A Pompous Maelstrom of "Intellectual" Diarrhoea

Every now and then, each of us circles back to a question that plagues us all when we are marginally less sure of some aspect of ourselves. That question would be this:

“What the fuck am I doing with my life?”

Now I know you don’t necessarily have to use the beloved “F-Word”, or “F-Bomb” as some call it, to ascertain whether or not you are living up to your potential etc. Some of us, such as myself, like to use the F-word (let’s call it the “Fuck word” as to avoid any possible confusion) as a cheap way to instill some sort of artificial grit or toughness to their written word, and to come across super cool and modern. In reality, everyone knows I’m just a foul mouthed pu**y (HATE saying that word….) so I’ll just get back to locating some sort of point….

Oh yeah, here it is.

Wait, I lost it.

(Now first off, I would like to maintain that I know nothing about life and don’t pretend to have any kind of answers for those who find themselves asking the aforementioned question. I also know nothing of fashion, unless wearing garbage somehow becomes cool, but that’s not important right now. I’m just thinking “out loud” (quotation marks are cool, “bunny ear” hand gestures are the mark of a dildo) so to anyone foolish enough to read this blog, I cannot help you in any way whatsoever. It would be foolish of you to think so. Moron.)

**Editors Note: I just went out for coffee. I went to the Mermaid, and it was delicious. I will whole-heartedly endorse Corporate Monsters if they bring me deliciously consistent coffee, even if the stereo is pumping lifeless smooth jazz/Latin Coldplay covers. Holy Fuck-word is it good coffee. Okay, enough distractions. Gotta get back to the Nucleus. **

I have been thinking about what constitutes a worthwhile existence for a few days now, and I am no closer to a real answer then I was when I started. I have spoken to a few of my friends about their individual thoughts on their own lives and it is pretty funny to hear what they have to say. One friend is recently married to a beautiful girl, owns a very nice house, and has a great paying job, yet he still has a ton of things to complain about. His job bores and annoys him, the nice house is overshadowed by all the work that needs to be done on the fence for the dog, and he misses much of his pre-“made it” life. He thinks it is funny when I talk about being doubtful of my “artist” lifestyle. Sure, I have been lucky enough to have had some extremely cool experiences as a musician. I’ve performed in front of stadiums full of people, met and played with some hugely successful acts, have a fancy agent and manager, recorded in some phenomenal studios with incredibly talented engineers/producers, and several other really neat-o things. (I just read back that last sentence and I think it definitely makes me sound like a douche BRAG. I’m really not, so much of being a musician is un-cool, and it’s not like I’m a pretty singer who gets more vagina then a speculum with a cool moustache, so please don’t think I’m trying to sound cool. The use of the word neat-o pretty much napalmed any chance of cool happening.) But on the flip side, I am single (not unhappily single, but you know what I mean), don’t make as much money as my financially successful friends, and can’t really plan things such as vacations since my musical obligations outrank any alternate plans. The ragged, well-worn prostitute of a phrase “the grass is always greener…” certainly applies here.

So I’m still stuck with the thought “What the Fuck-word am I doing with my life?” bouncing around in my skull, as I am sure many of us are. In my relatively young 28 years of life on Earth (or Planet SteveRules, whichever you prefer) I have come to the (kinda) conclusion that the most powerful driving force behind me is passion. If you have passion for something, then it is in the doing where you find the reward, not in the end result. The western world is definitely very focused on Ends being the determining factor in one’s happiness, i.e.: If you have money, property, and toys then you are doing well. But if you earned all of those things by being gang-raped by mutant cacti, then I can’t really see that as much of a good time. I LOVE making music. When I think of some of the happiest and most rewarding moments of my life, I often think about when my band was recording in Toronto. Drinking shitty coffee with our producer Jeff till 7am while recording my bass tracks, all while the other guys are passed out on the couch; everyone so into the project that their bodies shut down long before their enthusiasm had a chance to wane. Listening to the instruments slowly meshing, overlapping; a zygote growing more and more cells until it eventually becomes a living, breathing, super gay analogy of a song. Everything about the creation of the music is so fulfilling, so life-affirming, that it leaves no “space for rent” for any thoughts of what else you could be doing in your life. There are a lot of areas of my life which desperately require more attention, but I definitely feel lucky to have some kind of outlet that makes me feel so alive. Music could never really be a hobby for me, because hobbies are just ways to pass the time between doing things you hate. Its Means, I think, that really make people happy. Then again, it could be Heroin. I have no idea, but I’ll stick to working on songwriting for now, and maybe a little blogging to exercise my inner (and outer) nerd.

Fuck-word.