2011: A Celebration of Headstands

Was gonna ring in the New Year across town at the Swan & Firkin, but once again my condition is such that I'm too sick to go. Sucks. So I'm gonna do what any shut-in should do on New Year's Eve: reflect on the past year and get ready for the next.

I have half an hour left until 2012, so I'll make this quick.

2011:

The year in which ordinary people turned the world upside-down. And it's about goddamn time.

Arab Spring, OWS, Euro-Crisis, a full year of near-parity between Canadian and American currencies (with generous stretches in which the Looney outstripped the Greenback), some pretty decent movies, and the passing away of a couple petty dictators, along with somebody I consider one of the intellectual giants of our age. That's 2011.

 

Going back to what I said about movies: I just saw Rango last night, and don't see what all the complaining was about. I thought it was whimsical, creative, detailed, well-cast, and fucking hilarious. Why do people have to shit on awesomeness? Did you expect to learn something from a Verbinsky flick? Really? Just shut up and enjoy the funny already.

Dance music continued its triumphant return to respectability, with new stylings from DeadMaus and Skrillex (among others, but Izzy knows more about that*). Daft Punk should be proud... ish.

Politically the world has begun a remarkable headstand. With luck, we could be completely upside-down inside six months. It's gonna get worse before it gets better, but then it's gonna get better. Wheel keeps turning and all that shit.

 

Either that or the drugs my doctor gave me are actually starting to do something other than fuck up my digestion and scatter my thoughts in mid-sentence.

 

Speaking of which, it's been a deceptively eventful year for me too. Didn't get out as much as I'd hoped, but came to some stark and uplifting realizations about the nature of the universe. It happens.

 

For one thing, I finally let go of needing an afterlife to justify existence. That was a big one. Put my body back together, as much as can be expected under the circumstances. Awesome. Put in some good work at both the studio and the storyboard. Wicked.

I finally decided to be rid of my name. No sense carrying what slows you down.

 

And I managed to read most of Transmetropolitan. Need to find issues 10 & 11. Warren Ellis just might be a genius. Or a prophet... but I don't wanna think about that.

But seriously, if you have issues 10 & 11 of Transmet, gimme a shout. I don't wanna hafta steal off the web.

 

2012?

Be done recording that album I promised two years ago really soon. Two more songs to go, three if something happens at the last minute. It's the most cogent, unified thing I've ever done on my own. That ain't saying much, but I'm talking about a wide margin.

Started writing a book last week, almost by accident. Already jotting down points for one after that. Tell you more later. 

Of course I'll still be punching away at the blorg too, so look forward to more of whatever this thing is.

 

Anyway, that's 2012.

 

Oh... And the world will collapse into chaos before next Christmas. It'll then get ripped apart by competing gravitational forces when the sun, planets and several other systems line up in a manner that only happens once every six hundred and sixty-six centuries.

That's only if North Korea doesn't go ape-shit on us all first. Neil Degrasse Tyson hasn't said anything about that one yet.

 

Or, you know... A comet will wipe us out, and the cockroaches will finally get their kick at the can. Whatever. I guess "We're doomed" is the point I'm trying to make.

 

So anyway, Happy New Year. Sincerely.

 

See you in another present.

*although she's clearly thinking about something else at the moment.

 

 

My Own Private Dystopia

Wanna have some fun? Me too. Let's rewrite a classic: Thomas More's Utopia.

But first, a warning.

All dystopian sci-fi falls into two categories. You already know em, but for the sake of being a dick about it, here are two unnecessary paragraphs.

The first is 1984, a totalitarian society maintained by the cultivation and management of fear. Everybody is afraid of everybody. Either you're a government agent, or liable to rat me out to one. In essence, it's a fascist world with a micro-thin veneer of patriotic duty.

 

The second is Brave New World, an earthly paradise predicated on lies, drugs and pervasive engineering (civil, genetic or otherwise). It's like the pre-1865 American South. Except the slaves are literally born for work and nothing else, the gentry are born for leisure and 'being in charge,' and there's no Lincoln to make it all better.

 

A literary work of this order can have elements of both, but will always fall more heavily to one side or the other.

Just like in real life.

  

On the other side of the brain is Utopian fiction, which deals exclusively with fantasy. Seriously. The word "utopia" literally means "no place." It's an exercise (if you can all it that) in wondering what you would do if you won $20,000,000.00 in some lottery, or what the rules would be if you took over the world.

In other words, it's the third category of dystopian fiction: the ruler's point of view.

 

In the Case of Total Global Domination

 
I'd legalize every drug, revoke charity status for churches, pay Reparations (plus interest), throw dinner parties for the unemployed on Monday nights, give every new baby a gun, switch the weekdays and weekends around, and order NASA to start work on a solar-powered desalinizing affordable-house generator.

Yeah, I admit it. I would also take a bath in chocolate sauce, sky-dive off that ridiculous tower in Dubai, and change the rules so that supermodels have to exceed a certain weight-to-height ratio. Then I'd build my home in a vault, twenty-five miles below the surface of the Earth, with hydroponic food production (geothermic-powered) a sound-barrier-shattering elevator, bowling alley, shooting gallery, the collected works of Vincent Van Gogh, and GPON fiber optic service. Cuz I'm the king, and the king gets super-fast wifi.

 

After that, I'd probably have to abdicate before something crazy happened. I would already be considered a monster by enough special interest groups to derail any hope of ruling peacefully.

I'd have to buy em off, and that would mean starting down the slippery slope into dystopia.

Just like in Real Life. 

See you in another present.

 

Workers Rights vs Rights of the Rich

 

"The rules of economic globalization are likewise designed to benefit the rich: they encourage competition among countries for business, which drives down taxes on corporations, weakens health and environmental protections, and undermines what used to be viewed as the 'core' labor rights, which include the right to collective bargaining."

 

               - Jacob Sloan, disinfo.com

 

It makes sense from one perspective. Multinational corporations are obviously the ones who create the employment opportunities for the workers. In order to keep those giants (and by extension, the jobs they create) in your country, you gotta keep em happy. Competitive tax rates and few restrictions on their actions are the two most popular ways to do this.

 

Another key factor in the equation is a steady and reliable workforce. If you can't supply that, the giant has monetary muscle but no arms.

 

There are two ways to keep the workforce in place:

 

1. Safe and healthy working conditions, competitive wages and benefits packages. These are favored by workers, for obvious reasons. In essence, bribery.

 

2. Desperation and intimidation. Pay enough to keep people coming back the next day, and beat them if they ask for a raise. These are favored by multinational corporations and governments. They're cheaper and easier to organize.

 

From the former, you get companies into bidding wars for the best workers, offering the best conditions and compensation for talent. Workers in these situations are happy, productive and long-serving (they actually live longer).

 

From the latter, you don't get workers who are happy or productive. You get the bare minimum - just enough to keep from getting fired. You might also notice that your employees resent you. Resentment builds. Shit happens.

 

Unfortunately, it's simpler to keep a corporation happy. Their needs are simple: profit and growth. And they're all pretty much the same. Some are governed more conscientiously than others, but they all show the basic signs of psychopathy.

 

Workers are problematic because they are individual people, which are all different and rarely agree. Some of them are psychopathic too, but in this case it's the exception rather than the rule.

 

Neither group is ever entirely happy. Corporations are - by charter and by law - unsatisfied. Profit and growth must be followed by more of the same. If either stops, the corporation dies.

 

Or they get a massive, tax-funded bail-out. Something about that still smells illegal somehow. Whatever.

 

But we need them, right? They are the economic engines of the world. Without them, we go right back to sustenance farming. Right? That's what the world was like before corporations were declared persons under the law, right?

 
What if companies continue to grow but stop creating jobs? Then what's the point of keeping them around?

 

"Imagine what the world might look like if the rules were designed instead to encourage competition among countries for workers. Governments would compete in providing economic security, low taxes on ordinary wage earners, good education, and a clean environment — things workers care about."

 

               - also Jacob Sloan, disinfo.com

 

That only works if all the countries do it at once. If not, then the "job-creators" go to whatever countries are still desperate enough to kowtow to their demands.

It's naive to think the above scenario will ever play out, but cynical to dismiss the erosion of workers' rights. Yeah, things are worse for workers in Bangladesh or Indonesia. Is that sufficient reason to blow off the indignation of workers in better - but declining - circumstances? Are those the kinds of jobs we want, and the companies we want setting up shop here?

Guessing here, but no.

A grassroots boycott doesn't work. Not enough people care. Need pressure from higher up. Trade restrictions. Truly ban the sale of sweatshop products in your country, and enforce those bans.

Truly punitive fines for companies that violate the terms might be effective. You can't incarcerate a corporation, but you can hit em where they live. Fines in the millions don't deter; they are considered the cost of doing business. Hit em up for billions. Watch em shape up.

I'm not talking about punishing the rich for being rich. More like punishing the greedy for being colossal, international douchebags. Force companies to treat their employees like people, not indentured or disposable servants. Make that the mandate. Profit and growth don't need to be legislated.

Who knows? They might like it. Probably not, but does it matter?

See you in another present.

The Ugly, Beautiful Tree

When I was a kid, I didn't understand my friends' Christmas trees at all.

 

First, they all looked like they'd been decorated exclusively by grown-ups.

 

All the decorations were color-coordinated, the lights were all one color (usually white, sometimes blue or red), and there wasn't a scrap of tinsel on em.

 

Like, YAWN.

 

Usually the star didn't even light up, or there was some creepy-looking angel up where the star should be.

 

MY family's tree had personality. Like the way Herb Tarleck had personality.

Gross, dying, freeway-accident personality.

 

First, it was a real tree. I knew this cuz I was there when the family and two or three other families headed down Highway 5 to some random spot, parked on the side of the road and disappeared into the woods.

 

Invariably my folks would pick out a blue spruce. Another family had a two-story-high living room in their DIY log house, so they were Jack Pine fans. My dad never got that. Sure they're tall, but ragged and ass-ugly.

Ugly or not, they make a killing posing as models.

 

That appraisal of the mighty Jack Pine will be funny in a minute.

  

Finding the tree, sawing it down and tying it to the top of the van/car/truck would take upwards of 4 or 5 hours. I honestly can't remember for sure, cuz I was a kid and had no concept of time.

 

We'd get the tree home (and by "we," I mean Dad). Then he'd struggle with the Christmas tree base from a hundred years ago with minimal help from his progeny.

 

We were more interested in tearing through the decorations.

 

That's where it gets ugly.

 

This is as close as I could find to a picture of it.

Doesn't even come close.

 

Over the course of a decade, my folks' Christmas tree decorations collection had gone from a matched set that had been more or less tasteful in the mid-1970s, to a haphazard mass of leftovers that had yet to be broken, two strings of mismatched lights that covered the entire spectrum, and - worst of all - shit their children had made in kindergarten.

 

The tree held it all up like a big gaudy gallows, strewn with enough tinsel to choke a horse. It was like LMFAO had moved into Alistair Crowley's house and redecorated the dead things out front.

Apparently Crowley lived in a house more or less like this one, with dead things in the front yard that would sort of grab at you as you walked by. Kept the neighbors' kids outta the yard anyway.

 

Try to imagine what these two would do to it.

Then imagine that vision as a tree.

 

When it was finished we'd stand back in awe, and eat dinner in the living room, alternately taking in the tree's awful glory and watching either the Grinch or the Charlie Brown thing.

By comparison, we won.

 

A little over a decade ago my folks moved to Ontario, where cutting down trees on Crown land is a bit more complicated. They bought farmed trees for a couple years, then my mom cracked and bought an artificial one.

 

My sister - the family badger for traditions - howled briefly before seeing the reasoning.

 

Mom also bought new decorations. The old ones had mysteriously disappeared during the move.

 

Like, I dunno.

I love the old decorations, and I woulda let you finish, but...

Seriously. I have no idea where they are.

Try LMFAO's house.

 

It wasn't until a couple years ago that I was at my folks place for Christmas and mentioned how nice the tree looked, and my mom said "Yeah... Remember how god-awful our trees used to be?"

Actually, no.

And I didn't notice the notice that I hadn't noticed either.

 

Not until she mentioned it. Our trees really were ass-ugly monstrosities. Not exactly sacrilege or an insult to the Man in Red, but at least an embarrassment to blue spruce trees everywhere.

 

Like burying your grandfather in a clown suit or something.

 

On a separate and totally unrelated note, I more or less understand my friends' trees now.

Getting Through Christmas (for Dummies)

   Rock the X-Mess Bells by RealDukeBuzzy

Enjoy the show.

Warning: Christians beware. The following post contains references to Jesus that stand in stark contrast to hundreds and hundreds of years' worth of prophetic tinkering. So you'll be offended on some level or other.

Just remember: I'm not doing this to ruin Christmas or run a personal attack on God. It's just some innocent fun and a poetic expression of how much I hate shopping.

What Christmas is all about.

The reason it's in December? That's a different story.

The Meaning of Christmas

Christmas is a time for family.

Time to take 3 days off, hang with the family for a day and a half (and enjoy Mom's cooking for the first time in you-forget-how-long), then head back to your awful life. Won't even have time to watch "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" or the Charlie Brown thing. Just run up, say "Merry Christmas," open a couple boxes, then head out again.

Then take a day to recover. Need a holiday to get over the Holidays.

...and to recycle the tree.

On the other hand: Christmas is a time for stressing out, working your tail off, taking whatever spare time is afforded you to shop til you drop, drinking yourself into a stupor, telling the Legend of the Space Baby for a couple days (followed by an account of the 3 Chinese guys who brought the baby presents), and trying not to offend your Jewish, Hindu, Muslim, Atheist and/or Pagan brothers and sisters by wishing them a Merry Wrong Holiday.

That's the Grown-Up version. Sort of.

It is also a time to preserve the myth of Saint Coca-Cola for anybody under the age of 7 years.

Grinchy? Maybe. Yeah, probably.

Wait... Don't you have to steal shit to be the Grinch? Well... I did steal all these pictures, technically.

Recognizing the value of a tradition reaching back over a millenium (maybe longer, as sources are sketchy) of giving gifts, I like the notion of reminding people in your life that you love them and want them to be happy.

It's a good way to get through the winter's darkest days. Christmas comes just when you need it the most. Being human, we can't be expected to do it every day, so it's a good idea to have at least one day a year devoted to this.

Thank God it's only one day. The preparations for it are such a cacophony of commercialism, avarice, hostile crowds, foot pain...

An architectural marvel, a towering work of art, a testament to the power of Capitalism, and a mad pain in the ass to walk through in December. But it's no American Wal-Mart, so at least there's no pepper spray.

If every day was Christmas, I'd be swinging a tire iron within a week. It's a good annual holiday. Happy to keep it that way, and I'll look forward to it every year til I die, the world ends, or civilization falls apart.

Whatever happens first.

But if I hear another crappy pop song with the word "Christmas" in the title, I'm gonna go all word-stabby on some singer. Michael Bolton, I'm looking at you.

The SNL skit was funny and all, but I'm still mad about having to put up with you at work all last Christmas.

Peace on Earth, and good will for now.

See you in another present...

 

Forgot Your Name, Remember Your Category

I am a world full of prisons.

A name is a number, number a name.

Once I know your name, I know you.

Knowing is victory.

Victory is conquest.

Conquest is overrated.

Prison is full.

  

Things By Name, People By Purpose

I don't actually know anybody. I have friends, enemies and acquaintances, but I don't think any of us know each other.

This is because of bad habits.

When we met, I did a cursory evaluation of your appearance, speech patterns, costume and apparent character traits. A few details have changed since then with new information, but that only means I still keep a file.

I'm a lo-tech Facebook!

I have you in a category. Like I do with everybody I meet.

Before reaching the age of reason, I reflexively and very quickly determined that I was a tiny universe, and its outer manifestation was separated into things. Later I noticed some of these things were a lot alike. So I kept them in categories.

Before reaching the age of compassion, I reflexively and very quickly determined that people were different from each other, in spite of their similarities. Later I figured out the degrees by which people were the same and different. So I started putting them in categories.

I was a very judgmental child.

Categories are for things. They name a thing not by its individual nature, but by whatever it has in common with all the other things like it.
  

What works with things doesn't always work with people.

 

You can know a thing by its name. All the other things like it have the same name, indicating its use.

Of course, things don't generally have whole universes in them, filled with ideas, feelings, experiences and identity, so you don't need to name each one something different. Categories are sufficient.

That's how categories are helpful.

You can know a person by its name. Most of the other people like it won't have the same name. But you can know a person's type by its category. So you have to objectify the person first, then put it in a category.

 Like this. Sort of.

So doing, you will ignore the ideas, feelings, experiences and identity you just put into a box. You keep them out of the equation, isolating the other person.

That's how categories can be hurtful.

It's a good plan if you're into racking up numbers. Keeps you focused on the goal at hand. So with advertising, policy development and telling various kinds of jokes.

Not helpful if you want to actually relate to people though.

                   Eye sees.            Brain interprets.

It's creature with many arms and long reach. Turns everybody you meet into food or machines - consumable or useful.

On a lighter note, it probably isn't as bad as all that. We all do it, and it hasn't hurt us any, right? I mean, I've been objectified plenty of times, and sometimes it's very nearly a compliment.

Am I the only one who thinks it's weird that this is used more often to describe people than soup?

 

See you in another present...

Real Live Chicken, Real Live Monkey

Most or all of this will be pretty obvious stuff. That's where I'm a Viking.

But it's gonna be fun. For me anyway. Just get a chicken and a monkey, put em in the Octagon & see what happens.

I can't believe this picture exists. Thank you HabzHockey.

 

Okay, now... Time to get serious. I'm going on the record. When it comes down to the question of a real live chicken and a real live egg, the egg came first.

 

I got science for this. And you can too. But first the incumbent belief:

 

Genesis (that's in the Bible, in the unlikely event that you don't know) lays out a scenario in which the chicken comes first. The author (Moses, I think) doesn't mention the chicken by name, but does make a sweeping reference to the birds of the air, the fish in the sea, and everything that creeps on land; chickens fall within that category.

God then saw to it that all these critters would multiply. For chickens, that means eggs.

 

So the chicken arrived first. Simple.

 

Future Nobel Laureate.

Evolution is a theory better misrepresented than an Iranian citizen.

In Chapter 1 of "On the Origin of Species," the author (Darwin, I think) lays out something a little harder to swallow - the idea that the egg came first. 

 

Apparently it had been demonstrated earlier that "unnatural treatment of the embryo causes monstrosities; and monstrosities cannot be separated by any clear line of distinction from mere variations." (from the experiments of Geoffrey St Hillaire).

 

In other words: If you dose an embryo with radiation, alcohol or any other thing it shouldn't have, it'll turn out different than if you'd left it alone.

 

Our boy Charlie was inclined to take it a bit further, theorizing that variations in progeny could more commonly be attributed to variations in male and female reproductive elements. Not in the overall organism, but just their naughty bits (since they're the most fragile bits; ever been kicked in the nuts? You know...).

 

In other words: Mutations are also the natural result of changing environments and the effects of same on the parents of the mutant. They're just not nearly as dramatic as what happens when you blast a first-term pregnancy with gamma rays.

Hulk SMASH puny natural selection!

 

Most of these mutations served no useful purpose at the time, and led nowhere (or to the mutant's early death).

 

The underwhelming minority of these mutations gave the mutant in question an advantage for survival over its brothers and sisters. It's just luck, for lack of a better word.

 

This wouldn't have mattered much, since in less than a hundred years they would all be dead anyway. But the mutant chronologically stood a better chance of reproducing, passing its unique advantage down to its progeny.

 

It's a little thing, but it helped.

 

From there, Darwin theorized that these mutations continued to sort out who survived what over the course of millions of years, blah-blah-blah-you-know-the-rest-of-it.

 

At no point anywhere in the theory of evolution did Charlie Darwin indicate that a monkey gave birth to a human. That would be stupid.

 

Doesn't care about Nobel Prize.

  

We're not monkeys. Almost nobody believes we are. Evolutionists and Creationists can agree on this. I reckon that's where the common ground ends.

 

Good news though: Did you know there are people out there who believe in God and Darwin? Better still, they believe in the Judeo-Christian God, and - having actually read and thought about both the Bible and On the Origin of Species - see no reason to choose between the two.

 

It's all straw anyway, according to your best theologian.

 

Creationism is not a requisite for belief in a Prime Mover, but a crutch for the gullible git. Not stupid people, but credulous.

 

It isn't an insult. Ignorance isn't something you can't change about yourself. It's harder to change this kind of ignorance if you don't trust reason though.

 

Evolution is all but proven. And by "all but proven," I mean it is proven if you believe that your senses and reason can be trusted.

 

If not, there's no sense in argument and no reason to speak.

 

Answer: Moses, David, Solomon, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Peter and Paul... and probably a few Greek & Roman converts too. Go back to bed and have another prophetic dream.

 

Join us next time, when our hero takes on Theocracy vs Secular Dictatorship... and wins, because they're exactly the same thing!

 

See you in another present...

 

Born for Blackjack

There are no guarantees.

Whatever you do for a living, it's a gamble. Especially if you're a professional gambler.

Even if you grow potatoes for a living (for which the odds of success are significantly better), you still risk blight, drought, flood, tornado, fire, and the Wrath of God.

 

I've heard it called the most honest job in the world.

What the brain says, the gut does not believe. That's one of the reasons we have professional gamblers like Steven Spielberg, Stephen Harper and Stephen King. The odds of success for any of them were really bad, but they rolled anyway and eventually won.

If only he could quit while he's ahead...

What worked for others probably won't work for you. That's one of the reasons we have people you've only heard of because their your coworkers, classmates or kin. They've decided on a safer game, and play it well enough to make it work.

Distance in rear-view may be further than it appears.

Then you get people who can't play the safe game, but lack the courage to play for big stakes.

As much as they can reasonably describe the world, they don't trust their own description. They must not, because that description and their interactions with the world don't add up.

 

Look at this for 3 minutes:

 

By my own behavior, you'd never know I wrote and narrated that.

I love Hip Hop. The culture, not the records on the radio. I love how the collaborative nature of it brings together some of the most surprising works of art.

The obvious and classic example...

 

I also love how it used to be that you ran a narrow but distinct chance of getting stupid rich off it. Odds of success have gotten a little better lately, but at the cost of diminishing the potential return.

 

These guys got next.

 

As a kid & right through to my twenties, I wanted nothing else but to be part of exactly this kind of thing. Was on the way too - writing, performing, recording & reaching out. Even made national radio and TV for it. Not bad for a dorky little shit from up north.

Then I fucked up by going to college. That's a mistake for anybody who goes without knowing how it relates to what you wanna do with your life.

All fell apart in 1995 when the symptoms reached a breaking point. Symptoms for what, we didn't know. Just knew something had gone really wrong. I thought it was the world. Turned out to be my brain.

This is what dropping out felt like.

This is closer to what happened. 

Without getting into it again, here's a quick recap: A lot of years got wasted not knowing. A lot more got spent trying to know why, and how to deal. The last few have been the best so far.

Then this happened:

They keep telling me it was my idea. All I said was "mixtape."

 

From the mixtape came the idea to hold open auditions. From that came the idea of a charity fundraiser for Mike "Piecez" Prosserman's child, the UNITY Charity. One of my fellow studio interns got hold of Mindbender and brought him on board. The legendary Brownman Ali somehow got involved, to my delight. Mic Boogie agreed to host. Big Spesh K, Robbie G, and a heap of TO locals turned in some wicked performances.

 

It was totally out of control, yet somehow good things were happening. More than a year later, they're still happening. I'm glad to have been a part of this, and my small contribution has - with my gratitude - been blown way out of proportion.*

  

Weekly showcase resumes in 2012.

 

It's good to be appreciated for what you love doing, and what you flatter yourself to think is the one thing you're really fucking good at.

 

I took a lot home from it. I have the knowledge that I started a ball rolling that has brought some good and talented people together, who are now making awesome music, fun videos and lots of other cool stuff.

 

I also have the CD, a hard-copy reminder that I did something awesome.

  

Got the memories of production, promotion & the big event, and all the skills that came with em.

 

But when the curtain comes down, you're still flat broke.

  

No, no, no... flat BROKE, not flat BED.

 

Getting a job is easy. Keeping the job is easy. Becoming indispensable is easy. Keeping my head together on the job...

 

It becomes a question something like this: "Do I leave now on good terms, or wait til I become I liability and they're glad to see me go?"

 

How do I know that's the choice? Unvarying precedent. Except with the studio, but that's not what you'd call a livelihood. Internships don't pay.

 

Good news: The internship equipped me with a mountain of knowledge. Most of it's good, and some of it's unpleasant (like the realization that it doesn't pay the bills). But hey... I learned how to EQ properly, a few better uses for delay effects, and I can blog now.
 

It's something to do. Thank you Mr Jones.

 

Bad news: The thing I'm good at (the thing I can do well without losing the important kind of sanity) doesn't pay the bills.

 

Yeah, I've signed up with a very nice A&R company with a really solid reputation, but every week is a craps shoot. There are no guarantees that it will ever pay off. It hasn't so far anyway, and it isn't cuz I'm slouching. Cuz I ain't.

 

Life doesn't come with guarantees. There are good odds and bad odds. Good odds come with low risk and low (but reasonable expectations of) return. Bad odds come with high risk and often without return.

 

Sadly, for me good odds also come with diminished motivation, depleted mental energy, lack of hope for the future, complacency, and inevitable mental collapse.

  

 

Born for Blackjack, but the House keeps winning.

Doesn't matter. I keep playing. I don't know if the odds change every time I lose or not. Don't really care. Gotta play the next round. If not, what's the point in hanging around?

See you in another present.

*I made some beats & dropped some vocals. That ain't work to me.