I love comedy. The only problem I have with comedy is I hate comedians. They’re miserable people.
I love music. The only problem I have with music is I hate musicians. They’re fame obsessed douche bags.
I love acting. The only problem I have with acting is I hate actors. Their mommy-issues have mommy-issues.
When I set-out to have a life in the art world, I had no idea “The Road Less Traveled” meant the road with fewer pals. Thought I’d be carpooling.
When I set-out to have a life in the art world, I imagined a world filled with passionate camaraderie. When I set-out to have a life in the art world, I imagined coffee cups filled with insightful conversations, sunrises giving birth to epiphanies, friendships carved out of destiny.
Stanislavsky was wrong. There’s no “Magic If.” There’s a snotty “As If.”
The art world celebrates brats who are propped-up and secretly resented by brats who tried but didn’t “make it.” Or brats who did “make it,” but made it too soon, and ended-up clinging to the personality of their younger-self, to the exclusion of the on-going immediate reality, which is so much better than anything their younger-self could have imagined.
I love my life. The only problem I have with my life is sometimes I hate it. This isn’t true. It’s not untrue. But it’s more untrue than true. Here’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but my spin on the truth: I’m happy-go-lucky unless I’m talking to someone who’s contaminating my mood.
Or reading People Magazine.
I’m lucky. I get to work with my brother. I’m lucky. I get to work with my cousin. I’m lucky, just yesterday, I got to spend all morning wiring and rewiring and re-rewiring the point-of-sales system at Max’s Deli with my dad.
I’m lucky. Mom forgave me for not calling on her birthday. And I got to blog about it.
Maybe I’ll even write a song about it. Or make fun of it when I hit the next open mic. The bad news is I can’t hang around after the open mic, since all of the performers are secretly competing with each other. It’s exhausting.
What’s the rush? Where’s everyone going? Backstage of the VMA’s, so they can advise Miley Cyrus on rockstar protocol.
What’s the rush? Where’s everyone going? To #26 on the Maxim Hot 100 List, so they can best Sarah Silverman.
What’s the rush? Where’s everyone going? To Pere Lachaise Cemetery, so they can give a reach around to the ghost of Jim Morrison.
I love The Doors. The only problem I have with The Doors is I hate that Jim Morrison died at 27. He should have lived long enough to watch his music career fizzle, his leather pants become 3-sizes too small and be offered a comeback tour of assisted living facilities sponsored by Mayo Clinic’s hip replacement surgery.
Break On Through To The Other Hip.