10-1-03, 10:42 AM -
Wild times. Days are spent writing, mailing, and planning, early evenings are for rehearsing and limbering up my voice, & nights run late online, hunting down places to send promo discs. The Indie Bible has been a big help, as has Oasis. I'm now up for sale at Amazon.com (yeah, I know, I'm trying to get the cover art uploaded), CDStreet.com, and CDBaby.com. I hope to be up on Apple iTunes soon.
Not to be a bossy-butt, but you might go write me some nice reviews on those sites, when you get a moment. I'd appreciate it. Hell, I might even show you my cyst.
So much to do, so much to be done. The question, of course, is how does this thing work? How does one go from 9-to-5 temp to touring musician? There are a million huckster websites & books that claim to have the answer, but I've actually looked through them & there's a certain amount of that those-who-can't-do-teach vibe going on.
I don't think there is a standard form. The artists I respect all came up in different ways, at different times, and under different winds of societal change. They didn't know how it worked either, so they just did it the way that felt right at the time. I'm pretty clear on how it DOESN'T work, at least as far as my ouvre is concerned. Sports bars begone...
It was helpful to watch American Splendor recently. Harvey Pekar's story is somewhat depressing, yes, but also hopeful. The 30-odd years he worked as a file clerk in Cleveland of all places were no doubt excruciating.
I've only spent 13 years in the world of crappy dayjobs, & that's excruciating enough. But what you get from that time is experience. Perspective. Material. I read lyrics I wrote 10 years ago and I damn near have to vomit. I ain't one of your precocious child geniuses here. I'm more like your 81-year-old toothless bluesman. Who's more interesting, anyway.
So it's possible that what I now perceive as 12 years coming to fruition is in fact the very beginning of a 20- or 30-year climb to some sort of stalwart notoriety. How it works, damned if I know. But this is all I know how to do, so I guess let's get on with it already.
10-3-03, 9:19 AM -
Nuthin' to do, gotta contemplate my navel. It's interesting, the things you notice when you're not working.
Our office is a big U, with me in the little tail of the U. In one hallway, you've got three white guys and Halle Berry. In the second hallway, you've got Mr. Golf Whitey and Mr. Old Golf Whitey. And in my hallway, you've got an Asian man, an Indian man, and Eartha, a black Caribbean woman.
Is it just me who wonders a little bit?
WOW. I just received the most amazing work perk ever. It's a dildo! Or rather, it's a light-up Viagra promo pen in a certain UNMISTAKABLE SHAPE. Mr. Golf Whitey's wife apparently works for Pfizer, & he figured I might want one. Gee...thanks...
1:01 PM -
Just got back from Mickey D's. Asked for a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese, got bacon on it without paying for it. Maybe the counter lady is sweet on flashy-dressing honkies.
Yessir, got the new black Rockport wingtips on, black Men's Wearhouse slacks (you can't tell that the zipper tab has come off), black polo shirt, & black leather jacket. With my East Village rectangle specs & shaggy needs-a-damn-haircut 'do, I am the picture of eccentric New Yorkitude.
Or a Texan who really thinks no one can tell.
I still look up at the pretty buildings far too often to be a native. Natives love their city, but somehow don't give a shit about it at the same time. I remember telling Technobob that I was going to show my in-laws the Chrysler Building and Grand Central Station during their visit.
"Why?" was the predictable response. New Yorkers are proud of their cool shit, but sometimes they really have no idea why it's cool.
For instance, on my way to and from the ristorante just now, I passed the following:
- A fur-and-diamond encrusted old lady carrying a shivering dachshund.
- A 1970s Turkish assassin.
- The black butler from every black & white movie ever.
- About 10 runway models, or those vying for the job.
- A dark-suited Russian shoe salesman who was once a KGB man or I'll eat my hat.
- An old man with orange-streaked hair and ruffly sleeves.
- An overweight woman standing in front of the Atkins Center, reading a tribute piece to the good doctor in the window.
- An Asian businessman climbing into a Rolls Royce with the darkest windows in Christendom.
- A man I first mistook for Vincent D'Onofrio (of Law & Order Criminal Intent, Men In Black, and Full Metal Jacket fame), but who wasn't.
- A man attempting to walk four pugs.
Dang.
Picked up this little free tabloid that apparently covers happenings in the Hamptons. Haven't been out to Long Island yet. I missed my chance to hit some beaches out there this year, darn me. Oh, well. Going to the beach up here is like going surfing at Lake Texhoma. It just ain't what it oughta be.
Started exercising again. It just had to happen. My stage suit's been kinda hanging on me like a sheet on a cadaver. Gotta get something substantial happening up top. Doing the old Tae Bo, at least to start with.
The last time we went on an exercise kick, I was hauling around 50 extra pounds, & I can feel its absence. I used to feel like I'd just run a mile underwater after that workout, but now it's only a little sweat & a bit of aching in the Forgotten Muscles. Of course, we exercise more just traveling to work here than we ever did in Tejas.
I have, however, become a bit spoiled by the bigass escalator at my East Side subway station. All of my home stations are still stairs-only for the most part, but I appreciate luxury when I can get it.
Been riding the E train now, since the bus schedule seems to still be fucked up from the UN thing last week. The blue line trains (A, C, E) are by far the ugliest in the system. Okay, maybe the occasional red barn trains on the 7 line beat 'em out for ugliness (these have their fans, though).
For the high-fallutin' districts the E serves, one might expect a bit of fanciness now & then, but I guess the rich types all drive or Express Bus in from the suburbs. What's left are functionaries like me, eatin' our McMuffins & looking flashy in a rather poor sort of way.
Right, time for filing. Paperless office, my arse-crack. It'll never happen. The digital world is too ethereal, too non-corporeal for anyone to believe information is safe there. Print it out, stick it in the filing catacombs, and suddenly it's all right.
Where it can be found 2 years from now, who the fuck knows.
