a punk/metal club that never had a hip hop show before. after confirming the date, guaranteeing the door, announcing the event, booking the act(s), finding a live band (more on that later) and rehearsing, and jumping off on an aggressive promotional campaign for the upcoming night … i decided to take a look at the space.
it was a rock club. it is a rock club. it is and was magic. the smell of it. the stained concrete floor and similarly situated walls. the 4 ft stage covered in industrial grade powder blue carpet worn to perfection. the white spray-paint stenciled skull on wings that adorned the back wall at the end of the stage. the black ceiling. the small, makeshift bar to the side where Nicole enthusiastically slung (slang?) drinks and banged J5 from a local cd/boombox.
after four total hours of practice my band was ready to rock. aya, pasquale and ignacio are some of the most talented musicians i have ever met. for the first twenty minutes of our first rehearsal we sat in the (semi) soundproof room staring at each other. i looked up at the 20 foot ceiling and tried to conjur leadership but had no idea what the fuck to tell a live band. this was all new to me. not to mention, as soon as they started playing i was hooked. they asked for suggestions, critique, preferences i said … ‘do THAT ..’ and so they did.
and so on the night of i came in at 8.40 (for 9pm doors) and met fid. he would be working the door. he, and our soundman, couldn’t have played their parts any better. they were MEANT to be here tonight, at this club, for this show. and we were all excited that there was a bar because at first look i didn’t see one. tj came all the way from boston to meet me and stace for the show. t … one of my biggest supporters in boston. in the corner of the bar, before showtime, he put his hands up playing Cus D’amato. energy. energy. energy.
all of the uneasiness. not nerves. never nervous. just very uneasy. anxious. and after shakespeare had his moment(s) on stage i got on and did my thing. in so many ways, when throwing a show, the actual performance is almost a sidenote (even IF the performance was as stellar as i feel that this particular one may have quite possibly been). all of the time leading up to it. slick fliers. my band. the club. rsvp’s and those closest to me who live near but didn’t bother going. it’s all good. i’ll catch you next time. as to everybody else .. i’ll see soon this is so just the beginning and i can’t say that rocking to an ipod is anywhere in my foreseeable future.
we are in a constant struggle between immediate and delayed gratification. we are, in every moment, in some way or another striving for happiness. though not our decision at the time, this is why we show up at kindergarten on the first day; so that we may start learning how to learn; so that we may do well in school; so that we get into college, which should hopefully guarantee a good job; which makes us money that buys us the things that lead to a great life.
‘things’ are the opiate that temporarily fill the happiness receptor in us. but just as with drugs … they too wear off, build tolerance, and are required in more abundance to do the same job the next time. whatever we have after paying for food and shelter (which in NY can equate to all your income anyway) is either saved or spent on things.
this can apply to anything really example, food: the 1st calorie that we intake above what is needed to sustain us is in essence frivolous. eating for the enjoyment of eating and not for its primary purpose of basic nourishment is, though commonly done, explicitly unnecessary. it is a luxury.
that being said, i enjoy not much more in the world than hitting the city on a beautiful day to eat, drink, and shop. it’s thrilling. and if money were of no consequence, honestly, it’s probably how i would spend most of my days.
so if these things are so enjoyable, then why the fuck in the world would i wake up at 5am to torture myself in the gym? why do i abstain from bagels and pizza and pasta covered in cheese and brownie ice cream sundaes? why do I spend most waking hours producing, promoting, and performing which can be thrilling but much of the time is tedious, disappointing, and exhausting. because, now don’t quote me here, I THINK I have found the true key to happiness …. ready? … wait for it, wait for it ….
it is the DELAY of gratification.
so if it is SO simple?! if the KEY to happiness is the delay of gratification then why aren’t we all happy all the time? waiiiiiit for it …
because we are human.
because we are subject to weakness. to ‘cheating’ on our supreme routines. to indulging in exactly what we will feel like shit for and regret tomorrow. because there is night us, and morning us. because we are fueled by emotions which motivate us to operate opposite from rationale. on second thought, maybe happiness is only possible in fleeting moments?
maybe happiness is the spring after a bad winter and so without negatives wouldn’t be able to exist?! if asked, i would say that humans were programmed to slip. and, like that questionable will smith movie, maybe we live only in the pursuit of happiness afterall.
when I’m weak I look back at you. sometimes I wonder where I would be if I made a different move or decision. committed to this or abstained from that. ultimately, you made me who I am now. I spend too much time focused on you, especially because no matter what I do you will never ever ever change. you are permanent, stubborn, and so set in your ways. fortunately my thoughts about you can. I remember when I was in the midst of so much angst and impossible (or for what seemed like) struggle and I was so blind. at so many points. if I focused hard enough I could just make out the next foot in front of me. I couldn’t see a thing. when I look at you now it’s a different picture. I can see birds eye. superhuman perspective even. so easy to see what the right answer would have been whether or not I took it … at least to get me to where I am today. when I was there I had the liberty of option limited by perspective. now, with infinite perspective that option no longer exists. it’s in stone. cement. pavement blocks. you’re cut off. you are the irate, shitfaced, office holiday party bar patron and now don’t have to go home but can no longer stay here.
most times you escape me. I love music because you are it. as I write, you are all that I know. what has happened before or will happen are of no concern or consequence. and then you’re gone. forever changing. always evolving. in my more confident moments I flaunt you. I love you for existing and I’m happy to just be. at other times I need you gone. you are the truth. so fucking brutal sometimes. at the end of pointless conversations and analysis and expectation, plans, hopes, dreams, let downs and come backs ….. you’re forever now. I work to get close to you every day. and sometimes I succeed momentarily. they say that a or even THE primary fundamental of enlightenment is grasping you fully. how? I have no idea. I used to meditate, and most likely spent that time thinking of before shit or after shit. it’s discipline to be in you but I have to say, in bad times and in good, you never have disappointed.
you will never be. I have chased you my whole life and have never caught you (maybe fortunately so). I spend most of my time thinking about you and you’re tricky because you never once have come to be as I had imagined. I’m distracted from my day thinking about you. wondering. curious and sometimes anxious. can’t wait to get to you although I know I never ultimately will. you are forever elusive. you are what I will be and never am. you are my aspirations. you are where I see myself. you are my ultimate fantasy. I have tried to forget you and let come what may but I always come back. pretending not to care. or trying too hard to force any particular outcome. ultimately I know that no matter what happens in a flash you are my now and just as quickly become what used to be.
back in the day, when I was with my first group E3, we did over 100 shows a year. easy. we played all over boston. we played in new hampshire. in vermont. in connecticut, all over western massachusetts, montreal, ohio maine … oh the things we saw. man, the people we met. we opened up for kanye west in front of 3000 people. we opened up for chingy in front of 5000 people. we signed autographs. and after all this we grossed … right around $100. i remember looking at my boys after one of these blowout shows saying “imagine if we actually got paid for this?!”
after a while, the thrill of sharing a bill with one of my rap idols was overshadowed by the time i had to take off work to do it. by the long drives, bad sleeps, and unfilled bank accounts. by the fact that we PAID, out of pocket, both monetarily and otherwise, for the pleasure of entertaining. and god damn that shit was pleasurable. but after a while it grew stale. we got tired. the grind ground us down. and like so many times in life we grew apart.
soon after, i moved to new york and got into high end real estate. 10k/month for a 2bd apartment high-end real estate. and heavens to murgatroy: i got paid. i got paaaiiiiid. i knocked out debt. i stacked orange boxes. they literally filled my small, but amenable, New York City apartment. i sat in the office during the day and ordered hundreds of dollars of rugbys. i wandered through this amazing city on my days off and just blew through cash. and then came home to more of it. and most importantly: i recorded. nightly. i produced, i wrote, and fuck, i recorded.
creatively, everybody works different. everybody. some people thrive on an empty stomach and overdue bills. some thrive on high pressure deadlines. that spring in new york city i found my magic. surrounded by brand new clothes with the tags still hanging off. consumed by the smell of brand new sneakers. comfortable with enough in the bank to splurge and still have enough left to pay bills, save, and then splurge again. i created. for those who know my shit: i did ‘brookline,’ ‘sonny,’ ‘pretty clothes,’ and ‘home’ all after (or during) successful shopping trips. i distinctively remember writing the first lines to sonny while on one of these trips, in my head … thinking “from summer shade to the winter with heat to spring time when flowers grow to fall when they leave / born in …”
at a young age i was told, both verbally and implicitly, by two starving artist parents that “you don’t need to be starving to be an artist.” i grew into a particular mentality: i would rather spend more of my time making money to build the level comfort at which point i’m inspired to PRODUCE. when i was in new york i got offers to play out of state for nothing. and when faced with missing what i could make at work for the opportunity to PAY to play for 5 people i usually passed.
some may say that doing shit like that is a necessary step. a must in the uphill battle to make it. and i don’t disagree. however everybody’s struggle is different. the longer i have done this the more i have realized that what may work for one person doesn’t necessarily work for someone else. as a matter of fact, it most likely doesn’t because nobody’s the same person. aside from bank balances and miles traveled, and maybe most importantly, is knowledge of self. or better yet, knowledge of self (worth). playing a free show for 5000 people is a rush. getting paid to play for 5 people is a job. but playing a free show for next to no one …. after a while gets exhausting. it degrades the level at which you see yourself, erodes your pride, and eventually runs you ragged. how is anyone ever going to take you seriously if you don’t take YOURSELF seriously. ultimately, this shit is either a business or a hobby.
after living around the country. getting paid for shows. not getting paid for shows. playing the whisky a go go and playing bob’s bar and grill. after working with idols and getting paid for verses i have learned (at least) one immutable truth. money is better than not money. and there is nothing wrong with demanding to be compensated for what you are worth.
after a long, involved, up and down, roller coaster search through what New York City has to offer in the way of apartments, we finally found one. (yay). it’s perfect. our broker (yes, we went with a broker) is possibly one of the most interesting and greatest people that either of us has met in at least this past year. we experienced the emotion involved with finding a place. falling in love with it. mentally investing, and planning furniture. picturing yourself there for possibly years … then losing it. disappointment. followed by a renewed sense of hope and then throwing yourself back into the search with all of the optimism of the first time.
it’s perfect. have I said that yet? it’s not on a high floor. it has thin walls and is a bit of a walk to the train. it’s situated in front of a glass factory. the kitchen cabinets are old. it gets limited light and may or may not be subject to a noisy upstairs neighbor. right. this all exists. the above are all facts and yet still … it’s perfect why?
when we got to NY last year we found a beautiful apartment. brand new. never had been lived in before. insulated walls, wood strip flooring, granite and stainless steel kitchen, literally AT the train. a porch, a roofdeck, energy fucking efficient goddam lights if you can believe it!
a frivolously enormous, glass and black and white tiled bathroom. a fucking elevator. and yet …..
our NEW place is perfect and we can’t wait to get out of where we’re at. why?
i’m perfectly happy to not know, or say, but if pressed for an answer i may point to something around the general idea of warmth. the feeling of home. the cold stare of a model vs. an uninhibited smile from anybody at all. especially in NY: people get so caught up with “streamline” and “modern” and “updated.” you get people paying 4gs a month to live in 450 sq ft cause the building looks like an art project. no offense Ghery.
i say that to say this. our new place is perfect for the very fact that it isn’t. we have a mis-tiled back porch that connects to a cracked-pavement back”yard” where barberques will happen this summer.
most importantly i get to share it with the girl I love. and in it do the THING(s) that I, and we love. when we first got to New York we had just enough to get into the first apartment that we could. and since then we have been scraping. finally we get a place to make ours. to make HOME. and it’s perfect.
Donald Trump and Puffy sleep less than 5 hours a night (allegedly). Rappers and producers cultivate 24 hour albums. 3am ‘I’m grindin’ son’ tweets swarm the internet and Wiz Khalifa hasn’t slept in 2 weeks. Nevermind cars. Forget bitches and money. Who cares about that crib?! Going to sleep super late and waking up at some retarded hour (if you sleep at all) IS the new hip hop braggadocio. Making sure that everybody else knows how little you snooze secures your credibility in today’s hustlesphere.
When I first heard about these super-human celebrity entertainment powerhouses I was blown away. It was like when I first found out that you didn’t HAVE to wear jeans that fit you. Suddenly it all made sense! The only way to get ahead is OF COURSE, to spend more time not being unconscious. I couldn’t believe that it hadn’t occurred to me earlier. So simple, and yet so effective! New Gameplan: Proceed with ‘grinding’ till 3.40am, grab some z’s and be back up at 6am to keep going. Just one problem: losing sleep alone doesn’t do SHIT but make you more tired. I was missing a key element.
In reading about these human anomalies, I uncovered one, immutable truth. The reason why most of them slept 5 hours a night (at most) was because they were so excited about what they were doing that they couldn’t possibly stay passed out for any longer. They couldn’t WAIT to get back to it. I picture an 8 year-old with Donald Trump’s head in a gold robe, in a gold bed, in a gold apartment. Wide awake at 4.30am not because he HAS to be but because he is a kid at Christmas. He literally can’t lay in bed another minute because he simply has to know what Santa left for him under the tree.
I say that to say this. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t be the type of prick to cheat yourself of one of the very most enjoyable experiences in life. Remember what I said: not sleeping alone doesn’t do SHIT but make you tired. If you aspire to the ranks of superhuman celebrities, find something to get excited about. Find your own Christmas morning and I guarantee you, you will lose more sleep than you ever could have imagined.
some mornings like today i don’t want to get up. it’s cold out. i’m four hours up on sleep, and last night was just one big frustration. i feel guilty. frustrated. and tired as hell. looking at the rest of my week. looking beyond that into the future and thinking. why? and how? currently faced with limited options. in a fixed situation. rent. bills. the extravagances of life. life. living …. living.
And i’m alive. i’m healthy. i got a bad ass girl. i fuckin rap, and not only that but i’m the best i know at it. i’m not these other clowns. i’m usually good at humility but right now i need to let the ego shine through. dreams. not many at night cause i don’t sleep much. and when i do i don’t sleep well. i’m anxious. what was a dream became reality. well, at least in the pursuit of IS my reality. i’m here to do this.
i don’t care to return calls. may shoot a text back and probably not even. so much to do. so little time. and even less will. this city beats you up. people. people in a rush with no regard for other people. i call it only-person-in-the-world syndrome. and yes, to an extent we all suffer from it.
sloppy bitch on the train lastnight, feasting on a $4.99 chop suey special. then a dry cinnamon raisin bagel. then finally, picking out and spattering her chewed up, stuck-in-teeth, leftovers all over the train seat, floor and handrail. with of course. complete. total. disregard.
throbbing headache. hang on. shielded frustrations … deep breath. caustic thoughts … personal mantra. hot shower. wrinkled clothes litter an underused studio (at least that’s what my internal instigator tells me). hang on. today can be the first day of … who knows?
and then I think about those who, like Kevin Spacey in American Beauty said, that doesn’t apply to. those who’s any given day was their last. those who no longer have the luxury of over-eating and headaches and self loathing. to all of my too-many best friends who are no longer alive … to my friend who dreamt of working with underground legends. what i do now is dedicated to you. i wish you were here to see that dreams DO come true, if only you could have held on a bit longer.
life. it’s all we know. you. whoever you are. your dreams are valid. i’m sorry for what you have had to endure, but if you just hang in there it WILL get better. it’s not fair. most people aren’t given the tools to deal with what life hands them until after they’ve had to deal with it. but it’s all we know. if it’s a girl (or guy) that’s ignoring you, don’t worry. keep at it and soon they’ll be one of many clamoring for a minute with you. the best part is you don’t even have to believe it … just HANG ON .. and you’ll get to see it for yourself.
to all of my friends who have passed away, i get out of bed on a cold morning and push through the subway, and don’t take no for an answer, and look people in their eyes, and run two extra miles, and take a night off to do less than nothing .. for you. i wish you were still here to do it and see it with me.
love, thoughts, and the fondest memories of all of you and to everybody you left behind.
it was 1990-something. low end theory. dare iz a darkside. illmatic. da shinin’ ready to die. the diary. hard to earn. sun rises in the east. wu tang. my own private soundtrack that, living in the suburbs, NOBODY understood. maybe two kids i went to school with but that was it. i wore fatigue pants because i saw bootcamp do it. i got the dookie figaro with the big ass swinging piece cause i saw sean p in leflaur leflah eshkoshka. couldn’t find the joe boxers though. i made tapes. sometimes from music videos if i couldn’t find the songs anywhere else. i was on the bus. i was out of class. i was sitting in the hallway or waiting for a train and just playing ‘unbelievable’ over and over and over and over again trying to understand how they got it to sound like that. trying to wrap my mind around the magic
my pants were big. my pants were low. my hoodies were x or xxl. my hats were low and my ‘koss’ headphones were always on. i got shit. i got into scuffles because rap hadn’t blown out the burbs yet and these tight and torn-up jeans and flannel wearing WAAF listening, lacross players didn’t get it. i didn’t give a fuck. i was hidden. zoned out. alone with this music that i loved all the more because NOBODY got it. EVERYBODY said it was a fad. everybody said that me being into it was a fad. my odd teens. i would soon grow out of it and straighten up. put a suit on and make a life for myself. didn’t they know that the new American Dream is what you make it? the picket fence is dead? but i digress
the true reason why i reveled in it. why i cut myself off from the world to soak up this tough guy NY shit. exactly why a suburban kid who never did a bid-could relate? because kurt cobain was in the news. hootie and the blowfish were on the charts. rap was still our secret. yea it was on MTV. yes, watered down versions were played at school dances. ok ok, it didn’t NOT exist. but, just as video killed the radio star. well, something murked the hip hop too. at least the kind that i grew up on. the kind that i was so passionate about. now don’t mistake me for some golden age purist. i know times change. i know tastes develop. things must progress, and i wouldn’t have it any other way.
however! with a higher level of popularity and marketability, comes a greater potential for profit. faced with that, a larger demographic is considered and so, what once was for those who got it and fuck everybody else-became teenie bop anthems. middle of the road and agreeable. into what the ‘kids’ are into (whatever that may be at the moment). both a pity and a fact. and i am told that that happens with ALL genres of music. it starts underground, and soon it is exploited. jazz, rock, punk etc. except for disco. i don’t know if disco was ever anything else.
and i can see them still. that pair of deep red, suede wash, metal tagged, cross colour jeans hanging in front of me. $65. which nowadays is what the gap charges for garbage but back then that much was out of this world for jeans … especially for a 12 year old. and before those i remember Culture Shock. the store. on newbury street. throwing on a pair that felt like nothing i had ever put on before. light. baggy as fuck. and the fit, the fit, the FIT! the idea of dropping $55 (on sale) on a pair of anything at that age and income level was so far beyond my concept of reality but i wanted, no, needed them.
i’ve had a job since i was 13, and when i was 13 i actually had two. i attribute my early teenage work ethic to karl kani, boss (not hugo), cross colours, yes!, nike, and most certainly Marithe et Francois Girbaud. also tommy Hilfiger striped polos and early kikwear (was there a later)? i could tell you every first day of school outfit i rocked between 6th and 11th grade. and of course time passes. tastes mature, simplify, and get more and more expensive.
the harder i worked the more i made and the more i made the more i spent. the more i had the more i looked to get. have i burnt $650 in a day? oh wait, you mean on two pairs of jeans in 10 minutes? yes i did. kicks too. orange wall and all (see: nike, the OG boxes). the more i spent the more i needed to spend to get the same feeling. chasing that Culture Shock rush. my first high. and no matter what i blow will i ever match that feeling? same question and subsequent answer … will i ever be a kid again? another question (and same answer there too) do i still own either of those pairs of jeans?
i can’t help but compare the pursuit of ‘fresh’ to a drug addiction. judgement aside (on both, of course). and aside from the physical elements/ailments, it’s psychologically the same thing. we spend more and more and more in pursuit of reclaiming our first experience(s). Nike plays on grownups’ still unfulfilled childhood yearnings for III’s.
and the more i browse online catalogues, which boast the “biggest selection of the best ‘streetwear brands’ (whatever those are),” the pictures all run together. s’s spelled with z’s. graffiti font manufactured on tags. who’s more edgy this week? isn’t it just not as exciting as it used to be? i think back to when you had to buy 38 for a baggy fit. to when we all aspired to no more than 3 brands. i know. time passes. things change. a shitty pair of jeans from a no name “designer” is now $180.00 but at least they ship free right?
the self help mantra goes “start today.” the personal trainer, gym-going, no carb-eating, early morning rising, book reading, recycling, overly educated, toxic free moisturized clans of ‘bettered’ people tell you, “there is no time like the present.” they say that setting a date is only procrastinating. it’s hitting the snooze button on life. get out and grab that fresh air, or cut up those credit cards, or … whatever you see in your life that needs changing. so has the fad of resolutions fizzled. those who write goals on a piece of paper, dated 1/1/whatever. who look forward to a fresh start at a new life. it’s SO unproductive to carry on with your bad habits for one more minute. just dive in people!
all told, I can’t say that I completely disagree with that advice. any significant changes made in my life started on an impulse, immediately, and consistently until habit formed. HOWEVER!
odd as it may sound, i never felt that a new years resolution was about making a change. a CHANGE is. a resolution is hope. it’s the exhilaration you feel from seeing your end goal, looking clear through the hard work or discipline or simply bullshit and time that it actually takes to get there. reaching over the blood sweat and tears and touching your tomorrow you. it’s the bubbly drunk before the wicked hangover. it’s the sumptuous meal before the pounds, or the thrill of spending before you go broke. in that way, it’s just right for new years.
I curse self-help gurus for attempting to shoot down such a magnificent experience. moderation may be key, but we can’t live on celery water either. as with making a change, I also know from personal experience that drive is paramount in achieving goals. and who is worse for spending some time dreaming? how else do you get that goal so picture perfect in your sights if you don’t spend the time developing it?
so to all you at the gym today. to all you taking the first steps towards whatever lofty resolution you made a couple of days ago. when the time is right, it will happen for you. until then, god bless the dreamers.
but they’re just drinking coffee-you tell yourself. slip. surp. swallow. slip. surp swallow. you want to strangle somebody now for simply ingesting the caffeine that they need in order to get through the day. smack, lick, slap, smack, lick, slap-you are about to get into a physical altercation with some poor sap who, manners aside, is only doing his best to nourish himself. he’s just eating? new york subways are the best and worst of humanity. superstar vice of course being the gum. the way she smacks, semi-automatically snaps, and slurps her gum – makes you want to hop back in time to find the motherfucker who invented gum and end their life before they get a chance to dream up the confectionary concoction that is driving you up a wall at 7am.
i have said it before “getting mad at an ignorant person is liking kicking the chair after you stub your toe on it.” and I’ll most likely say it again. yet, you still kick that chair sometimes right? rush hour-ers that careen into you with no pause, apology, or second look. or first look, for that matter. groups of infantile adults who yelp, holler, and scream to hear each other over $350 headphones that for the money give you some extra bass and a cosign from the guy that you most likely know as ‘the guy who gave Eminem his big shot.’
when it gets to you. when the noises, the actions, the movements of people and things make you want to snap and ‘fall down,’ when you’re one step from michael douglas. was it a bad dinner? a bad sleep? the wrong side of the bed? some fucked up synapse misfire? you? going crazy? the subway spins. hoards of am people squeezing on and off. pushing others aside for what? are you mad? very. welcome to the New York City subway. Step lively, and watch the closing doors.
I did a past present and future journal project in 2nd grade. For the project I was asked to write about my birth, my childhood, my current life and my future. As an 8 year old I set in ink (or maybe pencil) where I would be living, what I would be doing, my wife’s name, and what our life would be like. If I remember correctly we were living in Hawaii. I don’t remember much else but I think we had a dog and I was definitely rich and over six feet tall and with kids and around 23 years old. I also lived on the beach.
Turns out I never hit the 6 foot mark. I’m not married. And I definitely don’t live in Hawaii. I’m not rich, and certainly have no kids. These would all be negative notches on the belt of a 20 year plan if not for the fact that I wouldn’t trade my many experiences for all the Hawaii in the world. The many times of being broke. The rush of swift income and the thrill of blowing it all. The relationships that I have had and been through (romantic and otherwise). My music. One thing that I couldn’t have possibly known- that nobody told me, and no one is supposed to …. life happens. It really IS the journey and not so much where you wind up.
It is easy as a young kid to look at where you are going to ‘wind up’ because at 8 what journeys have you really been on? What else do you know besides where you live and what you have (own). What you eventually (hopefully) learn is that life is really a series of interactions, relationships, heartbreaks, challenges and setbacks to overcome (if you’re strong), triumphs, early mornings and lazy days. So far I have lived in Boston, New York City, Los Angeles, St. Barth’s, then Boston again, and now Brooklyn. And if there is one infallible truth that I have found in every city: wherever I went, there I was.
I say that to say this: unfulfilled in Hawaii is still unfulfilled. And what type of music scene is there anways which brings me to my constants. A life lived around the country. Day and night jobs worked in over a dozen separate industries. Early hours, late hours, money to burn and pennies for pasta. Music has survived. Remained. If I remember correctly, I predicted that in Hawaii I would be doing music. Imagine that?! Thinking back, every relationship that I have ever had (romantic or otherwise) was somehow associated with music. And though the whole time I had a end goal in sight, I neglected to consider all that I would have the honor of experiencing in the interim. The journey. Don’t stop believin! I was told once that on a long enough timeline everybody else drops off leaving whomever hung on the longest, the victor.
I have recently been asked what my 5 year plan is. And to that I reply, to stay as happy as I am right now. The rest is impossible to know.
i almost tweeted a moment ago, ‘don’t ask me for favors.’ and then i didn’t. and the reason why i didn’t is because people have done big favors for me. as a matter of fact, ANYBODY who is ANYBODY has had some major favors done for them. you’ve heard that artist say “i did it by myself” or “had no help in this.” bullshit. not true. i may not know you personally, but at some point, somebody put you on, or gave you your break, or hooked you up with somebody who eventually led to something else which got you to where you are today. favors. so how dare i tell you to NOT ask me for favors. how foul is that in the karmic universe to not offer favors for others as others have been so generous with me?
the more i thought about it, the more I started to realize what i really meant. it’s not the asking, or the favor doing. it’s the intention. the motivation behind it. ego aside, i like to think that people have done me favors because first of all i do my best not to ASK. i put myself in situations where they simply happen. I like to think that people do me favors because i’m appreciative and certainly don’t EXPECT shit from anybody. and so enters the music business. underline, BUSINESS. i have rubbed shoulders with ulterior-motived, shifty, loud-laughing, hand-shaking, pat on the back people. and to THEM is who i direct what i am saying here.
to you, who i knew 12 years ago, and in the interim have needed a ride from, another body at my show from, shit, a call back from. and nothing. …. and nothing. and now you not only need something from me but won’t leave me alone about it. get it. I don’t have time for you. this is to you, who I looked out for. who I sacrificed for and was convinced that we were actually tight … and in my worst moment of need you were no where. you stopped existing until the MOMENT you needed something.
i’ve gotten good at letting go. at wishing the best for those that need it more than anything. at saying goodbye with a smile and a handshake. and moving on. much success to you. just don’t you dare ask me for any favors.
