Oh, good morning. I didn’t see you come in. I’ve been pondering my existence lately, and I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m either going to the zoo this afternoon, or going downtown to the art institute to check out the new modern wing. Either way, my baby’s coming too (thank you very much child protective services). The zoo is close and free and I could conceivably convince some buddies to go because, well, shit man, watching a little kid get stoked on penguins and shit is pretty fun. ALSO, we could keep our standing Tuesday lunch date with my friends Toby and Katie if we just went to the zoo. Me and the baby tend to head down to this closed up bar and watch kegs come in and eat lunch on Tuesdays.
Now, the Art Institute modern wing, that’s a different story. It’s an all day affair. It’s been getting built for a while and this week, the shit’s free. It’s down in the real busy part of town, so parking would be a bitch and it’s also the kind of thing that I don’t want to rush through, you know? It’s big and supposedly amazing, which makes sense, because the Art Institute is a world class museum. Millennium park is down there too, and it’s worth hanging out in just on its own, so yeah. It’s the question of WAY cooler day with way more effort, or pretty good day (probably better for the baby, honestly) with minimal effort and maybe a beer. Hmmm…
I think this has solved itself, don’t you? We’ll go to the museum tomorrow when my cleaning lady is here and we have to be out of the house. Fuck. I’m so smart and clever and good with my time…no wonder you guys read this fascinating blog! You’re right. It IS the best thing on the internet.
Nah, giving myself superlative accolades is just part of the existence pondering thing I’ve been doing. Definitely, filling my days up with things to do seems like a big part of what makes life uh…more bearable, I guess, but there’s always that lingering malaise. I mean, I don’t have an answer to what constitutes a good, solid existence, but I know that really nothing that anyone tells you is important actually is. I mean, right now, I’m involved in filmmaking, practicing for the falcon show on Saturday, preparing for a Lawrence Arms tour, writing this dumb blog, being a dad, writing songs for 2 bands (in the very limited time where I’m unencumbered by a baby’s mischief, able to make noise AND inspired [it’s like getting yhatzee, not impossible, but it doesn’t happen all the time either]), working a job that, while it’s unchallenging and kind of shitty, puts decent money in my pocket (which, these days is more than a lot of people can say, unfortunately), raising a pretty cute baby and cruising along in a pretty fun marriage and associating, in general with people who I think are interesting, and somehow I still feel vaguely dissatisfied all the time. What the fuck is that about? I mean, if creative challenges and family life don’t make you happy, what’s the answer? More money? I doubt it. I feel like if I had more money it would just be something else.
People always have a rap about priorities, but, and I’ve said this before, it’s all so fleeting that none of it makes sense. None of it makes you happy if the circumstances aren’t right. I mean, think about this, if tomorrow you woke up and everyone you knew was dead…let’s say there was a massive cataclysmic event…Yellowstone erupted, nah…bigger, a huge magnetic polar shift that just wiped out 90 percent of the earth, would you care if you suddenly had six pack abs or a great head of hair or a bank full of money? Nah…nothing matters at that point. Maybe, MAYBE you can point to something you’ve done and be a little bit happy. You may find solace in your offspring, there at the end of the world (a la the Road) “Oh, look at my kid,” you may say. “That’s a reason to live”…but he’s of course, dying, or at least in a lot of danger, right? I mean, you’re living in a post apocalyptic shitscape. Don’t fool yourself. He’s in trouble. So, that one’s a little bittersweet, to put it mildly. So you try something else to find happiness. “Oh, I can listen to my record, or read my book I wrote, or watch my movie or fondly look back over my portfolio.” Nah…that’s not really gonna do it either. What would make you happy at that point? Food. Someplace safe to live. Maybe a beer. That’s it. Nothing else in the world. When you’re on the brink of serious, serious shit, all that matters is safety and nourishment. Nothing else is gonna compare, in terms of satisfaction.
Well, we have that stuff, right? But as soon as that’s taken care of, suddenly there’s all this self actualization bullshit that comes along and takes over and makes everyone obsessed and pissed off and generally miserable. Oh, suddenly it’s back to being about abs or the quality of people you bang or the fact that you have writers block or weren’t good enough to be a pro lacrosse player or whatever. At any level, this is bound to happen. I don’t know what a carefree existence is like. To a person in Somalia, I’m already living one. Hell, to a lot of people on the southside of Chicago, I’m living one. But it’s not.
It’s interesting, Dogs of War…Because, there need not be a cataclysmic event to knock your world on its ass. You just need to be walking along with someone you love and see them get hit by a car. That shit happens every day…Or you, you could get hit by the car. No legs. Or you’re dead. I mean, you could just be sitting there, where you are RIGHT NOW and some shit could just randomly fall on you and hit you just right and you’d be dead. Just as dead as the people from Hiroshima, or in the twin towers or as the people who will die in the cataclysmic event that proceeds the survivors of said event eating each other’s legs to survive…Do you see what I’m saying, Sock Drawer? There’s nothing that’s gonna ever be satisfying out there, so do a little dancing and fucking and go to the art institute and the zoo and don’t let whatever’s bumming you out eat you alive. Because there’s NO WAY OUT. Your problem: insurmountable, right? Yeah, so’s everyone’s. Welcome to earth.
Yipes. Maybe we should talk about felching and jizz, or anything to lighten the mood, please.
Oh, and to comment on the comment from yesterdays Sock Drawer (the comments section, for any of you who have missed this monumental title bestowal) that suggested that my advice yesterday was off the mark, and that it flew in the face of my espousal of confidence as a magic panty peeler…Lying about something that you do not understand is a stupid thing to do. It is a transparently UNCONFIDENT thing to do. Confidence involves laying it out there, using your own good attributes, not faking the funk. I mean, by your logic, having a comb over is a more confident move than shaving your head. It makes NO sense. Either way, you can see right through that shit, man. No experience or no hair or no money or no whatever, the best thing to do is own it. (And, yes. Fine. Bullshitting your way through something CAN be a measure of confidence, but that’s if you’re already confident that you’ll be able to bullshit people. In that case, it’s not a question of being a confident ‘doctor’ it’s a question of being a confident ‘con artist,’ to borrow a situation from Catch Me If You Can). Look, just be the goddamned bald virgin with no money. And just rock that program. Trust me.