[1135] Fuck Me

For the first time in quite a while, I've been in something of an anxiety hole for several hours. It's been brewing, but a comment/joke my friend made sort of sent it into overdrive? I don't know, my head's not where it needs to be.

Very little seems to "just work out," in my life. That is, I make plans, and until relatively recently, I had absolutely no one who I could trust to follow through on them besides my dad. I could drag someone out to a rushed or not-that-into-it outing extremely occasionally. Anything to do with work or something "professional" went to shit in dozens of ways over many months. Alone, I can do little bits of things here and there, or make the drive, or spend the money, but at the pace of someone alone.

In a very important sense, I feel extremely alone. This in no way speaks to the support and time spent with my people, again, relatively recently. My psychology is built on the idea that pretty much everything sucks, is broken, is trying to fuck me, or is waiting for a moment to send me spiraling the second I try to hope or believe. I don't know how many years of security I would have to live in order for this not to remain true about me. I am primed for disaster, and when that storm of influences throughout the day and living circumstances add up, I'm back, miserably "home" in my propensity to panic.

Of course, as an older person who's developed a habit for writing, "panic" looks a lot different than it did years ago. The experience isn't fogging my brain entirely, my heart isn't racing, my stomach barely drops, I'm getting out ahead of my jaw clenching before an overwhelming headache creeps in. I'm breathing deliberately, stretching my mouth, and searching for the story of why my life isn't actually a plane spiraling towards the ground.

I've said a number of times that had DCS not turned into a bleeding hellscape of wanna-be police and judgmental aggression, I'd probably still be doing that job. I loved using power responsibly, decoding the scariness of the State into actionable steps for my families, and juggling what's fundamentally too much work for any remotely healthy individual. I was really fucking good at it, I knew my place, and I taught myself I could fit, somewhat, in an environment I was absolutely convinced was not for me. I applied to a case manager position in Spencer.

Do I think they'll hire me? No, not as long as Laura is anywhere near this region's management. Here is precisely where the panic-spiral thoughts might begin.

I did NOTHING inappropriate, "cheating," illegal, or remotely questionable at my job. That is, besides develop a strong opinion about how we should and should not treat families. This got me blackballed from beginning my own case managment company that was 1 day away from getting contracted with DCS until Laura showed up. That thing I'm good at, with developed relationships all over town, and an eye towards bringing that efficiency and value to more people was shit on just as consciously and deliberately.

That's a bit of a shock to a newfound angle on your identity. I pivot to doing counseling things. Lo and behold, the same negligence, overwhelming schedules, disorganization and disregard exists across human services. So, again, I look to venture out on my own. Who do I pick a battle with next? Insurance companies, and lying middle-men who waste over a year of our time not getting us empaneled with them. What don't I offer? Any harm-reduction medication. What do people want? To find themselves stuck and comfortable in something familiar and bills their insurance.

I'm here after years of fighting to do something I've a proven track record of doing incredibly well, but for myself, or for a wage that allows me to get things like health insurance and a decent car without debt. My options are to either join almost perfectly corrupted greed and negligence machines, or stare into the void of a million other specialties that I'd have to spend weeks learning the language alone or semesters, and money I don't have, getting newly certified in. I can join these places and pay 35% of my already pathetic salary to keeping a car alive and donate approximately 75-85% of my free time in service to them in one form or another.

It's hard not to feel like I'm being unfairly punished like when I was a child. When I ran up against my mom's ego and insecurities is when I got the most shit beat out of me. It wasn't that I was so offensive and particularly destructive as a child. It was when I wasn't willing to submit. This wall of intransigence and proud smug gatekeeping and obfuscation throws me back into childhood. It's as visceral a reminder that nothing makes sense and nowhere is fair as I can ever get.

I know I'm not alone. The whole fucking world is addicted, anxious, depressed, or right on the verge as we all pretend to play middle-class. But that's the nature of your suffering, it's yours, and if you developed a habit to do so from a crippling loneliness tied to your fruitless efforts to belong, be recognized, or god forbid excel, in the words of so many condescending cunts, "good luck."

It's, somehow, even harder once you've tried. I have money from people who have seen the value in what I do. I have dozens if not well over a hundred professions from people testifying and explaining what my impact has been on their lives. I have hundreds more bullshit explicitly not supportive blown air up my ass sentiments about how important the work I'm doing is and what a meaningful and blah fucking blah job I'm doing. Something, somewhere, in this fucked up universe of ours refuses to just let me do what I'm good at and be evenly compensated for it. I don't get to balance. I have to swing between extremes because…anyone?

The living environment that allowed me to save the most cash was wholly precarious, changing constantly and without notice. The "most stable" jobs I've had require the complete subjugation of your will and morals. The most lucrative for the amount of time and effort drug studies require me to keep my fucking heart rate in check which went wildly out the fucking window the exact moment I had everything paid off and was gearing up to live on the land with thousands in the bank ready to go. That was years ago and I still suffer that "white coat syndrome" just thinking about screening. I had done consistent back-to-back studies for 2 years before that moment.

I would do nearly ANYTHING to just "keep my head above water." I don't care if it's counseling. I don't care if it's working for $5 an hour just doing all the little shit you hate to do. If my bills are paid, my time is mine, and I'm working towards something or someone that meaningfully represents my values and what I've been striving for my entire adult life, I will make it work. I dream of getting to work with my dad on the grave cleaning business. I keep half-joking, but not really, about being friends' personal assistants who have better access to funds. I've spent countless hours researching roles, niches, "weird" ways to scrape buy that don't cost more than they're worth.

I should be talking to people. The value they profess should have me never thinking about how the bills are getting paid or any amount of debt. In a world that made any fucking sense ever, that's what would be happening, and would have kept happening since I left the State in 2020. My last job should have honored the contract they hired me under and made me fully remote so I could have comfortably paid for the indefinite transition period of being a stable-enough non-profit.

I compound my suffering because part of my story is of scaling back, to again the extreme, my expectations and expenses. The last couple years notwithstanding, I've needed $5,000 to $10,000 to "basically live" each year. That's without health or home insurance. That's without a car that's likely to last more than a couple years. That's in my fort in cousin-fuck Indiana. That's eating many, many ham sandwiches, hotdogs, and tacos. I've spent almost my entire adult life trying to cut back, save, or wait for the moment I was "more stable." You think part of my spree to see "every band and comedian" isn't the recognition that I'm going to be 36 in less than a month and I've still got approximately the same problem I've had since I was 16? I went to like 6 concerts between 2007 and 2020 and saw a handful of comedians at The Comedy Attic.

I compound my suffering in knowing my capacity. I learn fucking quicker than shit. You give me the directions or coherent instruction and definitions, I will master whatever the fuck the thing is you do in less than month during business hours. No job exists that is so complicated some asshole didn't learn how to do it, and your particular field lingo and acronyms can be digested. You don't follow policy, just the 3 or 4 you've egregiously fucked up in the past or whatever's been updated that year, and only for the first few quarters. Numbers? Give me the 12 equations and 3 pieces of software you use. Documentation? I worked for the State. I can memorize dozens of forms.

I have the energy. I have the intention and will. I've ran so many experiments. I've spent so much money trying to fill in gaps in my perspective or for alleged "professionals" who can talk in circles and deliver nothing, but command insane hourly rates. I've tried working with friends. I've pitched myself in service to time-consuming work for family. I've tried enabling girlfriends. I've tried doing several odd-jobs concurrently while donating plasma and filling out online focus group bullshit. I've put in dozens of applications for anything remote to the tune of hundreds of spam emails. I just don't fucking know, dude.

There is nothing screaming louder at me than what feels like a perfectly noble and reasonable position of being the supportive, knowledgeable, energetic, accountable person I've been able to demonstrate across my roles be it social work or otherwise. WHY CAN'T I FIND A PLACE WHERE THAT MATTERS!? Dan Price is the only mother fucker on the planet trying to make it so?

[1053] A Little Stroll

Let’s meander a bit. It’s 12:33 PM. I’ve been awake since 9, up around 10, and beyond coffee and scrolling, haven’t locked into a precise drive or motivation. I’m headed to The Comedy Attic tonight for Ron Funches. I don’t even really want to write this, as I immediately clicked away and began searching through the club’s website.

I think there’s few thoughts that are more reoccurring than how often I’m by myself. I think I antagonize this by being extroverted and going out. When I have creative energy it’s the absolute worst. I get to tell myself the jokes, which still makes me laugh, but isn’t the same. I really need to up my game in finding new connections or spots. It’s not a problem to let compound.

At the same time, I know people are shit. I have to get a ahead of what will be an increase in the other pool of thoughts that accompany doing things alone. I'll never be the one getting invited. I’ll hear about how busy and poor people are. Inevitably the particularly off-color joke won’t land and the chasm that opens up will mean I’ll want to ensure there’s several pots cooking at once.

If I had any sense, I’d focus more on cleaning up the yard and getting trash thrown out. It’s quite hot. I’ve gotten more of my inside environment organized and rearranged. All that’s left is maybe 20 minutes of making dish storage more coherent. I’m staring dead into the heart of my guitars, sax, and piano. I have approximately 7 hours to kill before I need to be in line to not get a shit table.

There’s so much time. I always have the time. Why do I always have time and so many never have any? Why take on debt for things that only bring you stress instead of fun or growth? Why am I able to answer my phone or text you that I saw the call? I’m flatly irrationally conceiving of myself in this wholly unintentional bubble where my sense of what’s possible or worthwhile appears completely detached from the people…are they even in my orbit?

What if you never bothered to take these little strolls? What if you were so desperate for companionship or solidarity it never occurred to you what aspects were worth setting a boundary to protect? I haven’t lost my ability to make insta-friends. I’m not shy. The existential barrier to getting what I want is that so many people conduct themselves like so many interchangeable bodies. The ones that don’t get subsumed by their solipsism. Is there not a spectrum with decently aware, fun, individuated personalities worthy of exchange?

I tried calling Hussain. He didn’t pick up. I got two tickets originally for this show as, in my mind Ron Funches isn’t a run-of-the-mill comedian so whatever extra effort might be made to trap someone for a couple hours should occur. I haven’t really spent any time talking to the friend who I bought it for after the kid gun waving incident, yet he’s supposed to go. I don’t have a strong instinct as to whether we’ll even sit together. We’ve not-gotten drinks together the last 3 times he’s suggested, and then bailed or ignored. He’ll call when I might be of service to him and his professional obligations.

I’m looking forward to Seattle. I’m thankful I get messages from Brandy where we can continue intellectually stimulating conversations. My dad continues his cooler-than-you reliability in surprising me for my birthday and being down to see people like Dave Chappelle in Chicago without needing an insulting explanation. I’m wearing a Sick Sad World T-shirt, and I kind of don’t ever want to take it off.

[1003] Last Drop

I don’t know what I feel. I thought about saying, “I feel weak,” but that doesn’t seem true enough. I feel bored. I feel sad. I feel like I’m sick of fucking trying, and then that feels like the price of admission to ever, proverbially or otherwise, transcend my current condition. You know, I got someone to send me their license number. You know, they don’t have an NPI number, and that can take weeks to get assigned. You know, this delay was partly because the agency I contacted sent me the wrong checklist about what we’d need to get the impaneling process going.

When I first started with Groups, my boss was very gung-ho about “meeting people where they are” and defending not discharging people for simply missing too many days, generating threatening chaos, or other acts of noncompliance. You see, she had a story of “some” or “any help” that transcended the practical reality of what might be a dozen people’s experience of a member who isn’t suited for this level of harm-reduction care.

Groups is exploding. More and more money and greedy futures are on the line. In 4 months, it’s gone from practically never-discharge-anyone to, “Are these discharges done yet?” She might not be making any more money, but she’s not bound to anything higher than her master’s narrative. When the overall ethos shifted from whatever the analogous, “Don’t be evil” motto any brand that wants to believe the best of itself adopts, you step in line. She was formerly DCS for 12 years. She can swallow a lot of bullshit in the name of The Man or order or keeping her bills paid and kids fed.

Today, the last few hours felt like way more of a struggle than they should have. Again, I have the easiest job one can imagine. I talk about familiar obvious things I’ve said or done a million times, and turn what people share into encouraging sentiments about how much good they’re doing for themselves and the people around them. Any moment in my 4-day week that I choose to focus for even an hour puts me ahead of any outreach effort I may need to make or prep work for the rest of the week. I feel like I’ve been stockpiling reflections for the last few days, and I happened to put extra-curricular personal work things on my plate.

I’ve been working the job long enough now to track trends in certain members. I have about 120 clients. You’re certainly not going to please everyone, or to put it lightly, have a “style” they will all enjoy. A problem that kicks off my existential angst muscle is when I am invited to search for how and what I’m attempting to translate or share is divorced from…meaningful survival and bothering to exist at all.

I attempt to hold people accountable. But more than that, I attempt to teach them how to hold themselves accountable. This is anathema to the automatic fluid adherence to cultural norms or compulsive self-soothing addictive behaviors. It’s also the only “cure” to being a violent wanton ape flinging shit and crashing into every layer of life you never manage to understand. It’s not something you can “disagree” with anymore than I utilize my strong opinion to never drink water and maintain a concurrent desire to live at all.

But we find ourselves, culturally, writ large, acting as though we don’t believe we need to be accountable. Then, like insane narcissists, we double down on the belief, eschew the irony, and seek accountability, told in so many ways but Lord of the Flies will do, from those who don’t deserve it. We’ll take our hatred and resentment out on the innocent, the other, and those who remind us how truly weak and pathetic we are. We absolve ourselves of any individual obligation to our shitty feelings, powerlessness, and hopeless sense that we don’t matter, the people we’re close to don’t love us, and the things we care about are inane and unfulfilling.

So let’s disappear into the woods and grab a gun. Let’s adopt fiery conspiracies. Let’s get evangelical and dominate the conversation so our self-delusion can be shrouded in group protection; psychological, physical, legal, sexual and all the way down to verbal. This is why I consider a liar the most dangerous thing. All animals are honestly animaling. A human is the only one who can weaponize that honest nature into something that kills literally everything.

There’s a level in which I’m forced to “make peace” with the idea that people who run from my groups are not in a place for accountability. Except, that feels like an impossible concession. I don’t excuse you. I decided consciously to stop laying myself over the sword of decisions you were more or less capable of making than me, but still capable nonetheless. I push myself and ask for more. I look defeat and delay and head and heart-wrenching problems in their face. I reflect and look for what I can control. I investigate how complicated and messy and incomplete the story is in every seemingly hopeless moment. I show up on time, practically every day. I do the work in spite of the worst examples I may set.

You just…you have to. I’m not suicidal, but I don’t know how I wouldn’t have killed myself if I left who I was going to be up to whims of my circumstances or opinions of others. I don’t know how I would break depressive cycles, because no one was going to help me or listen long enough to work me out of it. I don’t know how I would have developed an approach to anxiety. I don’t know why I would bother to take risks in business and moving to this fucking field and building a fort. I don’t fucking know anything without practicing accountability. When I get too in my own head, I can count how many books I haven’t read to send me in another direction. When I want to pretend like I live anything less than a privileged regal existence, I can count the cashflow and number of people still dreaming of clean water and mosquito nets.

You don’t get to tell me any story that absolves you or who you’re tasked with working with of who they are and what they did or did not do when presented with the same fucking choice we’re given in every moment of every day. You pay attention and make a decision, or else. You pay attention to self-servicing and self-destructive things and you’ll make decisions to keep that going. You don’t pay attention at all, you’re at the mercy of how everyone else wishes to self-destruct, or you ride the security of those who don’t know any better as to why they should let you die off.

I ask people to pay attention to things they tell me they wish to improve on. I don’t say, “Here’s your assignment,” I say, “What do you notice about yourself you wish you did better?” Do you know what they tell me? They want to be more patient. They want to be less angry. They want to be talking less shit in their heads about the people around them. They want to be able to say “no” and set boundaries. They want to recognize when they’re taking their frustrations out on their children. They want to stop spiraling in negative and depressive thoughts. And you know what? When they pay attention, record what they’re noticing, and redirect themselves THEY FEEL FUCKING BETTER! They come to group excited to share. They attend to what others are saying. They begin to meet a reasonable expectation to just start attending to what’s going on in their own heads. They treat themselves and others better. They believe because they can “see the point” of what’s been recorded at the end of their pencil.

What’s the alternative? That’s a dead serious question. What other option do you have? Especially when you’re an addict, and by not paying attention, you almost immediately find yourself in some form of life-destroying space. Do you think you’re any less addicted to your narrative? Do you have any idea how much I wish I could ride the high of the ideas I had about where I’d be in life by now? My pride comes from the ongoing effort. I’m writing this after work, after a fun, if flirting-with-disaster weekend, and after taking another step in service to getting my business running. What is my alternative? Stop spending, sit isolated for months playing my piano, reading, watching TV, and writing what would almost-certainly get described as a “screed” excoriating society for all I’ve deliberately and delinquently checked-out of?

They say actors wish they were musicians, and incidentally, so many musicians end up acting. Whether it’s a perceived nobility or respect or simple grass-is-greener thinking, those who reach heights that give them the freedom to flow into new creative outlets seem to do so almost habitually. Whether or not what they create is “good” or culturally relevant is beyond the point. We access layers that we allow ourselves, and I think this works both directions. You ride fame and money into connections that get you on stages. You ride excuses and self-immolating narratives to the sublimation of everyone and everything. The creative energy will provide an infinitely irrational meta-narrative from which to proclaim your rule.

I saw Sam Jay at The Comedy Attic, and found she had a compelling point in her reiterating, “We’re all trash.” Her identity spans from junior man to woman to black to fat and all of which with their own groups she finds exasperating in their capacity to bitch and pretend like they aren’t shit. Sam’s takeaway is that she’s not going to focus on the big picture things and just keep trying to figure things out for herself. As long as what you’re doing isn’t trying to control or impose what you believe on someone else, fair game. Free and free alike. I think it’s an admirable position, and I don’t want to belittle Sam in conceiving of it as “merely naïve.” As I’ve thought about it the last few days, I can’t escape the impracticality and underestimating of what the religious or insecure or weak or invisible person’s compulsion is. Regaining a semblance of control at explicitly your expense is the name of the game.

When you don’t live for anything that you’ve learned or fought for, you live in contrast to your antagonist. When you’re not wise enough to forgive or incorporate your demons, you see them everywhere. When you’re not big or stable enough to tread into high waters, you’ll do anything to capture more air than you could breathe in a lifetime because you have no sense of proportion and an innate fear that any risk is the one that will end your ironically miserable one. Christians won’t leave you alone. Trump won’t stop. Haven’t you heard of the “gay agenda?” Don’t you know the only way to stop men from raping is to bag your women? There’s no such thing as a held-harmless free to do as you please idea. It’s going to infringe, impose, or desire more than you’re willing to pay.

That returns to my broad and often-argued point. You’re always paying something. You’re always fighting. You’re always building something up that is bound for eventual destruction. Whether it’s consistently mowing your lawn, keeping your self-esteem so you can show up and smile, or building the next argument for comprehensively dealing with the absurdity of existing at all, it’s all the same game, same obligation, same demonstration of your awareness, and in service to the same end. You get to have, hopefully, more moments than not that persuade you it’s worth staying alive at all. Does the nice lawn feel good? Do you enjoy the company of people who’ve tended to find themselves and don’t wish to give you shit and judge you? Don’t you love feeling “normal” or “responsible” in your title or ability to maintain your family and obligations? Why would you let someone deceive themselves that they’re worth the same as you who’s willing to do the work? Why would you give your life, as though you’re play acting some Jesus-caricature, for those who literally can’t be bothered to recognize what it is to live as you do? You raise kids to a point where you fucking must expect them to be an adult.

There’s no god raising us. There’s no authority, older than sin or otherwise, that is going to bestow upon you the infinite wisdom in a holy book, system of laws, or anarchistic decree. You wise the fuck up, hold other people accountable, or we all die. We die in big and small ways ANYWAY, and yet you’d have us do it faster and in more painful ways than we can conceive until it manifests as different crises of addiction, war, personality cults, and “post-truth” analyses.

We can’t all just get along. I can’t take you seriously when you don’t. I don’t respect myself when I sit and spin and get super smug about what I’m capable of or who I think I am. I respect when I’ve spoken to how I’ve managed to break the narrative spell again. I respect when I can patiently engage the next step through the desert that provides me just a drop at a time’s worth of water in service to the next tortured step. If we are so collectively not in a place to even acknowledge fascism, the severity of our mental health problems, the depravity of how we conceive of our neighbors, or the inevitable death of not experiencing some form of collective wake-up call about what it takes to survive and sustain, now the inherent wisdom of Sam Jay’s point becomes king. Find a way for you and yours to survive until it all burns down. Even if they’re coming for you, practice your ducking and weaving.

I’m not there yet, but I don’t think she’s wrong, and I don’t have money to seriously entertain a kind of “escape” like that too seriously without it manifesting as another one of tomorrow’s antagonisms.

I’ve tried, passively and with force, to make sure what I was thinking or where I wished to go wasn’t just in my head. You could read on your own time, or not. You can watch what I literally build to test and manifest. I, still, get drunk and text heartfelt “wish you were here!” things to people who won’t own how little they actually want to do with me. I take what I can control, the impressions you’ve given me, and respond as I want my best self to respond. Open, forgiving, trying, and not allowing “hope” to look like some platitude I’m unwilling to speak and work for. I don’t hope you’ll hang out; I invite you. You show up or don’t. I don’t hope you’ll read; I write. I don’t hope we’ll get back together or live like the old days; I pay the price of honest vulnerable expression and the many ways it manifests. I don’t do it perfectly or never delete, but I do it so often I’ve become all-but intolerant of those acting incapable of the same while professing to desire what I do.

I want as many words as it takes to feel better. I want as many opportunities as I can recognize. I want as many friends who will actually respond and encourage and grow and change with me. I want to damn that which belongs in hell and defend whatever’s left of why I bother to stay alive. I’m not imposing and justifying, just looking to acknowledge and celebrate. My expectations are about preserving me, not controlling you. I think when I “force” people to think of their lives the same way, they realize how little of themselves actually exists or there’s nothing they can recognize as worth preserving. All the more my fault and burden, I guess.

[987] 2 For The Price of F Uh? N

 

My mind’s still buzzing, so let’s see what’s on it.

Tonight’s was a good show. It was only a good show. The opener picked out a 9-year-old from the crowd and said something like, “You can be anything you want to be, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise” before getting the crowd to collectively say, “Happy birthday.” She said, “This one goes out to those who only follow their own rules. You’re perfect just as you are, don’t ever change for anything.” Go figure, I just looked her up thinking she was young, but she’s actually performing under an alias, because I recall enjoying Juliet Simms. She’s a considerably better musician than she is thought leader.

 I hear pretty often at shows how much, “We’re all in this together.” Are we? You have very deliberately and purposefully put all talented women on your tour, and none of you even mentioned voting, fighting, or doing anything beyond singing the words to your songs. What are we in together, precisely? The collective delusion that music actually saves us or guitars kill fascists?

It’s getting a little exhausting, and I have many more shows left this year. Clearly, we’ve chilled in our daring self-expression and freedom to speak to how fucked things are. Either we’re collectively hopeless, or we consider it pointless and are just trying to get a few headbangs in before the wandering Proud Police come to actually bang our heads. I don’t respect people with platforms more protective of their brand than the environment that allows them to cultivate one, at least, for a little while longer.

I’ve felt kind of inspired. Making the few phone calls to doctor’s offices made my overwhelming fatalism feel practical and accessible again. I’m discovering how I want to massage my pitch. I’m filling in blanks on a spreadsheet. It’s a nice little to-do while I’m waiting around for my only meeting of the day, and if I get even a handful of yeses or decent conversations, I might start pocking my days with a few more $20s.

A bunch of my new stuff arrived. Books, games, tools, and a big cot because I’m sick of waking up with back pain. I feel poised this weekend to work more outside provided the weather doesn’t take a turn. I got a vest that lets you attach icepacks to it. I have, probably about $1000 more to spend before I have everything to complete the wood shop and most of the fence. That would still only put me working until November to get out of debt.

-------------------------------A couple days later----------------------------------------------

Band of Horses is playing in front of me. I've sat in an exploitively cost prohibitive seat that was not the one I paid for, but is definitely one of a set that I've been idling in a shopping cart, refreshing now and then, for the last two and a half hours... just in case. I'm alone. It's my 29th concert or comedy show this year. Band of Horses just ended on the one song of theirs I sorta knew and do like.

Is this fun? Have any/all these shows been "worth it?"

I ask the questions not because my motivations are unclear, but because of some portions of conversation I had with a friend last night. She conveyed that going to so many shows back-to-back would be overwhelming or exhausting and that she only really likes shows where she knows all of the band's music. I feel where she's coming from. 2 years ago when I bought expensive VIP tickets to Riot Fest it was because My Chemical Romance had gotten back together and were headlining. I expected that to be "my concert" or "my gift to myself" for the year.

Things changed. Everything locked down. People you didn't think were gonna die, did. All of a sudden, if you have a chance to capture and experience, "now" became more real. So, sales started up, and I started buying and planning. The first few concerts this year it was required-enough to have a mask ready. Industries tied to music that came close to the brink started to roar back to life.

There's a few things at play for how and why I do things. I like to familiarize myself with "everything." I like to collect things, so even if real tickets are a thing of the past, printouts can go in my little book. I've been pushing myself to be more open to things that I would have reflexively ignored or dismissed like every band playing that I didn't come to see. I like getting to know the areas the concerts take place and having a decent plan for getting around. I like not sitting in my house all day. I like having easy "interesting" clout for lazy conversations with people who don't do anything. I bring books to read between sets and for before the show starts.

Today, by chance, I have a headache as an area worked on during my rolfing appointment is being disagreeable. I accidentally drained my truck battery before the show idling in the parking lot trying not to sweat to death. I live no less than an hour away from every show, and today's is the second farthest venue. I stay mildly tense I'll have to vacate my seat until about the middle of the headliner's slot. Who's paying $568 to see half a show that isn't sold out?

I won't remember the headache until I read this back. There are hundreds of cars that might jump me, if my little jumper doesn't again, if it's needed at all as it was back and running before I left to come inside. "Fun" doesn't really apply to the "life" things that happen while you're trying. Living in a state of existence that has to question the reliability of your shit isn't fun by default.

Hanging out with my friend was fun. She’s funny and we can talk pretty much indefinitely. The funny David Cross video that The Black Keys played before they came out was suggestive of what I gather to be their brand of fun. I have fun with the idea of tearing down institutions that have failed. Almost every show I’ve been to at The Comedy Attic has been fun. Hanging out with my dad is fun. I’m fun.

To me, fun springs from the spontaneity of the interactions between conscious beings. All of the concerts have been “good,” and a few “more fun” or “funny” because of the personalities of the performers. Another friend of mine was at Earth, Wind, and Fire and we got to dance together after I’d had a few beers. I don’t normally drink when I go to shows. You combine day-drinking, dancing, and one of the most energetic shows that brought everyone to the dance floor? Yeah, quite fun.

I have a tendency to turn everything into a kind of grind. I can’t just play a video game. I have to buy every iteration of that game and set myself up for weeks of dedicated playing so I can really appreciate the differences or story. I can’t just listen to music. I have to download everything from every artist I’ve remotely come into contact with, keep them all on shuffled rotation, and go out of my way to buy new equipment to house my entire library. It’s not enough to vibe with and repeat my favorites. What if my next favorite song is on tomorrow’s playlist? Even building things. I stop for long periods of time when I suck the fun out of it, and the playpen nature of my aim, and it turns into a “project” that takes too much planning or energy or sacrifice like battling the elements when I’m not in the mood.

Is anything I’m ever doing that fun?

It wasn’t that long ago we were at a roller coaster park. Seeing new coasters is fun. Drops are fun. The speed is fun. Going around a section and losing your phone isn’t fun. The coaster locking its harness down too tight and pinching your balls isn’t fun either. Getting knocked around violently on a wooden coaster until you get a headache sucks. Riding them back-to-back until you’ve memorized every turn and start to get sick slowly chips away at the fun aspects. Is a roller coaster fun?

I think I’m just approaching the realization that it’s a poorly conceived question that we habitually utilize in attempting to understand whether to do something. We ask kids if they have fun, they pretty clearly say yes or no. We don’t evolve our capacity for fun linguistically, so a night out when you’re tired might get a trite, “This was fun!” under a picture, whether or not you recall nursing a beer for hours, barely talking, and wishing you were in bed.

There’s fun, for open-minded types, in novelty, but as you get older, how much really feels that new? Eventually, if you’re paying attention, you’ll discover that even the process of learning something new or seeing something for the first time gets familiar. When I go to learn a new song, it’s fumbling in the dark, slowly recognizing the pattern or getting my fingers in order, anticipating the next lines that I couldn’t get the first few passes, then repeat repeat repeat until I’m barely thinking about what I’m playing or singing at all. The “fun” has to evolve, because while I’m certainly always learning, the motivation to start playing an instrument is fundamentally different than the one to continue doing so. I know how to play, but do I want to write songs? Do I want to perform? Do I want to practice and study in a dedicated way until theory matches instinctive physical capacity? I do, but that gets expensive in attention resources if nothing else.

During the concert, I got a call about the continuing-to-rage dumpster fire that is DCS. More dedicated and good people have fled. They’re trying to fuck with my friend’s years-long effort to stabilize the kid. It may be time to attack. Now, we’re talking real fun. It illuminates the nature of that evolved “fun” concept. It builds in work, consequences, and accountability. Is it more or less fun than going to concerts? It’s simply a prospect that I might get more or less out of depending on how I approach it and what I notice as it unfolds. So goes everything on the roller-coaster.

[939] Fishing Trip

I was just reading a reddit thread where someone asks if it’s “worth it” to go to a concert alone. I think I’ve been to at least 50 or more concerts, in some form or another, and only a handful have ever been with someone else. I find the idea fundamentally odd that you wouldn’t see or listen to something you enjoy without someone with you. Perhaps this is a person who is wholly unable to find value in themselves unless they see it reflected in someone else. Maybe they have an identity rooted in a broken concept of “worth” and outside acceptance. Maybe the ticket was going to be a lot and they had only heard a small amount about the band.

I’m not entirely sure why I thought to bring up that thread. Nor am I sure why I’m mentioning hearing an auto-playing YouTube video talking about god emanating from my sleeping friend’s room that I had to put on headphones to stop being distracted by. I felt like being present. I felt like paying attention to me getting more tired. I want to acknowledge my full stomach. I want to tell you and myself that I installed more trim, painted, and fought diligently against a tricky vent. I had a pretty solid “flow” day, even if I had to redo aspects of the home renovating that I fucked initially.

I have a “strong” sense of my own existence. Almost always, the source of my ongoing frustration boils down to logistics and naive wish-making. I’ll ask the universe to make people smarter or more honest. I’ll beg for resources all at once instead of in difficult piss trickle fashion. I know that, on any given day, I’m living at the peak of pretty much anything that has existed ever. Debt is symbolic, and you can shift what it signifies. I must not begrudge enough my tight joints or stomach acid if I continue to eat as I do. I’m typing this on a computer I dislike. I’m so privileged, I get to shit on technology.

I live in something not unlike a perpetual state of confusion. I don’t know why I wish for “things” to be “different” than how I might perceive them in the most damning of terms. Do I want to pretend I don’t experience the world the way I do? No. Hard no. I want to hate what I hate, like what I like, and know what’s going to be a reliable recipe for keeping me moving and attempting to account for “the world.” For as many things as confuse me about myself or my place, much is simple. I like food. I want to watch my shows. My cats are not to blame for their behavior like I wish to blame a person for theirs. Vaccines are miracles.

I think what gives me any degree of confidence in the simplicity of some things is a mix. I’ve experienced a fair amount in 33 years. I’ve read a ton, watched a ton, met tens of thousands of people, worked on an array of tasks or projects. I’m hip to the idea that no personal experience is going to drown out the voices of thousands or millions of people and hours that converge on our best approximations for how to conduct ourselves. What should I converge towards? Is that like asking about my purpose or place in the world?

Surely I don’t exist “just” to buy things. I don’t think I was put here. I don’t believe in magic. I’m not compelled to subvert saying “I don’t know” with fairy tales and pleas to traditionally belong. What does it mean if I were to say I was “moved” to start writing? It seems like a misnomer. I wanted to write, and not even something specific. Do I want to continue writing? Am I looking for something? Is there some deeper metaphor I’m trying to “dig” out?

My work feels infinitely detached from what my purported reality was supposed to consist of. My work has kept me above water making lateral moves for many years. You can say “growth” has occurred in the mere accumulation of stuff, but I was no more or less likely to work as I do since I started. 16 year old me would have hauled bricks, built a shed house, and been excited by the prospect of using all the tools. When I was hanging out on nonsense Zoom meetings there was the occasional allusion I would get a chance to talk to someone and sell self-indulgence. I was invited to celebrate the illusion that we were in a war to gross $100K.

It’s been something of a relief to orient my life less around money. I still need it. I still want it. But you know what I want more? To laugh as hard as I usually do when I hit The Comedy Attic. I want the porter I’ve yet to try to be good for all 12 bottles. I want the cats to jump into the forts I build them. I want the time to practice not getting frustrated when I’ve just noticed I installed door trim as the baseboard. Unlike the simple things like liking food or enjoying a show, it wasn’t necessarily simple to psychologically divorce myself from every fantasy I’ve entertained about what money could do.

I don’t want to get too lost in some ethos of not pursuing or recognizing the utility or purpose of cash. I do want to emphasize that who I am is not the dollar amount, the debt, or whatever imagined future I think I might unlock through spending. I’m what I work on. I’m what brings me a sense of flow and calm when I look and it reflects my value. It’s not untrue, no matter how it sounds, that I don’t play music or get on stage with a comedy routine because I don’t feel I’m in a place to do the work for them to reflect my values. I want to have fun playing music and sound decent. I want to be funny. I’m not playfully trying on hats looking for another star sticker on my identity card.

I think I’d be a shitty actor. Or, I’d have to be a character actor always playing an exaggerated version of myself. I don’t know how I could stop myself from thinking, “This is where I ended up? This is how I’m using my time?” I love stories, and I admire so much art, but I don’t even really care for Halloween. I feel like I’m always watching people poorly act. They pretend to be my friend. They pretend to be “professional.” They pretend to have the energy or motivation for self-righteous indignation. They pretend to be curious. They act like they’re going to be the one who does anything about “it.” They act like we’re speaking the same language.

I never know what to do about the act. Most often, I’m encouraged to play along. Life’s short, why rock the boat and not rape your throat with cliches? I don’t, and then find myself looking aloof with my odd-jobs and curious occupation of a compound in Cousinfuckistan. I’m “baffled” the fat and sassy conservatives in charge of tending to the wheels made to break you don’t want to see what I’m capable of.

“Good” work means nothing if it can’t or won’t be recognized. That’s what it feels like at least. That’s where you start coddling yourself and crossing your fingers that targets of your effort or ancillary effects are playing out. Here is the introduction of “karma.” Here we start imagining a “just god.” Here we celebrate our exhaustion and give license to indulgence. I literally want to introduce a profit-sharing model to a field that is infamous in being studied for its stress levels. I want to do it with people who’ve trained me, had my back, and I want to do it in an area where I’ve been told, “We’re desperate, we never have enough.” I can’t? I’m oriented wrong? I’m working on the wrong thing? I’m not in charge of the monstrosity tasked with “helping” or “intervening,” therefore, I don’t exist.

Whatever I may make of the barriers to this specific task, it’s at all layers. It’s the self-deception, insecurity, and greed. It’s the fear and necessarily convoluted pictures drawn by people who ran out of things to say, so they just started arranging and reiterating as many words as they could find to justify their airs. Sometimes I can’t tell if I’ve gained weight because I’m older and lazy, or as an extreme attempt to understand and empathize with the piles of shit who seem to blithely pull the strings of influence. Maybe I can grow to hate myself to such a degree that everything will snap into focus.

I don’t have a better explanation. I think people hate to exist. I think most people, most of the time, hate it. They hate the drama of their families or interpersonal issues. They hate their loneliness. They hate the weather. They hate that they aren’t any more articulate or understood than me who they hate for his endless diatribes. The hate is dressed up as fickle pride, pretty photos, and promises to yourself to never get too introspective. How can you do anything but hate to exist to turn down miraculous medicine? How can you do anything but seethe with hatred when you vote for fascism?

Instantly, we want to call it something else. We want to believe in the “better” demon of simple ignorance or misinformation. We want to let everyone off the hook for their hatred and what the consequences are. We let them off because we can’t acknowledge how much hate we’re carrying. My mom, for all her batshit, never said out loud how much she hated being a mother. How much better we might all have been had she gotten there. We arrive at my biggest sin. I hate out loud. I hate every day. I tell you what I hate about you, myself, and I tell you how much I hate how I’ve watched you my entire adult life lie, and I hate that most of all.

We’re not that close. We’re not that friendly. We’re not too busy. We didn’t forget. We just don’t want to. We just regret some past detail. We’re just selfish. It will always be our story and version first, whatever incidental moment together or conversation lost to the fog of time. And how could we blame each other? We want to define and redefine the “work” to whatever suits the moment. “Resist.” “Hope.” “Believe.” “Family.” “Team.” Any word is as loose as it needs to be, always. Language is the attempt to take the infinitely complex and approximate coherence. To speak, to talk shit, is an act of metaphor for the impossibility of accurately representing what you mean.

So, you can’t stop talking, posting, sharing, watching. I can’t stop writing. We’ve set ourselves to an unachievable task of capturing what we’re unwilling or unable to work for. What’s “serenity” but the new screen saver you shared to Instagram? What’s “relaxing” if not the vacation pics? What’s “delicious” but the food 1 in 8 people are hungry for? What’s “friendship” if not a group with drinks in hand? What’s the “future” if not your baby bump? What’s “commitment” but a feverish deference to the brand or mission statement? Is it valuable if millions didn’t binge? Who decides you are more “right” than your concept of the “extremists” on your wings? Who’s ready to save and be saved?

A friend and another acquaintance-friend had a therapeutic acid day a few weeks ago. The acquaintance-friend mentioned to his girlfriend that I used to write these long posts. It’s not clear that he was reading the posts nor encouraging her to. But, damn, I had a lot to say. You should see how many tags I’ve grouped them under! I clearly feel I’ve got to say something. What the fuck ever it was or what for, anyone’s guess. It can only ever be guessed at. It’s not like I’m saying anything recognizable.

[375] I Can't Hear Myself Think

I'm shooting for long and something of a ramble. Save yourself the time.

I hope to layer cliché upon cliché until I can balance the word meta on a turtle. Also, to make obscure references/metaphors to answers about what holds the Earth in place that don't quite work.

It's wrong to say “I don't care.” It's very wrong to say “I'm depressed.” I suppose it's good to get those out of the way quickly as I anticipate this sounding like both.

As I get better at framing my position in ways that keep people older than me from being condescending, the nature of the excuses they offer to help their fellow traveler become clearer. You'll always find a habit. For example, they always have a “secret.”

Some of those secrets include that your views and ideas will change more than you can appreciate until you're older. Things that used to matter “just don't” anymore. You'll realize that all there is to do is focus on things like friends, family, and caring about other people. Sometimes, if not most of the time, you have to suspend your disbelief because it will help make life “bearable.” They used to hate hate hate as much as you. Time will fly by! There's always something new to learn.

Wild and crazy stuff right? It's almost like the veil has been lifted. You mean I used to crave the latest video game, and then one day, almost like a switch was flicked, all I'll be able to care about is the next country we go to war with? Or, how about that lesson plan that tells you to appreciate and care about people. Brilliant! If only we told that to our children before they reached existential crisis mode in college. At least we caught them before that looming mid-life crisis.

To me, it's no secret that simply because you are old, that does not grant you Wise Old Janitor status. In fact, the majority of the stupidest shit I've ever heard my entire life has come from people older than me. That's likely an obvious statistical point, but one I hope still serves to shit on the idea that if your tools for “consoling” someone about what they don't feel are “give it time” you're making a very obscure appeal to authority. That you've experienced more, even if it's strikingly similar, does not mean you grasp the particulars of anyone else's head.

It's worth noting, that this is why I offer habits and contingencies, not necessarily “how to think” advice. You love your abusive boyfriend? All I can really say is that eyes get black when you keep your face within his arm's length. If you don't like black eyes, step back, maybe even several hundred feet. If the pain from black eyes = less than your desire, maybe stop complaining and focus on how happy he makes you.

But look at that example. Isn't spousal abuse pretty terrible? Why don't I give a shit that I could make it sound like the person being abused is so impossibly stupid that I basically want her to keep getting hit?

There's a certain kind of “thing” I don't care about. A kind of reaction. The idea that I could provoke you. I don't respect an inability to read the example and miss the point. I don't respect allowing your feelings or history with the problem instantly making you think I'm the worst kind of human being. And I think all I ever see out of people is their reactions. Not all the time of course; I'd go insane. But overwhelmingly I get their conditioned responses. They're no better than battered wives.

Take this Comedy Attic situation. A rude person would talk and text during the show. A rude person would order the beer, dump it on the floor, and then refuse to pay. A rude person would have called the waitress a cunt, irrationally dammed comedy and all it's followers, and gotten off on making a scene.

I just didn't want to spend more money or drink anything. I calmly explained that if I wasn't Comedy Attic suitable, I could just leave. It wasn't a weird stab at a threat. The house was packed. I literally asked them if I was so in the wrong that I should just not partake in the show at hand. But there is no calm way of expressing to someone that their set up is as bad for you as they think you are for them. Not because I didn't explain it calmly, but because people don't react to you acting differently than they expect you to terribly well.

And part of it harks back to an idea of boredom. I know what happens when I pay for something I don't want and capitulate to a pushy waitress. I don't know what happens when I get a chance, so to speak, to explain what I don't like about the situation, and to the head honcho no less.

At that point, it's an adrenaline rush. It's not anxiety. My heart races more often than I care to think about. Races like when you get called to the principal's office. It's like I always feel guilty of doing something before I've done it. I'm living the consequence of calling the waitress a cunt or throwing a bottle at the door. I'm convinced I'm that big of an asshole and I'm very intrigued to see why I'm going to move one way or the other.

That's the kind of disbelief I can't suspend. The one about our worst demons. I don't take any special prize home for realizing my capacity. I just get to shoulder it when my body defaults to “ultra pissed off man mode” about exceedingly innocuous situations.

But I can't allow them not to matter. I'm rather obsessed with the idea of strings. Everything being tied to everything else. We're as much “star stuff” as we are the bonds we form between people. The rules we put in place. The ideas we cultivate and defend. I can't pretend that I don't have something to say.

Whether it's the guy “stepping up” and buying a beer to “not hear me talk anymore.” Or thinking about the owner's motivation in his ticket prices or how he structures his payouts and rents. Maybe he's been given an unfair shake on something like property taxes so he has to do “marginally shady” things in how he runs business. But how do we ever get to a conversation about poorly structured Bloomington tax law if we're squabbling over the merit of squeezing people as part of the “policy.”

I want to shoot to what matters. There are immediately ten ways that situation could have been handled that would have been just as “effective” without ruffling a ton of feathers. The waitress could have ignored me. They could have taken me up on my offer to leave. They could have snickered to each other about “that asshole with the pony tail who never wants to buy anything” from the corner. But none of those happened. And even if they did, we still wouldn't have started on a path to discussing why it became the policy in the first place. In truth, I'm more interested in how much these comedians are getting paid and what it takes to get them on stage anyway.

In that situation, I'm more concerned about ruining my friends' time, or the time of the people around us, more than what the waitress or manager think of me. Now I get to run through that line of speculative thinking. Are they pissed at me? Are they going to bother inviting me out to places? Do they see any merit in anything I've offered as my reasons? If they don't, why am I calling them friends? If they do, are they feeling as hopeless as I am right now? Doubtful. Am I going to get a “time and a place” or “pick your battles” speech? Is this more likely going to get swept under a rug like most things and tomorrow's another day? Cool.

It's something of a traffic jam, but the cars are coming from all directions. Like, out of the sky. Until a big enough truck comes in to pave the way to how I find myself proceeding throughout the situation. Often, it's like I'm watching. Waiting for my mind to give me the signal that of these many balls of potential, it wants to play with the pink one right now. Did you know our brains invent the color...SHUT UP NICK THROW THE BALL!

I think in this...tunneling...this quick shooting down many holes (you hear it too?) speaks to the ambivalence. Like I've watched every possible future but the one I'm experiencing “now.” And so rarely is it ever one of the good ones. But this might be over-stating it.

I think about what makes me happy. I'm not, old condescending people, thinking that it's this “thing” I'll one day achieve after enough gamer points and sexual conquests. I've argued that it's a choice. Like right now, I'm exceedingly happy to dig into the depths of my head. Figure out my motivation. Dissect disagreements. I was happy to piss off that waitress. I would have been happy if I had to leave the room. What makes me happy is actually doing and behaving like I want. I like to see myself speaking to the things I have a very hard time explaining. I can tell you the waitress was a cunt. That doesn't make me happy. What makes me happy is when someone hears me call them a cunt when that's the loudest and most honest thought I have in that moment. I don't want to tell you I hate you. I want to make sure you can never un-feel it.

That's sort of how we conduct ourselves though, right? If we go back to abuse. Your most compelling horrible feelings seem to dictate how you behave. You were abused, so you abuse, whether it's yourself or others. You take your insecurities and, if you can't act in spite, you try to live in denial. Or, you “accept” that you're only going to feel like shit no matter what and that becomes your new baseline. Whatever you're afraid of, whatever you've felt the most, that writes the rules. That gives you direction. In a way, I'm only trying to speak your language.

Whether those fears are real or imaginary, they're real. But, not as real as when you experience someone else at critical mass. A genuine threat to your being. An explicit personal affront to the very fact you exist. That's what I like. That brings me joy. You wonder if your boyfriend still loves you as much as the day he met you? Surely that's an unpleasant thought, but you're unsure. But I can make you sure about something; there's someone that hates you as much as you could hate anything, at least for this fleeting moment. Even if it fails to haunt you, you'll remember it.

And talking like that brings me joy. It's motivating. Not because it's powerful, but because it's as honest as I could be to a person. I can take all my gobble-d-gook about tunnels and flying cars and boil it down to, first one thing is true, YOU'RE A DEPLORABLE CUNT! And we've started down the road to rebuilding.

But this idea of “being in on the joke” like everybody knows the world is like this or this. NO. Fuck no. I don't believe you. I think everybody knows how to make that empty statement and everybody knows how to respond to it like we're all on the same page. I believe we have similar emotional states. I believe we abuse old adages and cliches. I believe we've all had moments of “super real realness where shit got so real you never wanna see me so real again.” But that doesn’t mean anyone knows shit. How do I know this? They never talk about all the shit they don't know. And they don't care to go about figuring it out.

Everyone's got answers. That's how I know they're full of shit. The biggest answer I ever come to about most things in life is “well, we can talk about it” or “well, if you do this, this is seemingly likely to happen.” REDDIT, HOW DO I STOP LOVING THE PERSON I LOVE! Well son, when I was your age, I realized the meat bag who's more bacteria than human was going to die one day and get saggy tits I'd no longer find attractive. I decided to just picture what that would look like now and took off down old road 37. At the behest of my dick, I found someone within my proximity to lay my emotional baggage on. You'll see, it's all gonna come up roses for ya if you can just find yourself so exhausted that things you once cared about you no longer do! Exciting! Upvote my wise! ALL THE WISE!

But we don't talk. Not until we're drunk. Hint why I like to get you drunk. Or not till we're “in a bad place.” What if you're always in a bad place? What if that bad place isn't a fix like, stop putting yourself in front of a fist? What I've learned is you write and write and write, and then you read it back over hundreds of times so that you can at least pretend to be having a conversation. Because that's all that ever makes you feel better.

Next Entry: Artsy Fartsy

[374] Jk Jk

I want to talk about dignity and pride, kinda.

Dignity: The state or quality of being worthy of honor or respect. A composed or serious manner or style.

Pride: A feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements, the achievements of those with whom one is closely associated, or from qualities or possessions that are widely admired.

I think in order for these two things to exist, we need to keep a very big secret. With dignity, what stands out to me is the idea of being composed. When you're calm, cool, and collected you adopt an unspoken respect regardless of what you're doing or saying. With pride, all you need to be able to do is persuade yourself that what you're doing, or what you're crowd is doing, is worthwhile and great, and you get to reap the glory.

What strikes me, is that when I find myself talking about pride with people, they're very quick to explain how “not full of pride” they are. We'll let the irony sink in. If nothing else is known about our conversation, it's vitally important that they don't think I believe their ego hasn't been severely reigned in and shot in the head out back. Pride comes before the fall, after all. Any idiot knows the humble pie you taste after talking too big a game is simply a risk not worth taking. Not if you're to maintain a level of respect from your peers or society that is.

I don't go into a lot of detail, somehow, about where it is I derive pride or under what conditions I can feel dignified. It's very murky waters that become very clear when I'm in the middle of them. We can take a real world example that has prompted this writing. I went to the Comedy Attic. I was told there is a two drink minimum. I did not want anything to drink.

There are two distinct roads you can take. You can feel dignified in “paying to keep the lights on,” as it was explained to me, and spend the money you don't want to spend on drinks you don't want to drink. Or, you can do what I did, lie and cause a minor fuss about not having money nor wanting their drinks. Do I feel dignified? In a sense, but I didn't go to the comedy club to find a waitress to fight with.

What's interesting to me is the pride the comedy club owner has. I'm also in the game of starting and running businesses. I understand there are costs associated. I think there's a deliberate way you can go about accounting for those costs that don't set your patrons, even one of them, up to be an asshole for a pithy grievance. “We need the money to get comedians on the stage.” I've bought CDs directly from said comedians. I do the same thing with bands. I offered to pay a higher ticket price. I just don't want a bottled water nor a beer.

In the moment though, this was not a conversation the players involved were willing to have. This is ONE OF THE TOP TEN COMEDY CLUBS IN THE COUNTRY after all. Who am I to suggest the conditions under which I would feel more comfortable in giving them money? And to achieve such heights and have such a problem keeping the lights on. Comedy, significantly more rough a business than I could imagine. The “gentleman” who said he'd buy two beers to “make me feel better” only to clarify on the way out the door that “I didn't want to hear you keep talking” was a nice cherry. Now, it's not even about how I didn't want a drink, it's that I expected someone else to pick up the tab, as well as have a conversation in the middle of a set. It's easy to see how quickly these things spiral, no?

I offered to leave. I offered to just not come back. The owner insisted several times as we were walking towards the door “that's not what I want, I want you to come back.” Well, this seems like we should either talk in better terms, or I'm going to make the simple decision to not put you in this awkward place. Awkward as you've described, because unfortunately for me, as much dignity as I'd like to see in comedy, it's currently another overly commercialized pit of thousands of people trying to be funny, and if I need my guts chuckled, I don't need to pay for things I don't want to do so.

But it can always be reduced to shitty words and pissing matches. Especially in that setting. I could call the waitress's head a misshaped vegetable I've never heard of that's gone bad. Her hair and head shape...I guess you had to see it. I could have told the owner that he should st-st-st-stick his head up his ass. (He had a stutter.) But that's not what I want, it's not probably what they deserve, and it doesn't speak to the point nor accomplish anything.

I'm sure this is all my fault. I'm sure it's because I'm obsessed with the details. I'm sure it's because, ideally, we'd all understand that my intransigence has nothing to do with genuinely enjoying getting into “heated” discussions with people utterly perplexed by why I'm not convinced by “well everyone else has to do it!” Actual quote. And what an insolent little bastard I'd look like handing out a dollar to every comedian I enjoyed. I'm sure they'd be dying to hear how much my system would save them on lost pencils and printed ballots.

Independent of it all though, that waitress was a total cunt.