It feels like Christmas morning.

I placed an apple and two small cucumbers on a flat rock among the shade trees yesterday and the night critters came and ate them up, like Santa eats cookies, but instead of crumbs, they left little balls of poop behind as evidence of their true existence.

It was a strange and intense feeling to pretend to normalize the disturbance for the safety of my kids and everyone else while simultaneously contemplating an escape route or violent defense measures. The entire half of the crowded restaurant was completely silent and stunned by the wild man until I purposefully blurted out how good our arriving food looked and broke the collective tension, all while keeping my high level of awareness of a possible volatile situation unfolding directly behind my youngest son. The other patrons began to murmur and mutter as the shift manager reluctantly spoke to the obviously frustrated man wearing a pink fuzzy, bear eared hat with matching pink fuzzy gloves, his voice stammered, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave”. “I’m waiting on somebody!” the flustered man forcefully blurted out, pulling on his three layers of sweat pants worn with the waists just above his thighs.

The manager looked back across the dining room at the waitress with the phone ready in her hand, signaling with a nod to dial the three dreaded numbers, 9-1-1. The manager walked away for a moment to reassess the situation as I subtly watched the disturbing man for signs of danger. He was mentally ill or tripping on some kind of drug. Probably both but he didn’t seem intent on hurting anyone. He was clearly on a personal mission, of some kind, inside his head.

Before his dramatic entrance, I was looking behind me, searching for our server. The place was busy, it’s always busy, but they seemed understaffed and stressed out more than usual. The lingering pandemic has taken its toll on Denny’s. The usual staff was different from our bi-yearly visits. My favorite guy, who resembles Samuel L. Jackson wasn’t there, and neither was the heavy set, pretty faced Black woman with the beautiful smooth skin, like creamy chocolate. The doppelganger, Samuel, was especially good with breaking through to my youngest son, who has always had difficulty in public with sensory overload. I imagine Samuel saying very loudly to my son, “Pancakes motherfucker! Tell me what kind of motherfucking pancakes you want!”. He never said anything like that, but he was a little bit forceful in a great way. More like Samuel Jackson- lite. The woman was also really great with him just being extra nice and patient.

And as pretentious as it sounds, I chose this particular retro styled Denny’s years ago, on the east side of town, specifically for its diversity. Also, the 1950’s style chrome and curves added a nifty cool atmosphere. I needed my children to be aware and unafraid of people of color, and this Denny’s provides a beautiful rainbow of all humanity. We purposefully have planted our roots in an affluent area, in a white conservative world, (where I personally don’t belong) taking advantage of a highly acclaimed public school system. I firmly believe it’s important to understand that other people and other worlds exist. It’s the only way I know of to protect my offspring from the ignorance of classism and racism, even if it puts us all in danger apparently.

As I scanned behind the counter, I noticed a group of three servers had stopped in their tracks and were fixated on something outside the front doors. I could tell something was going on but could see nothing out the window looking out to the entrance. Whatever was happening was out of my view until the ragged and tattered homeless man stormed his way inside, stomping towards us and slamming down his clear plastic bag with unknown objects onto the booth table directly behind us, scattering the dirty dishes and spilling a cup full of liquid onto the bench seat and pouring to the floor. I was immediately suspicious of what was in the bag and my horrible mind pictured a bag full of feces. I was not going to say it, even if it was true. We were in a restaurant, my kids were fussy, and we were starving. Nothing was going to ruin our meal. Not even a crazy fuck with a bag of shit.

The cagey gentleman immediately turned and huffed his way back out to retrieve an unopened large cardboard box that seemed to be a desktop inkjet printer. He powered back and slammed the box onto the table, displacing more syrup sticky plates and knives and forks, and then forcefully sat down with a puff of air blowing out of the seat cushion. He grabbed the box and threw it on the floor at his feet then started to reach down into his sweatpants. I instructed my kids not to look since I really thought he might pull out his privates. Thankfully, he didn’t. He was just re-tying his sweatpants waist strings. I started to get a small sense that he wasn’t there to hurt anyone. He was just having a bad day. That’s when the manager approached sheepishly and asked him to leave.

The second time the manager asked, the man stood up and adamantly said, ” Lead the way!” The manager was frozen for a moment and I was just about to intervene and suggest he actually lead the way. But thankfully, the manager did, and the homeless man in peril followed. We took him for a man of his word, and to his credit, he was.

The disruptive scene was over, but the man forgot his plastic bag. I wondered if he would suddenly return in a storm and blaze but I assume he was either detained or was at a distance when the cops arrived, making it impossible to retrieve the mystery bag.

My oldest kid and I pointed out the precarious container bag to the waitress to investigate. She did not, but instead called over the young busboy and told him to throw it in the trash. He picked it up with two fingers and placed it in his grey plastic bin beside some plates. I was still concerned for our health and safety and asked him what was in the bag, he picked it up haphazardly and said, “look like a apple and some cucumber”. I thought, ‘no way those are cucumbers, who eats raw cucumber?’

I told him to give me the bag so I can give it back to the wild man if I see him. I pointed, drawing an invisible directional path, around the table, to the chair next to me. I couldn’t have him hand it to me over my youngest son’s plate of food. That would have been bad. That would have ruined the meal.

The cops outside the front door were just hanging out it seemed, leaning on their cruisers and having a casual conversation with each other. I never could tell if the homeless guy was in the back seat of either car as they eventually drove away.

We finished our meal and I paid an undeserving tip, since our server never gave us silverware or cream for my coffee that I’d repeatedly asked for well before the initial disturbance. The food was delicious though and the cooks always deserve their portion of the tips, always.

A deep breath and calming of the nerves and I realized at that moment that I’d also achieved another lesson in diversity for my kids. This is exactly why I chose this Denny’s and it always delivers.

We had a moment to discuss social issues, like ‘Defund the Police’, where this homeless man obviously needed a social worker instead of a cop. We also agreed hypothetically, that a redneck openly carrying a gun is more terrifying than a homeless man having a psychotic episode.

I thought about leaving the bag somewhere he might find it if he came back, but decided to take the chance on seeing him somewhere. I drove down the frontage road where the homeless used to camp and convene. The white collar city officials have recently cracked down on the homeless, making it a crime to live in certain areas so there was no real good way to find him. I was hoping for a chance encounter to return what rightfully belonged to him. A touch of fate. It was also a very healthy snack he was really going to miss, but he was nowhere in sight.

My kids and I went on to our next destination and adventure for the day, putting the earlier events and lessons behind us. My only satisfaction is that I saved the food from the dumpster and gave it to a forreging animal instead.

I then shot and killed the animal and left it to rot as a warning to others to stop shitting in my yard.

As the fragile, fifty-four year old reel to reel tape is slowly decaying in a cardboard box in a climate controlled storage shed, I feel rushed to discover its origin. I worry that the change in humidity from its previous years will speed the process of self destruction. My attempt to find the history of this lost recording is becoming more futile with every turn. No one seems to know anything about it.

I’ve had contact with journalists, archivists, authors, and family members. The frustrating realization is that the one and only living person that does know, is eighty-eight years old. He’s Willie Nelson himself and he’s hard to reach. He also may not even remember the recording session. It was a long time ago and possibly non-profitable and uneventful.

I have even questioned the reality of its existence myself, and I have the damn tape. Did my dad deep fake this before there was any technology available to do that? No, he could barely check the oil in his car. Is this some kind of delusional hoax? No, it’s very real. It’s a real tape inside a real cardboard box for over fifty years.

I’m left to ponder the meaning of it all, the timing of it, and my own, one sided relationship with Willie Nelson. If you know me or my mother, you have already heard our Willie stories. Mostly, they are just my mom’s stories based on actual experiences with slightly rough edges from the passage of time.

But I have to fatefully wonder, of the three artists on the recording, why is Willie the last survivor? The only one I have any connection to.

Why does it appear that I happen to have the only existing copy of this recording? Why did my dad even have the tape? Why did he choose to keep it way back then? Was it rare even then? Did he have a plan? He left no clues and no other legacy when he died in 1995, ironically due to alcoholism.

Why, after all these years, did no one in my family know about this? I had even asked my brother, years ago, who had access to reel to reel players in the radio station where he worked, to go through that box of old tapes and he never did it.

Why has my own pursuit of being an aspiring songwriter and musician allowed me to have the sound engineering knowledge and equipment to hear this tape?

And after years of drinking and promising myself I’d quit if I won the lottery, then realizing that maybe if I just quit first, I might deserve to win the lottery, why then did I discover the tape?

And why did I wind up living just a few miles from Luck, Texas? Willie Nelson’s ranch and recording studio. I’m from west Texas and New Mexico.

All of this weirdly smells of destiny, or even just an unlikely coincidence, and I can’t just ignore it.

The history of Willie Nelson and my family is unique. Part of why I feel so incredibly comfortable talking with members of the Nelson family is that I feel connected. I have to remind myself that they do not feel that way. They don’t know me, or my mom or my dad. They didn’t grow up hearing stories about me and feel almost related to me. At one point, when I was about twelve, I honestly felt I needed to ask if Willie was my father. He is not, and it’s physically obvious, but I had to ask.

I also realize how creepy and intrusive that is to Willie’s actual family and I profoundly apologize. Amy Nelson has a song about certain ladies that were attracted to her famous dad. I really hope that wasn’t inspired by my mom. I would never tell Amy that, but I wish I could apologize just the same.

My dad was an early fan of Willie. Mostly because of the Jazz influence and beautiful poetry Willie examined in his music. My dad promoted him through the radio station where he worked, KROB, and took on a personal interest in expanding his career. I’m sure my dad was just one of many, but I’m actually proud of him for doing that. I share his taste in music and Willie Nelson is amazing. But for whatever reason, my dad moved on from that era. We left south Texas a few months after I was born. My mom seemed to relive those exciting and special days for years and years after, while my dad rarely spoke of any of it.

If you mention Willie Nelson to my mom, you will first hear the story of how my nickname is Willie Bush. Named after Willie Nelson and Johnny Bush. It was a joke my dad had told the both of them shortly after I was born in Corpus Christi in 1968, coincidentally around the same time the recording was made.

The real question, with every turn of the lack of knowledge of this recording, is what do I do with it before it turns to dust?

The unknown list of living people that were around back then is getting smaller every day. If I’d had the tape a few years ago, I could have presented it to Poodie Locke, Willie’s road manager, in his partially owned bar right down the road from my home. I was in there quite a bit back then. He would’ve at least listened to me and the recording and possibly gotten an answer from Willie himself. Poodie was someone I considered a friend although we barely knew each other. Like the t-shirts states, ‘I know Poodie too’.

As of now, I have annoyed most of Willie’s kids to the point they won’t talk to me anymore. One of them even denies it’s Willie on the recording or that he’d ever done anything for Pearl beer, even though there are concert posters out there that prove otherwise. Another daughter was obviously uncomfortable with me, but the nicest person I think I have ever met. She also offered some good advice and a link on Facebook.

They seem to be very protective of their dad, and the business of their dad. It’s completely understandable, especially with his age, and the virus floating around, but I wish someone would at least listen and allow me to ask questions from a safe distance. I have given them the opportunity to get involved and they are not interested at all. I also have had no response from the Jennings and Haggard families. I would think they too would be interested.

Maybe it’s a legal issue? Someone could tell me if that was true. I don’t know enough about who owns what here anyway. I do fear that someone might ransack my property looking for it. Either to steal it or destroy it. I know there’s a fiercely competitive history between Lone Star and Pearl brewing companies. This recording could suggest that Pearl is the original national beer of Texas after all. 

It has also occurred to me that they don’t believe me. I could be a grifter, a scam artist, a swindler. It’s probably true that there are crazy people who contact them with wild schemes quite often. I just hate that I’m possibly perceived as another psycho.

So my options right now are to sell the rare tape and be done with it forever. I could start touring with a band. It’d be like I won the lottery.

Or destroy it in the name of militant sobriety and vengeance for all the alcoholism that’s attributed to messing up my life and countless others.

Or continue to dig for the hidden story, annoying anyone I must, to get the answers.

Or, I could start a mystery podcast. Maybe I should ask a Nelson to help me with it? That could be fun and expensive.

Or maybe convince Pearl beer to challenge Lone Star as the official beer of Texas in a devious marketing battle. I mean, at least Pearl survived prohibition.

Or, I could write this article you’re reading right now. Maybe you could give me a better solution.

Or, I could release it for free to the world to hear on my YouTube channel, helping to attract visitors to my own bitter, original music for fractions of pennies with every view and stream.

The opportunity is endless, but my biggest pressure is to not blow it. I truly believe I have something special.

I’ve wanted so much more out of life, through music, or whatever and I think this is an actual opportunity. I don’t want to exploit anyone, or cheat anyone. I don’t want to steal anything. I’ll share what I need to. I just want a chance to live my life, better. I want to be able to provide for my own family and actually help people and contribute something to the world. I still believe I have potential and purpose.

Opportunity has eluded me my whole life even though I’ve been hunting it down. My dysfunctional childhood and lack of guidance dealt a lousy hand. Few people really know just how hard it is to become a success from near zero. I don’t like placing blame on others, but there’s truth to it. I also have plenty of blame for myself and my own bad choices. I’d love another chance before I die or arthritis cancels my guitar playing hands.

And here it is, a legacy dropped in my lap from my deceased father. It was ignored for years and I just happened to take the initiative to discover it. And even if it turns out to be somehow worthless, illegal, or just too boring to make anything out of, it will not have been useless. The fact that I’ve explored all these thoughts is adventurous enough, maybe.

The opening bid is five million dollars, if you’re interested. I already have the money divvied up to family and taxes in my mind.

Two years dry and sober have me thinking so many different things. The strangest part is seeing simple things as new. Just one example was the way the light was falling from the skylight, hitting the bathroom tub. It looked warm and comforting, familiar and old. I can only assume that’s how it feels for a soldier coming home after six months of war. Does that make me a real hero? I think so. I am actually impressed with myself for actually doing this thing. It qualifies as a battle.

It’s also weird that time itself is different now. Two years feels like twenty and yesterday at the same time. It’s difficult to explain but it feels like I’m nostalgic for how alcohol made me feel, intoxicated and energetic, but I’m someone else having someone else’s memories. It really throws me into a science fiction frame of mind, questioning all of reality, time and space.

I wonder what’s actually happening to my brain? Is it permanent damage or trying to rebuild itself? Is it just aging or just starting to grow from years of arrested development? Probably all of the above.

I remember the taste of crisp, cold, twangy beer, but I have little real desire to drink again. I remember, clearly, enjoying a tall Schlitz Malt Liquor when I was about eight years old. I was instantly enamored with it’s power of taste and tingling intoxication.

I sometimes think I probably could enjoy a drink again and not fall into the habitual pattern, but I ask, why? I don’t need it and I’ll probably regret it. I’ve taken that as far as I could and somehow, I’m still alive. Everyday life is so much better without it. That temptation is easier to ignore now, but it comes and goes. If it can be equated to Tennyson, ” ‘Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all”, I have to strongly disagree. We would all be better off never falling for alcohol.

I also know and fear the power of that addiction. The feeling that I could just take it or leave it is really a trick to get me to start drinking again. It’s what the voices are saying. It’s the Devil himself. The addiction. Luckily, I’m defiant and stubborn and have somehow turned those attributes around against the Devil, I think. I hope.

I’ve also had to come to terms with the reality of our boozing culture in my journey to sobriety. I despise alcohol. I wish it was never invented. It ruins so many lives. But, I have to acknowledge, not everyone has a problem.

But, there’s a part of me that believes that everyone does have a problem and they just don’t know it, because all alcohol is inherently a problem. If you have a problem, and you drink, you have a drinking problem.

I see the, not so subtle, changes in personality and am amazed at how people don’t recognize or acknowledge it. Sometimes they justify it or outright deny it. At least I was always very open and clear about my alcoholism, except when I wasn’t, which was always. Is that clear enough?

I don’t miss the legal risk of drinking and driving. The chance of getting arrested…again. The embarrassment, the possibility of having kids taken away, and the monetary cost is so stressful. The State has a money grab system that punishes lightweight drinkers and lines politicians’ pockets with cash for years. The only good thing is the required education, although, if you are wealthy and connected, or pretty enough, you can get out of it. It’s just another way to vaguely legally oppress the poor and slap the wrists of the opportunistic. It’s the American way.

I do miss the illusion of freedom, starting the weekend early, or rewarding the accomplishment of just making it through the day, everyday, sometimes with a crisp, cold beer in a cute and tiny paper bag on the way home from the last job site, or usually, with an all day iced twelve pack in the cooler in the back, patiently waiting for hours for the moment of birth, always providing a good beer buzz by the time I hit the driveway. And I miss the laughter, smoke, and libations with the crew, leaning against the fender on the tired and resting, rugged pickup truck. The continuing celebration and ritual of being a working man. The refreshment mixed with the sweat and the dirt and the blood of the everyday struggle, settling the nerves of yesterday’s hangover, hitting the reset button on my vital organs. Man, I miss that. Who wouldn’t?

My wife called me while I was working outside in the light rain on a job site. I put down my equipment and shut off the ridiculously loud engine as I answered before it went to voicemail. I could instantly tell that she was annoyed but I didn’t know why. The phone was cutting out as we tried to decipher what we were saying, and like most of our greetings we just yell “Hello” and “What? Can you hear me?” until the link is established. I had texted a work related question a few minutes before, but really wasn’t expecting a response knowing that I was out of cel tower range. She had replied to my text, but I didn’t know that.

But my phone, in my pocket, replied back to her and continued the conversation completely on its own. Most likely from the moisture on my shorts pocket touching the phone screen while I was moving around. Not only did it continue the conversation, it did it with an attitude.

It answered her with predictive text, “uh, ok”, which is something I would never say, much less, put in a written message. Even though I sometimes get complacent and skip being totally and completely polite to my spouse, this was a professional work conversation and I always do my best to keep it civil, clear, and concise. I’m actually surprised she thought it was me. She did become suspicious on the second auto fill text that stated a snarky “why?” Almost with a smirk and a sassy Texas drawl.

It was out of context, confusing and also unlike even my worst bad attitude, so she called to actually hear my words with my voice. She started the analog conversation with, “…..What the fuck?” I knew instantly that this was no robot calling.

After finally sorting out the text conversation through the frustrating broken cel tower signal, we were still somehow annoyed. A lingering after effect of an ignorant algorithmic presumptuous artificial intelligence. Like having sticky fingers after a crumbly honey covered biscuit.

And that got me thinking. Why does my phone think I talk like a dick-head? I don’t ever text words like these. I might say them as a joke, but I’d never put it in actual writing. 

That got me thinking more. How does this thing even work?

Since I don’t really know, I’ll guess.

I assume that predictive text is based on generalized common language spoken by mass amounts of average people. It sure as hell didn’t get that shit from me! The data may come from Facebook or Twitter or some form of crappy public conversation on social media since there’s totally no way they’re actually spying on our text conversations.

And that got me thinking even more. Does the average person really talk like that? Is the average person a dick-head? Are most people shitty, bitter, pissy conversationalists? And is that how we shape and define all of our information based on how people think and speak?

Are TV shows, YouTube videos, movies, books, and Presidents chosen the same way? Is that how we got Trump the toddler bully, Hillary the rhetorical teenager, Cruz the high school commencement speaker, Pelosi the six year old drama queen, McConnell the turtle faced republi-bot, Schumer the hyperbolic step dad, and Marjorie Taylor Greene the batshit crazy conspiracy tart? Sounds about right.

Maybe, it’s time for someone to look into this. A study to determine if people mimic what is perceived as popular culture. Does anyone know anyone at Cornell or Stanford? Are those places even real? Well, I’ve never seen them. I’m just sayin’.

We know that humans greatest talent is copying each other. That’s how we get popular phrases like, “That’s what she said!” and “Get er’ done” or my all time favorite, “Just fuck me and feed me beans”. There’s nothing wrong with mimicking each other. It’s how we have survived for so long. It helps us stay likable and socially connected so we don’t eat each others cooked brains in our own tribe.

But what happens if the “popular” sayings were being generated collectively by the worst humans ever?  What if we start to mimic the computerized interpretation of ourselves. Uh….what if we already are?

Would it be the decline of our own social survival? Would husbands and wives start to treat each other differently resulting in less love and compassion for each other? Would that mean that less babies would be made and the inevitability of the decline of human reproduction? The end of woman? The end of man?

I don’t know. Probably.

#trump2028

Success Part 1

It always amazes me to see just how many people are happy to take your money to make you successful.

During my years in Nashville, I saw countless songwriters throwing money at shady promoters and self described music industry insiders promising to get your songs to professional representatives. I never met anyone that sold a song that way. Many successful writers knew someone personally in the business. Sometimes the writers had an arsenal of good commercial songs and came to Nashville with enough money to survive without a day job, and buy the attention of actual music industry executives. They made their connections before even moving to Nashville.

I’m lousy at making solid plans. My plans for Nashville changed drastically just on my drive there, but that’s another story.

In Nashville, I once met a guy from Houston, who was fully financed by family friends that won the Texas lottery. He had athletic good looks, money, and had written at least one really great song hook (that I’m surprised we haven’t all heard yet) but got caught up in the Nashville party scene mixed with self promotion. When I met him, he was working off debts on a horse ranch and going through a severe, cold turkey, drug rehabilitation. He blew all of his gifted lottery money on cocaine and partying after only two years. His family gave up on him and he had destroyed all his music industry connections. There was a long line of people that took advantage of him and it left him completely broken. I’ve never seen someone fall so hard from so high up.

I suppose I was lucky to have so little. It kept me from blowing it all on drugs. I chose to waste my money on food and shelter instead… like a loser.

I have to admit, I also capitalized on the constant flow of aspiring songwriters a teeny bit. I built part of my recording studio with money I made from other writers. Sometimes I would even go out to a writers round at a venue and recruit business. A few times the clients were Music City tourists that just wanted to record a song in an actual Nashville recording studio. (It only qualified as a real studio because I installed a cool looking slanted window and built an isolated sound booth). I never promised any promotion. I just provided a demo recording on a CD at an affordable price and had fun. That type of business recruiting makes me feel predatorial and sleazy, but that’s why I’m also lousy at marketing and sales. I obviously don’t have the stomach for it. Mostly, the studio was built with the help of friends who agreed to help me with getting equipment for recording their demos. I then kept the studio going primarily by recording local rappers. I somehow became a premier east side, mix-tape studio. My given rap name was Thug Nasty and I learned about blunts and proper use of the N word.

The years I ran the recording studio, I had a stream of promoters and representatives trying to get me to recruit seemingly desperate songwriters. Sometimes they offered me a one time commission but usually nothing at all. Not one of those businesses were truthful about their accomplishments. They all claimed to have success stories of people no one has ever heard of, or some grandchild of an old fart country singer with a random hit song as part of their sales pitch. I was amazed at how much business there was that seemed to be the bottom feeders of the music industry.

I once had a songwriting session with a guy that worked for a major record company. He even showed me around the building on Music Row one Sunday afternoon, including the writers rooms where staff writers actually wrote multiple hit songs. It was an amazing experience and I’m grateful I got to see it. Not many people do. We got together at a friend’s house later and started writing the next “Redneck Anthem” as he put it, but after about forty-five minutes, I became frustrated with the cold and insincere process and abruptly walked away, almost like a real jerk. Also, I was writing all the melody while they were just trying to come up with string of catchy phrases. Oddly, some songwriters do exactly that and occasionally they write a hit song. I later learned that he was actually a part time janitor at the record company building. I would have thought that was even more cool than being a staff writer, if only he didn’t discreetly lie about it.

One rule I still follow is “Never pay to play”. In all of my experience through the years, that still hasn’t changed, even though it’s often tempting when something amazing or exclusive is offered, but it’s always too good to be true.

With the release of my third album, I am now bombarded with ads for promotion on Facebook and email. I see some friends using these marketing techniques and I really hope they know what to expect. I also hope it really works for them. It takes an incredible amount of effort and time.

I’m doing some of the same techniques as the marketers, usually by sheer coincidence or intuition. I have difficulty dedicating a lot of time for self promotion, so I’ve given myself reasonable deadlines and realistic goals. I plan on doing things before I die of old age.

There is a huge demand for independent music marketing on the internet. It’s actually mostly about gathering data to sell ads, not music. So you’re really in marketing, instead of music. Did you want to be in marketing? Too bad, you’re in marketing now. Surprisingly, the pitches are pretty straight-forward and honest about that if you’re really listening, but they can still be pretty tricky.

Creating music is actually getting more affordable as the processes get more streamlined and competitive. It’s also becoming less meaningful as it gets more and more saturated. I’m contributing as well, I’m sure.

The independent music industry is turned upside down right now and I assume that the real players are way ahead of the trends and protecting themselves. Nashville executives have always been in control of their industry, for the better or the worse. It’s all subjective, and as long as they can say what’s good music, they’re going to be just fine.

Success Part 2

With the internet, the average person can now produce music and make it available for the whole world to hear. We can go out and play live shows and peddle our CD’s and t-shirts for a few bucks. We can even possibly make a living doing it-if it’s set up right and highly maintained. (It’s important to note that professional music producers, talented writers, and craft musicians are still in another league. All musicians should aspire to be in that elite league, or at least know the difference.)

Making it big is still as elusive as it ever was. Getting a hit song on the radio or movie soundtrack is still amazingly difficult. Everybody wants a cut, everybody wants a piece of the action, and nobody wants to invest in the highly unlikely chance of your success. It’s worse odds than winning the lottery and being struck by lightning on the same day, but we do it anyway. We tell ourselves that someone has to win the lottery, and the chances are greater the more we play, and we try and put ourselves in the path of opportunity. I am there with exactly that.

The hope of making money doing something so creatively satisfying is mind boggling. It’s an addiction and it’s a foolish pursuit, but it is also a legitimate business. Computers, software suppliers, bars, restaurants, instruments, electronics, CD manufacturers, online distributors, ads and more ads. It’s a big, big business for so many, and sometimes lightning really does strike for an artist.

It’s also hard to accept that you should just go get an unsatisfying job for sixty-five years when you are capable of creating music. 

An extraordinary soul stuck in a conventional life. (I heard that on the radio). It makes you wonder why you even exist at all? It’s even harder when you have to accept you’ve struggled to dedicate your entire life to music and realize that you’re barely closer than you were thirty years ago. You didn’t plan for surviving with nothing, and it seems too late to start building anything. It makes you wonder, again, why you even exist at all?

That’s why some people believe it’s absolutely foolish to chase such dreams to begin with. I get that now, because I’m older, worn down, cynical, and poor.

There’s also a heavy guilt side effect in investing in my music endeavor because I should probably be putting money into my home and family instead of throwing it away on guitar strings and making CD’s. When I get a few extra bucks, it usually goes into a music fund and I try to spend it before something new breaks around the house. (I’m ignoring the old hole in the back porch.) I even keep my self embezzled allowance a secret from people that wouldn’t approve. I’m probably way too old to be doing that, but I’m also too old to have to be explaining myself.

I’ve tried many careers and made many mistakes. One mistake was not going in deeper. Fully immersed and sacrificing everything. Homeless, starving, alone, and maybe ending up dead. I sometimes listened to people who didn’t get it. I was convinced that I always had to pay the rent and have a steady job. That kept me from discovering and learning everything I really needed to know about music or entertainment. I was so focused, for years, on trying to earn a living instead of figuring out a way to develop my very real passion, I actually wound up failing at both.

I’m aware that it sounds like I’m blaming others because I am. I’ve got plenty of things to blame on myself, but it isn’t like everything can be my fault all the time, right? Right?

When I was seventeen, I wanted to go to L.A. to try to get into the movie business. I didn’t go because something told me I would die without support. The truth is, I was already dead, or at least my future was. There was nothing for me where I was. In hindsight, I had no real prospects either way so I should have just gone to Hollywood. Part of me thinks that is my biggest regret. Another part knows I probably wouldn’t be here now to complain about it, so I try not to give it too much thought.

So years later, I’m still struggling to make music. It’s still just as useless and futile as it ever was, but it’s the air that I breathe. I have no desire to quit creating music and still no desire to work at a meaningless job for lousy pay. At least no more than I have to. I still gotta provide and survive.

At this point, I’m sort of just running out the clock. I have to make my failures my accomplishments, my poverty my contentment, and my lack of desire for competitive wealth my social protest.

Making music is powerful. Sharing music is nice too if everyone at least pretends to like it. Making money from making music would be life altering. The amount of work that’s put into making music is mostly kept a secret because it’s ridiculous. And don’t even ask how much money we put into it.

I was thinking about how much I can charge for a CD. If I sell one for ten dollars, that’s about thirty minutes of work for an average person. It would be kind of like giving someone my CD for taking out my kitchen trash or folding a load of laundry. My cost with shipping is about seven bucks so I make three dollars for a CD that I’ve invested thousands of dollars and a lot of years to create. I’m starting to think it’s a bad business model. Unless I can guilt millions and millions of people into buying them.

It’s strange to think that music is for sale at all. Music is the way humans breathe through their souls. It’s just too bad we can’t eat pentatonic scales.

If you don’t know, there is a brand new United States Supreme Court justice! Brett Kavanaugh will be a judge for the rest of his life. He was accused of a sexual assault that happened in the 1980’s, by Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. He adamantly, fiercely denied it. There was an extremely publicized confirmation hearing where it basically came down to his word against hers.

Somehow, it became highly political. Both parties became enraged and accusatory. Both parties helped to continue the division our nation. Both parties handled this situation horribly.

The final conclusion, one could assume, is that the accused have to be proven guilty. Accusations have to be traceable and confirmed. This is the basis on which Justice Kavanaugh was confirmed to the highest court of the United States of America.

The part that disturbs me the most, is the attitudes. This seemingly new polarized political landscape has made me struggle with understanding everyone, on all sides. President Donald J. Trump seems to incite negative and disturbing public behavior. I see websites and Facebook memes that make me question the moral decency of some of my closest friends and family. I honestly can’t believe some of the things I have heard, read, and seen widely distributed by people I know and care about. Advocating running over protesters and calling for a civil war, just to name a few. I now question the intelligence of everyone with a bumper sticker or snide comment. -I’m not proud of that. It’s upsetting to realize this has all been just under the surface of our great country for years. Festering and waiting for it’s chance to burst out into the mainstream.

We are told to blame the Russians, or the Liberals, or the right wing extremists. We are told that the other side is blatantly against us and there are conspiracies in play, (as Judge Kavanaugh openly stated without offering any proof, somewhat ironically). We are told that a different opinion is just stupid or overly sensitive. We’re told to pick a side and fight for your freedom or it will be taken away. We’re told that our constitution is unwavering and amendments can’t be amended, even with the reality of toddlers and children being gunned down-murdered at school. We are told to stand up and recite the chants and believe and trust in our ONE almighty God or you are an unpatriotic heathen. Oddly enough, the roots of our unique American freedoms are based on the exact opposite of all of that.

We are NOT told to believe in each other.
We are NOT told to trust each other
We are NOT told to listen to each other.
We are NOT told to respect each other.
-Something’s wrong here.

As a victim of sexual abuse as a child, I am highly discouraged that Dr. Ford’s accusation was not considered valid. The President mocked her for not accurately remembering all the details. Anyone that has been a victim of abuse knows that we don’t catalog our memories, but we do remember our abusers. I have documented the multiple accounts in which I was abused and not one of those accounts has the same accuracy within the timeline. I simply do not remember, and it bothers me a great deal. Sometimes, I’m not even sure of my age when they happened. It makes it very difficult to write about it. Frustrating and distracting.

I also have known for a while that it would be futile to accuse the person who molested me, because I have no proof. I know my word will not stand up against theirs. I have considered a suit against them, mostly because I fear I’m not their only victim, but since that person is not in any position to influence the lives of millions of people with the stroke of a gavel, I will not pursue them. If they WERE nominated for a position of extreme power, I would feel absolutely obligated to challenge their character. I would assume ALL of my friends and family would feel the same way.

There are psychological explanations for why victims don’t remember details. No psychological knowledge was aptly considered in these hearings. In fact, it was overlooked and mocked. It truly is shameful.

As a parent, I worry about my children’s future. I worry that our current culture of hate and blame will permanently damage the foundation of our country’s liberty and justice.

We, as a country, should be better than this. We Are better than this! Our founders envisioned a better way of life. Why is it such a battle? It could be so easy if only people could focus on the things that are really important. Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And not one of those things are defined as MY life, MY liberty, and MY happiness. Greed is not life. a lack of compassion and justice is not liberty, and wealth is not happiness.

Let’s stop spreading this virus of hatred.

It’s time to be kind. 

 

Patriotically signed,
Sidney V. Stephens