It's days like this that I wonder what kind of insanity I'm knee deep in. I'm pushing 40 for chrissakes. Married, with two kids, and a bigassed upside down mortgage on top. I am probably the whitest person in the world, but here I am carrying on "making beatz", and singing my half-assed songs on my half-assed blog that I incessantly self-promote to a network of former high-school buddies, cousins and co-workers who politely tolerate me on various social networks.
You said it, Mister Spock.
When I was like 20, I sold shoes at the "Rackroom" in an outlet mall out on I-95 on the way into or out of Savannah. There was a manager there, let's call him "Cecil", because that's not his real name, and google-fu being what it is, some day Cecil will probably read this at 2 in the morning with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a loaded pistol in the other, madly searching his own name on google to find a single shred of validation that makes him want to live another day.
Be cool Cecil. Relax, don't do it. I didn't used to think so, but you're okay by me man.
He was just that kinda guy though. Absurdly self-serious and clearly escaping into his hobbies with the urgency of a fighter pilot repeatedly pounding a broken eject button. Dude was a racer, had invested large amounts of money into his junk racecar, and had serious and obvious delusions about making it big on the pro circuit and no longer needing to cram pumps a size too small onto fat lady feet a size too big.
At the time I quietly thought to myself "Christ, whatever happens, don't let me be this guy". Actually that's not true at all. The perspective of youth (especially mine in that phase) was decidedly more arrogant and dismissive. My thoughts were more along the line of "What a loser, I'm so much better than this."
I haven't just turned into Cecil, I've way overtaken him. Holy shit, at least racecar crap is like, a culture sanctioned male activity. Fucknuts! I'm lightyears past that donkey on the pathetic scale ... I'm writing songs about my feelings and shit. Not only that, I'm engaging in race-inappropriate beat making, like some sort of 17 year old poseur with Auto-Zone snap-on spinners, a sparkomatic subwoofer in the trunk and a "type-R" sticker on the back.
Top that off with a nice side of narcissism, for the blogging and the social media and we've got ourselves a winner here folks. For self-hater of the year, I guess. Or something.
I do not know what I'm doing.
I can't even say really why I'm doing it other than this: Music is my goddam racecar.
Some part of my brain needs it. Maybe to perceive some order in the universe, maybe to speak the language that only my heart can utter, or maybe to fill that gaping void in my soul left behind by unreal expectations collapsed under the crushing weight of the real world.
There ain't nobody here than the referrer spam bots anyhow. But dammit, the masthead says "a year of beats", and a year of beats you shall have, my spammy robotic brethren!
I'm gonna see this project through, just for the hell of it, basically.
Because that's what Cecil would do, and so this one's for you, man ...
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