skippw-blog

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big picture vision

it's not the 2 hours i put in today, that i felt like i didn't get anything done with. a productive week. an unproductive week. the feedback doesn't matter. really. because it's fleeting. it's based on how someone is feeling when they see what you've done. if they see it. or how it hits them. and so feedback. reactions. are out of my control. i can't make you. it's not the views. they don't matter. the view though. the way i, we, look at the compilation of what we've done over this time. that we all have. the decisions. each. tiny. fucking. decision.

you look down from somewhere you are and you realize. all of these tiny steps. these billions of thoughts. and micro-actions. they've brought you here. whether or not you sleep in will not make or break you. the habit of though. and when broken down, a habit really is just a compilation of consistent decisions. in a good direction. or not good direction. and here you are. at the end of a string of seemingly meaningless actions. that have brought you to a situation.

are you happy?

life is not a rap video. shit. rap. is not a rap video. the frozen moments that we polish and correct and obsess over that reflect reality less and less for the sake of being appealing. these. they are just marketing. with, if done right, a shred of real life. but life. a successful one, is practice. the practice of. practicing. pushing and stretching. usually in minor increments, with sparse break throughs sprinkled in.

the good news is, you have more than a day to make a hit song. more than a week to touch your toes. more than a year to become rich and famous (if that's what you want). you get to fuck up. you get to get frustrated and break shit. to take a day off and order a pizza and have a nap and feel bad for yourself (if that's what you're into).

just don't let observing the finished product break you, because whoever made it probably only did so in spite of every obstacle you face. or more. and if they made it seem easy, that's only because they have been facing those same obstacles for longer, so their masking tape is thicker.

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A Year Without A Drink

a year without a drink.

ill start by saying that i can't help but feel my conquest to be a bit trivial. i've never lost a friend, a job, a home, or even a family member that i'm aware of to 'the drink.'

i didn't stop drinking because i hit rock bottom. a year ago though, i couldn't have imagined performing without having at least a beer. i barely got wasted, mind you. just a beer or two. or, when home from work, a whiskey. one. or two. habitual. not raging. not blackout - at least from what i can recall. i do remember though, towards the end, feeling like maybe i wasn't in complete control of whether i would have a drink that evening or not. and that sort of motivated me to make the cut.

when changing a 'habit,' your brain says 'no, i couldn't possibly ..' or, 'its not really that big of a deal i mean how much of a difference is it really going to make in your life anyways' or 'it's kind of what makes you who you are bud.' and a million other things. your brain doesn't want to change. doesn't like to. it is physiologically not natural to do so. it's unpleasant. you are literally re etching grooves in your brain.

because when i stopped drinking, i started seeing immediate weight loss, and experienced an energy boost, and found out that i enjoyed a selzter with tons of ice and a lime just as much, the cessation of consumption of alcoholic beverages wasn't brutal for me. or really hard even. which again, is why i can't help but feel my conquest to be a bit trivial.

it would be a mistake to say that there haven't been times that alcohol has helped me out. helped me forget. helped soften the swift kick in the pants, of life. at times. it started conversations for me that i never would have alone. without it. it generated piles of cash for me when i tended bar. softening other peoples' realities.

one year without a drink. now. now? i don't know. now i just don't see the point of it. i haven't felt that i needed one, and doing anything totally casually has never been my speed. smoke one cigarette. have one beer on one night in one month of one year. a bite of pizza.

i also can't help but think that it isn't a coincidence that this year has been, by far, my most creatively prolific. 14 videos. 3 projects. dozens of other released songs. more. life. i run 15-20 miles a week. i'm not saying any of this to brag. really. i run slow anyways. i'm just saying it all because i have never done all of this. ever. in my life. until now. until this year. without alcohol.

here's to one year without a drink. and here's to you. for reading my rambling recount of triumph. no matter how trivial i feel it to be. over 'the drink.’

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ADULTS

many people seem like adults to me, but i don't feel like one. i see them. walking around. or driving. in cars. with suits on. or in dresses. gathered, in medium sized clusters at bars. smiling. and buying each other drinks. and paying rent. and buying houses. adults. at work. and in the morning. when i'm sluggish and am only out to hunt and gather an iced coffee with the intent of recluding.

adults. in the courtyard of my complex. grilling. smoking and drinking and doing adult things. having grown up talk. and i don't feel like one of them. even though some i am probably older than. boy they grow up fast. adults. was it in college? where they first got a sense of themselves? or at a job where other adults groomed and devleoped them. into adults.

of age. i am. but i feel inept or not privey to their vocabulary or conversations. adults with good credit and expensive t shirts. and sportcoats and well cut jeans. enjoying meals. and each others' company. i assume. i can only assume because i am not of their tribe. adults. some have birthed, nursed, and started to develop young adults. kids. who will grow up and develop into college aged young adults and then at some point.

is it 'poof'? are they old kids walking down the street, and one day they turn into the mirror and witness adult and never look back? are they out living the dream they had as a 14 year old kid? the dream of being wed. and responsible. with well kept hair and nails.

i pass them on the the street. and talk to them at my job. and watch them on tv. and yet, although i most likely am one as well, don't feel of the ilk. and maybe they don't either.

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Packing for a Fire

I moved, last year, into a small apartment in North Hollywood, from a beautiful private bungalow in Pasadena. One surrounded by flowering trees, amidst perfect grass, with a private back cement yard where our dogs played, and ran in and out of through a dog door. A lemon tree, pressed up against our living room window, closest to our overstuffed leather couch. And sun streamed in through the eastern window over the deep porcelain sink, landing on the wide tiled kitchen floor.

When we became me and our became my, I left Pasadena. When I left, I left a lot behind. Either in a dumpster, or with strangers after an exchange of some insignificant amount of cash. With me, came my cat.

Some months ago my cat died. Unexpectedly. He was hit by a series of sudden and violent seizures. The first time it happened, he was next to me in bed, and started flailing his arms and scratching me and twitching and I thought that he was dreaming, and so I nudged him and he fell off the bed and continued to flail and spit and suffer on the floor. This continued every other hour our so for the better part of a week until the end.

This week, North Hollywood smells like a campfire. And luxury homes are burning. And the hills are alive with flames. And highways are shut down. And our, your, all of our celebrities tell us that they have evacuated and are ok. whew. On twitter. The other night, my phone screamed at me. I think all of ours did. In LA. And if I recall it said something like ‘grab your shit, we’re all fucked.’ And though where I am, in North Hollywood, is still miles from any mountains or high concentration of flammable brush, I couldn’t help but think. I couldn’t help but imagine. With a movie scene scripted and written including cues for CGI flames and hired fire trucks and heroic protagonists, pulling women and children from smoldering ember framed craftsman thresholds.

As I prepped tomorrows undershirt on my desk, along with socks and other items along with a belt, which I am always afraid that in my early morning fog I will forget to bring. As I put my morning together I thought .. may as well throw a panic kit together. A bag of. Well, a bag of shit that I can grab if it’s 3.30am and we’re running out of a house towards heroic protagonists. And at that moment, standing in the middle of my tiny, but well organized room. It was at that moment that I had a stunning epiphany.

This can all go.

And in no morose way whatsoever, it occurred to me that if the shit were to hit the fan, there was not one thing that I could find, that I would miss terribly, or be able to replace with money, down the road. It’s not that I’m not sentimental. But after losing what I have lost. And on the other side, being ok and actually lighter for it. I realized that there is nothing I am tied down by. Encumbered by. Though it took some considerable pain to get here, I have been rewarded by a life that I can take with me. Along with a soft pair of Puma track pants and a hoodie and some beat up Saucony’s at a moment’s notice. For if or whenever the fire comes.

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About What Jim Carey Said

There's a new Netflix Doc on the filming and production of 'Man on The Moon,' the movie where Jim Carey played the late comedian, Andy Kaufman. It was an interesting look at the behind the scenes process. An inside experience of Jim living the role(s) that he took on for the movie, while driving an esteemed, and seemingly helpless, feature Director, crazy. It was super entertaining. What motivated me to write today though, wasn't so much so that I could give my review on a Netflix Doc. The thing that struck me. What pushed me to jot this down was what Jim said about 'becoming yourself.'

At some point, later in the flick, he was talking about what it was like winding down from those roles (that of Andy Kaufman and also of Tony Clifton). He said that he forgot who he was. Forgot how to be. Which led him to ask that question in a bigger sense.

What really got me was what he said about how in imagining our own individual success, we picture ourselves as being a particular person. Or type of person. With certain looks, and mannerisms, and actions, and as someone who says things certain ways. And how quite often. this is to gain favor or interest of other people. Of your audience. Your fans. And how, once getting to a point, you may realize that you are not fully this person that you have become. And that it's actually a mask (couldn't resist). One that may become heavy. One which you may eventually grow tired of holding up.

It made me think about what they say about old people no longer giving a shit about how they are perceived. When there is no longer anyone left to impress. Or, just the effort that it takes to manufacture the daily facade is no longer a worthwhile pursuit. Or, in Jim Carey's case, you maybe feel that you have nothing left to prove. Or, that after years of pushing, the urge for approval or need for public adoration has eroded.

I am a rapper. A salesman at times. A music video producer. A public speaker in certain cases. I speak a certain way. Walk and dress in a certain fashion, which has changed over the years but is still and always governed by a certain taste or trend. We become trapped by our own predetermination about who we are. Closed in. Committed. Comfortable. And eventually sometimes lethargic towards change. My first thought about Jim's statement was 'yea, easy to not give a fuck about blending in, while questioning everything when you are a however many times over multimillionaire without the NEED for fitting in or being accepted.'

But then I thought about Pharrell. George Clinton. Bob Dylan. These are people who in fact made a name for themselves by being different from jump. Which then brought me back to Jim, who, from the outset, was 'different.' And how all of these personas and so many more were inventions. Conceptions. And how without these, all of these people noted would be just as 'regular' as the rest of us. And then I thought, so what IS being true to yourself actually? And could being an outspoken 'weirdo' who is just being themselves, actually the facade?

Like, what if working 9-5. And paying taxes. And eating 3 meals a day. And having 2.5 kids. And a house. and a wife. And .. i dunno, a good 401k and annual vacations to the Bahamas and retiring at 65 .. what if that IS your truth. THE truth. What if having the courage to do what popular media, and out there artists and creators consider bland and 'fitting in,' why can't THAT be the ultimate rebellion.

Then I thought. This is a lot of to be thinking about at 1140pm on a random weeknight. And with that, I fell asleep to dreams of opening a Charles Schwab account and buying khakis.

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WORKING.

Im working and I don’t know what time it is and its Thursday. No Sunday. Wait. Tuesday. And im out. working. Haha we call it work but its life. Making connections from one to the next like a flight is about to leave and im running with bags on a 5 minute layover. Burning hot and uncomfortably perspiring. Just. Well. working. Relaxing on bed at 4pm while im thinking about two weeks from now. when. Wait. Not relaxing. Thinking.

Alive.

Working because left up to me I’d sleep for 3 days straight waking up for pizza breaks and water breaks and a shower. Literally flying through the city, legs wilding and flailing and momentum pushing me down a hill and im only in total control half the time. as I get better at it. But Jesus Christ don’t pump the breaks. Keep working. I stop. And I sit down. And I breathe in the weather that I only get in LA. So clean. And you’re like what’s new.

And im like.

Nothing. Working.

Because of the future that I want but don’t have and never will because the future becomes now and right after that becomes then. And then it’s the past. And as I push, faster into what’s about to happen than I would like sometimes I realize that this is how things move. Whether I’m being a lazy piece of shit, or hurling at full speed, burning up in the atmosphere and speeding towards where I think I’m supposed to be going.

For now.

Working.

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On Gratitude

air. water. memory foam beds that arrive in neat boxes and have become cheap. two day doorstep deliveries. caller id. iced coffee. with just a touch of 2% and enough ice in it so that you can take your time sipping and there's still ice left when you're done. netflix. sleep. sleeping in. great weather, and the freedom as an adult to change your atmosphere if you so choose. open windows. naps. alcohol. on ice. ice. and a freezer that supplies an unlimited supply of it. oh yea, people. strangers that become friends. people in your past who taught you who to avoid in the future. family. parents. siblings. thanksgiving. vegan options that when smothered in sauce and cheese can pass as credible meatballs. spaghetti. lots of it. with sliced kalamata olives with light sauce and red pepper flakes and shredded cheese from trader joes.

trader joes.

the ability to say no to plans. to disconnect and shut it down and not talk to people and sit in a room with the door closed and enjoy your own company and breathe. new sheets. a little cold, and stiff, and tight on a memory foam bed. and ikea.

ikea.

and a computer for a few hundred bucks that does back flips and hat tricks and reminds you and entertains and amuses you, and when not used sits quiet. beautiful. on a thick tabletop in your room in the back of an apartment. and roof over your head. a refrigerator full of delicious things and a store nearby where you can, at a moments notice, restock. and replenish. or just pointlessly browse until you're ready to buy or move on. long walks. down wide streets. that stretch for miles through new neighborhoods or business or industrial districts. where you pass by and enjoy a thousand brand new faces that you have never ever seen before in your life ever. and health.

health.

and being alive. and life. and energy. and rushes of inspiration that make you jump. and ideas that make you not want to go to sleep but rather continue savoring them and turning them over in your mind like a beautifully polished stone. and will power. and 4am. and also 10am. and lunch and really all meals. and you. all of you.

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Ready to Chat

i saw you online the other day. the little green dot next to your name. and all of a sudden. after all of these years, and all of this distance, there you were. on my computer. your small face, contained in a circle, with a little green dot next to it. ready to chat. a life time since we last spoke. the things that i have done and the places i have been and the people that i have known. since you. and it's not like we knew each other that well. just passed in the halls. and got high together a couple of times during lunch. but there you are. in this little circle. on my computer. with a green dot.

ready to chat.

and i bet you have so much to say. to tell me about. to relate to about the old days and explain about what happened after school and where you went and what led you to live in. where are you now? is what i would probably ask first. because 'how have you been' is like ... it's like 'how's your day.' too big of a question to actually answer and one that people who ask it don't really want to know the answer to anyway. it's basically rhetorical. and from what i've seen you have kids. well that's crazy isn't it? maybe you're already telling them not to do the things that you did that your parents told you not to that we did back when. well, back when people didn't have little green dots next to their names to start.

so here we are. us. sitting on either side of this green dot. us. in our unalike, independently developed adult lives. neither daring to use this cool and now not so new feature to it's full capability because well. where would we start. and maybe you think, if we had been that cool back then we would have stayed in touch over these years even though you don't talk to your best friends from then now either. they, like me, sit in small circles. our lives and pasts contained in this bright shiny picture trapped in this little circle with a little bitty green dot next to it.

ready to chat.

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on young ideas

It was a dream. It was something I came upon while asleep. Had it been done before? Is that why it seemed so familiar to me? Or did it seem so familiar because it was that close to me? When I was younger, I used to birth these beautiful, premie newborn baby infant ideas. And then I sent them out into the world on a quest for what I thought was advice but actually was approval. I sent them off into the arms of people who ‘knew what they were doing.’ People who know ‘how it is done.’ And sadly .. so sadly .. most of my baby ideas .. not strong enough yet to stand or walk .. didn’t make it much far past the inception phase.

After trying this for a while I realized why, and here is what I learned. People don't know shit. And also, they didn’t see what I saw. I already had the finished product in my mind. The varsity letterman in his early twenties, garnishing attention from pro sports teams and fucking every cheerleader. Bright. Shiny. Boisterous. I was so caught up in my vision and how I saw it manifesting that I overlooked the fact that what I had on my hands was not yet what I hoped it would one day be.

Fact. People are DREAM KILLERS. Most of us, as creatives, learned pretty early on that there will be some faction of the population that will laugh at you, and doubt you, and sometimes even go so far as to sabotage you. But I’m not referring to them. That is the enemy you know. The one you expect. The worst DREAM KILLERS are the ones we respect. And admire. And aspire to be like or be liked by. The ‘Experts.’ The (barf) 'Tastemakers.' And their critique, or lack of enthusiasm may have no ill will attached. They may simply not see what you do.

I have always loved the quote I once saw by Puff. Which was probably stolen from Diana Ross - ‘talk less. do more.’ I used to take it to mean. Be humble. Work hard. Don’t talk shit and deliver results. And maybe that was the intended meaning. But what I have taken it to mean now is .. the more you talk about what you are doing, especially when it is not fully realized yet, the more air you are letting into the room. The more germs and bacteria and questions you are allowing in to potentially infect your pre public, tender, gentle, helpless little but soon to be magnificent and impactful idea (if it only gets the chance to grow in safety).

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.. and you can be just as pretentious on a bike

.. and you can be just as pretentious on a bike.

Our current political climate. Well. that’s pretty much all I need to say and immediately you know what I’m talking about right? You get where I’m going. There is a psycho in the White House. And if you know me and are reading this you probably agree and if you’re not reading this and you don’t know me and you don’t think he’s a psycho well .. then you won’t see this anyway. But back to our political climate.

People are outraged. And people are in the streets with signs. While other people have arms crossed, amidst utter satisfaction, with an ‘I told you so’ look, and cheer on their Champion. Our. Champion because whether or not you voted for him. Or whether or not you voted. ‘We’ elected him. I am digressing. I am not getting to the point that I am trying to make or why I decided to write this piece

Flash to Brooklyn. To corner stores. Not to the ones with cramped aisles, and 40s and Four Loko in the back coolers, and 1,500 scratch tickets behind the counter, and made to order egg sandwhiches. Instead, think of corner stores that smell like Whole Foods. That are now in Bushwick (and Bed Stuy at this point, I assume). With cold press juice machines by the checkout counter. And are like Whole Foods but more expensive with less selection and longer lines (I couldn’t tell you for sure because I haven’t been back in years, but bear with me). And bikes. Flash to bikes. Someone once told me that you can be just as pretentious on a bike as you can in a Mercedes.  That the half jean leg rolled up, espresso whisky bacon expert who is ‘chill,’ can be just as blind and ignorant and arrogant as the people on the other side. This obviously works both ways.

And I always thought that that was a cool idea. That, you can be so extra about the fact that you don’t drive a car, or eat meat, or whatever .. that you can come off as as much of an asshole as the people who you were disgusted by and were trying to separate yourself from in the first place

Which leads to me to why you are here tonight. Or today depending on when you see this .. but tonight sounds better. To my purpose for writing this. A recent experience reminded me that just because you champion liberal causes, does not mean that you cannot be just as prejudice about other things

I am Jewish. Well, half technically. The Jewish heritage is in me, and a part of me. I was never Bar Mitzvah’d, but my grandfather’s parents fled Russia in the early 20th century to avoid persecution.  And that is in me. And part of me. And you can be just as pretentious on a bike. Or just as hateful in a conversation with someone who you may not know contains the heritage to which you casually degrade with generalized, blanket statements or observations. Regardless of our outward and public attitude, at some point, the way you really feel still will come out. And unfortunately, it is always more shocking, and painful to receive it from the sort of person who you would least expect.

(to be continued)

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THE INCREDIBLE POWER OF NOT GIVING A FUCK

I’m 12. I just moved to the suburbs from what I considered to be the ‘city’ of Boston. Turns out I was into music that almost nobody else in my school was – at the time. Thinking back on it, I’m not actually sure how many of my friends from the ‘city’ were even into it – Rap. or, Hip Hop if you want to be more broad. When I moved to the suburbs, a very strong stigma existed. The stigma that any white person who was severely into hip hop – as I was, in the 90s, experienced and I’ll leave it at that.

I remember a specific experience – walking to the commuter train to take to go into the ‘city’ to visit friends. Baggy jeans. Backwards hat. Air Raids I believe (or possibly Bo’s I got both that week). As I passed by a group of older kids .. sitting on a cement half wall .. they sang in unison ‘straight outta Compton.’

My best friend in middle school, who listened to the music I did. Who dressed how I dressed. Who competed with me for the same girls … threw it all away the first day of high school – trading his sagging baggy pants for ripped Abercrombie Jeans. His hoodie for a taught flannel shirt. And his New Era Fitted for the then popular, white, snap backed ‘bar hat.’

//

Fast forward. Straight Outta Compton is a feature film. Rap is no longer a subsection but more so IS popular culture. Rap is used to sell deodorant, cars, beer, fucking cable TV and toilet paper. I recount my past only to ask this question: How valuable was the shame I felt for loving the music and culture I did? Would I have been more productive if I had not paid so much attention to them? How useful was the abrasive feedback of the people who did not yet understand the music that would help sell them most aspects of their adult lives? And hook their kids? If not them as well .. eventually?

I look at my 13 year old self and want to tell me to not give a fuck. How does that Eminem song go? Do you think that he wrote that by accident? And, more so that that message caught on the way it did? Coincidentally?

Just as I want to talk to my 13 year old self, I also want to talk to my last week self that got that feedback from that person who doesn’t know their ass from their elbow but yet I took so personal. Not giving a fuck is so fucking powerful. Not assigning too much gravity to what ANYONE says is not always easy but is .. just .. so .. liberating. Because guess what? Nobody really knows what they’re talking about – especially when it comes to YOU!

What people tell you is a statement conjured from the context of THEIR lives. And who exactly are THEY? If the music business of the past decade has taught us anything, it is that THEY don’t know SHIT.

Dear 13 year old in 2017. Listen to your parents. But aside from that .. your friends .. your peers .. shit, even some or most of the people you aspire to be – I promise you, they do not know you better than you do. Stay the course, and eventually they will come around, or not matter after all.

The incredible power of not giving a fuck.

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anxiety

i have done something wrong. i did something wrong and someone is unhappy with me and what i did somewhere. but im not quite sure where i messed up or who is pissed off about it and where they are. i had a dream last night that i signed a lease for a $2000/mo studio - way beyond my means .. and woke up. and am now awake yet still feel responsible.

things are incomplete. i have untied loose ends that dangle and sway and get caught on things. and im tired because i havent slept, but restless tonight because i had a coffee this afternoon to try to wake up from being so tired because lastnight i.

didnt sleep.

i work obsessively, and relentlessly and passionately and execute and execute and execute. lists help. but i cant seem to shake the feeling that im still missing something. big.

a run helps. pizza helps. looking up the people who are the people who i THINK i wish i was at 245am does not help. advice which is really just shielded jealousy from my closest confidants and friends moonlighting as saboteurs, does not help.

money spent on things to ease the turmoil experienced while earning the money needed to spend on the stuff to.

ease.

2500 thread count comfort.

to wake up. or to not go to sleep because.

anxiety.

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RIP DUKE

Your time on this earth was short, but thoroughly enjoyed by all who had the honor of knowing you. Your early life was one with siblings. Sisters to be exact. Not by blood or even species. But by proximity, and by love. Sisters you chased around the house and were chased by, and slept on and slept on you when you were all too worn out to run anymore. Sisters who taught you how to be a dog even though you were a cat. Your older sister was raised by a cat, so could better understand your tendencies and general sensitivities. Your younger sister was oblivious though and treated you exactly as an equal.

When we met you first, before bringing you home to your family, you were prancing on wide brown tiled flooring on the lower level of a yellow duplex. The duplex sat behind iron wrought gates, which held in spindly trees and bright patches of grass - just down the street from the intersection of Florence and Normandy. We opened the heavy front door to find you showing off .. surrounded by a family who sat around you, waiting for these hipsters from Craigslist to arrive and take you off their hands. After a minor cash transaction you were ours. And on the way home you sat in my coat. Lightly pushing and gently crying but also at ease and warm and tired from the activity of the afternoon.

You soon made it clear that you were not to be a ‘kept’ cat. Although you never missed a litter box, or applied any significant damage to our Pasadena bungalow .. your energy was that of an outdoor animal. And so, like many people in California, we granted you your freedom through a custom ‘cat’ door in the back laundry room. You were a baby Bengal tiger. A sub Saharan animal born into the body of a cat. Mornings, as I walked down our paved path through the front lawn, under the broad trees on my way to the train, you would pass me by in the other direction - on the way home to rest after a long night of sleuthing around our neighborhood.  After eating in massive, boa constrictor unhinged-jaw-bites you would rest either with your sisters or on a blanket alone, on the red leather couch that still smelled new. Outside, your friends would stalk our front door .. waiting for you to wake up, to come back out, because as I said, you were thoroughly enjoyed by all who had the honor of knowing you.

When everything happened, and I moved to North Hollywood, you offered to come with. To leave your friends, and your outdoor life behind, and live with me in my small apartment off Lankershim. And though you had not used a litter box in months, you adjusted immediately. Instead of running outside with friends now, you spent your days enjoying the piece and quiet of my room. Savoring the breeze which came in through the window over my bed and washed over you as you napped. When I used to wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweats, you quietly got up from your far corner of the bed and strolled up next to me and leaned into me until you fell over and stretched out and yawned and fell back asleep.

Thank you for being my constant Duke. For showing me that though situations and surroundings and any and everything else changes at some point, adaptability is power. Because, while we can sit at the window, staring out and yearning for the life that we once had, we can also choose to just get comfortable and enjoy the breeze

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self help

are you down in the dumps? are you sad and depressed? are you all broken up about your life and who you are and what you thought you would be but aren't? are you late on bills but just can't stop shopping for things you don't even want? well buck up champ. someone is out there today, struggling to just walk with a walker. or not walking but in a wheel chair because they have no legs. or not in a wheelchair because they have no arms. or not leaving their hermetically sealed tent in a hospital because they have no immune system and will die at the inhalation of just one of the billions of seemingly harmless bacteria that breeze through our bodies constantly.

feeling fat and tired and lazy and disinterested in taking a hike? well! there are poor people around the world who would hike up that hill that you groan while trekking only for the opportunity to consume a single jalapeno popper of which you have now had 7 of .. with drinks .. while waiting anxiously for a table that is simply not coming available and oh the nerve of that skinny 19 year old bitch at the desk who told you 40 minutes but can't seem to look up from her phone long enough even to make the cursory 'it's gonna be a bit longer, so sorry we're doing all we can' eye contact.

is he not texting you back? can you just 'not' anymore with his games and back and forth and when he you ask him what he's thinking and he says nothing and it can't be NOTHING because. well. well because your friends told you about this Self Magazine article which is a questionnaire that will finally prove to you that he is the loser you always thought he was. but some people have no one. while you lead him on. or fuck his friend. or fall into relationships of expectation and entitlement, some people sit alone on Christmas. and look through pictures from happier times and drink wine and eat what will certainly be regretted the following day but feels so good for the moment. and are so. so impossibly lonely.

dear career office desk barnacle. you. yes you that are too good for this bullshit. and graduated above your class but are performing under expectation and lease a car instead of own one, and rent an apartment instead of own one, and live with someone else who is not a significant other. only significant in the way that if they weren't there you couldn't afford the place by yourself. just say it. roommate.

you! you, who woke up at the last possible minute today, to trudge to work and fall into your chair at your desk and share in the spoils of another office birthday and spend the rest of the day half asleep at your computer looking up trips to Puerto Rico. or catch up on what happened on the Bachelor recap last night because you fell asleep in your jeans on the couch before Chris Harrison had a chance to tell you himself.

at least you have a job?

at least Sarah had a birthday and at least your office is liberal with its mid day cake policy?

there are children in third world countries who. let's see. don't know what cake is? you find yourself yearning for things to be simple again. for things to be. more direct. less in message form. for more face time with your friends whose kids you have only seen on, well, facetime.

you all of a sudden feel a burning desire to strip the sweater dress off which has been so forgiving of your physical shortcomings - or at least what you perceive them to be, and run. just run. wildly, in your underwear, somewhere into the woods. to reconnect with nature. and live in a tent and eat only what you can catch and cook only what you can with a fire that you also would need to be able to build. yes! on an island! in PUERTO RICO! well, buck up champ. look on the bright side. at least flights to the Caribbean this week are cheap.

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welcome back

where do i start. im back. not here to promote a show or an album or myself. i am a writer. i write. i rent apartments during the day because rent. because shopping. because creature comforts and black fridays and cyber mondays and a cat who prefers grain free salmon. and the store by me doesn’t sell anything not grain free for cats anyway. next to the boutique coffee establishment in north hollywood where i feel like i’m on bedford ave all over again but it’s more spread out. and warmer in the winter. and the people are friendlier and more receptive partly because cali and partly because since new york, Rifff Raff has become the benchmark for successful white rappers

while i chow on my BRC from pollo loco with a steak knife that doesn’t cut it from a shop which is frequented by locals who revel in the irony of the experience. oh, and since last you heard from me I became a vegetarian. well, pescatarian to be technical. there is so much more to this. how i got here, in this small apartment in north Hollywood having recently moved from Pasadena. and why. and then how i got to Pasadena from New York City. and for what reason. I am writing because it’s what I do. and i am writing to talk to you. to tell you where i am and what i have been up to even though that is going to take multiple updates to explain. if it’s even possible. i guess we’ll see.

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on doing what you love.

  If you are anywhere near social media of any type, then you have seen the endless barrage of motivational quotes, pictures, scripts and memes. Maybe it’s just the people I follow, but most of what I see centers around the topic of ‘do what you love’ .. ‘ pursue your passion’ .. ‘you create your own reality’ .. and so on. These (many of them) insanely ‘successful’ public figures encourage us mortals with such phrases. Maybe they are philosophies which have guided them to the gilded heights at which they currently exist. At times, some of what I see IS inspirational. At times, it is redundant. At times it is downright annoying. It is what it is and will most likely continue. Use it for what you will. I appreciate a ‘successful’ person taking time to impart some wisdom to success seekers. Here is where I have a problem with it ...

    What if you are Peter from Office Space and your burning desire in life is to do absolutely nothing? Do you feel that many of these motivational quotes insinuate an active lifestyle? I do. Taking myself out of it (I do happen to have lofty dreams/goals) – what if all you really want is to work your job, watch TV when you get home, and generally be left alone? What if all you really, truly, genuinely want is to raise a family and enjoy time with your friends? Wouldn’t this aggressive advice on achievement make you feel a certain way?

    This is, of course, not the beginning and end of celebrities (even inadvertently) making 9-5ers feel like shit about themselves. I identify with both sides. Which I guess is why I am writing this. I wouldn’t consider myself your ‘average’ employed American. I have shared a stage with Kanye West, and Nas, and KRS One to name a few. I have headlined at some illustrious clubs around the country. I don’t like watching sports on TV. I don’t own a home or have a kid. I take a train to work in LA and wake up 5 hours before I have to be to work so I can do what I love. I was/am on MTV.com .. yet at the same time, sometimes I love more than anything at all to just do nothing. For extended periods of time.

    I know where I intend to be, but don’t ultimately know where I will wind up (like anybody really).  I have my pursuits, yet I identify with those .whose true, honest, whole-hearted passion in life is simply to be happy and healthy ... something that I feel some of the human quote-fountains may perceive as ‘getting by.’ I say that to say this: If your dreams push you beyond the furthest reaches of a normal life, god bless. If your quest in life is to do EXACTLY what you are doing now .. be it everything or nothing, don’t let the rants of overachievers rattle your vibe.

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your best yet.

When I was 16, I recorded a 4 track tape/cd just for the hell of it. It was the first time I had ever really recorded. Didn’t do it for props. Or even any recognition. I had written some verses to the ‘I aint mad at ya’ beat playing in my head and just thought why not lay them down. I distributed a few copies throughout my high school and got some super positive feedback. I was shocked. Really. And in that time, an inadvertent side effect to good feedback resulted. Writers block. My first at the time. I stopped writing for at least a year. I think I got hyped on my own feedback and all of a sudden expected a level from myself which I was not capable. I was a sophomore. The literal and figurative meaning of one.

  Eventually, in addition to friends’ feedback was magazine and blog reviews. Dangerous. Feedback can be devastating. Positive or negative. If it’s positive, you then naturally feel the tinge of pressure – something that your future work must at least hold up to. If not surpass. Evolution. Negative feedback can, of course, be equally disabling. No matter how much we ‘use it for motivation,’ or ‘fuck the haters,’ .. at the end of the day – for those of us at least who are honest – this is literally our guts on the line. So when someone tears into it – brave face aside – that can sting. It can also make embarking on the next thing a bit harder.

  Over the years I have continued because. Well. I can’t not. I have pushed myself in other directions. But keep coming back to this one. I listen to what I did when I felt like I was doing my best and think .. man. I’ve come a long way. Obviously things are way different now than when I first started this. The amount of and speed with which feedback comes is overwhelming. Again, good or bad. I have had projects torn apart by a ‘critic’ then praised by another.

  I have lost myself, at times , in this feedback .. all the while, forgetting just how DOPE I think my own music is. Crazy how that can happen. Listening to critique on my stuff, by people whose favorite artsits I can’t stand. Now how does that make any sense? Yes, we are gluttons for punishment.

  As I embark on my next project, I look at Whitman Can’t Jump. The entire project. Which I composed, produced, wrote, recorded, mixed and released. In my eyes it’s a fucking masterpiece.

All the while, I work hard to be less effected by what is said. Be it good or bad. And remember. That before you, I do this for myself.