As I was watching the film, The Blind Side, I had a realization: I don’t know anything. I’ve had similar realizations before but this time in particular got my fingers typing . . . and I thought that, with your feedback, we could all gain a better understanding about things we don’t know anything about.
Here’s a list of things I don’t know anything about:
I don’t know anything about what it’s like to be discriminated against for the color of my skin. I’ve been beaten up by colorblind skinheads for being a surfer, which actually produced 3 broken bones in my face, but I still don’t know anything.
I don’t know anything about not having a dad. I had a dad that worked really hard and wasn’t always there for dinner, but that doesn’t even compare—I don’t know anything.
I don’t know anything about being in the minority. I don’t know anything about going to a high school full of kids who don’t look like me. I don’t know anything about growing up never seeing someone of my race in the oval office.
I don’t know anything about not ever having a bed.
There are so many things I don’t know anything about that sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t even be writing—that I’m not worthy. And maybe I’m not, but I can’t help but write.
But then again, the realization that I don’t know anything must mean I know something. . .
John Nese loves his job. He took over his father’s grocery store in LA and now sells over 500 kinds of obscure sodas like coffee soda and banana soda. He runs his business with a punk ethos: do it for the passion and your people, not the money. When Pepsi came knocking on his door 10 years ago, he made a decision most wouldn’t make and turned them down. Check out the soda pop punk below:
“Thank you very much Pepsi Cola for reminding that I own my shelf space and I can do anything I want.” – John Nese, Soda Pop Stop
Do you think you would dive headfirst into the shallow end of a pool if there was a 50% percent chance you would be injured severely? You can be damn sure I wouldn’t. But with a 50% percent chance of divorce, people are still getting married. And though I’ve heard all about the risks, I too will foolishly dive head first into holy matrimony in the coming year. But if you wouldn’t dive head first for someone you love, why not just give up swimming?–dammit, my metaphors are just not panning out.
It has been, to say the most, damn hard to make music since working 9 to 10 hour days. To make time, I’ve started waking up at 6:30 A.M. But because other parties are still sleeping at that hour, including Magu, I only write—in my journal—the first things out of my brain. I violently jot down lyrics, meanderings, stupid thoughts—anything. It’s a verbal colonic in the morning: it gets the pipes cleaned out and better yet, it’s all on paper.
I’ve always summoned the creative monsters in my head as an after hours writer but these days, after hours, I’m passed out on my face. But I read this article in Psychology Today called “Everyday Creativity” that prescribed a solution to the doldrums and repetition of the weekdays:
“Creativity coach Maisel believes that your waking hours are best since they enable you to apply your ‘sleep thinking’ to glitches in your haiku-writing, furniture-designing, or quilting. (Studies confirm that ‘sleeping on it’ indeed allows for stellar solutions to make their way to the forefront of your mind.) Furthermore, Maisel sees carving out morning time for a creative pursuit as a way to infuse the rest of your day with existential meaning. The boost you get from your 7 A.M. compositional breakthrough could propel you through a rote desk job.”
Thus the new routine I’m trying to actually keep: wake n’ write, sing n’ sleep. Now, I just need to figure out how to regiment my blog postings. . .
My favorite quote from another book I wish I had time to finish: Killing Yourself To Live – Chuck Klosterman.
“But this is how popular culture works: You allow yourself to be convinced you’re sharing a reality that doesn’t exist. Every summer, Hollywood movie studios convince millions of people to see blockbuster movies they know they’re going to hate. “Every day, shows like Access Hollywood force 2 million housewives to ask themselves, “Who really cares who Lindsay Lohan is dating?” And you know what the answer is? Almost no one. There are very few Americans who honestly care who Lindsay Lohan is dating. But it’s still information they need to have. This is because those people care about something else entirely; they’re worried about the possibility of everyone else understanding something that they’re missing.”
So I guess that’s the reason The Hills is on my TV right now. Blame my girlfriend. I only watch in the name of “research.”
For some reason, I don’t have words so I’ve been reading like I’m loading bullets back into a gun. Here’s one of my favorite excerpts from the book I’m reading now, Fear And Loathing On The Campaign Trail ’72:
“So much for Objective Journalism. Don’t bother to look for it here—not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism. The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms.”
