The Proletariat

      It's tough being part of the proletariat. You work hard for not much money, and you have do things you don't want to do to make ends meet. At my peak membership I was waking up at 5:30 am to be at work by 6:30. Those were what I refer to as the "dark days." The lost days, so to speak, when I was trying my best to fit into society and make something good of myself. After work, I'd go to my university, where I'd nap in the student union in between classes just to get by.
      When my college days were over I found any old job to pay the rent. The one job perk I had was a week's paid vacation, but I never had enough money to go anywhere far. The cruelty of it was I'd see advertisements in magazines and billboards of tropical paradises with beautiful women sunning themselves in bikinis. They'd have a drink in their hand and a pair of sunglasses on their face. It seemed like at every turn there was a billboard for Cancun, Fiji, Hawaii, or someplace nice like that. Not that I'd want to go to a tourist destination, but still.
      That was my life as a proletariat. I was a good soldier. I payed my taxes, which I saw as a fee for residency in the United States. I followed the rules, mostly.  
      I'm part of the artisan class now, which is like being part of the proletariat, but I set my own hours. Now, I make even less money than I did before. 

Discipline

      Sometimes you need a kick in the pants to put things in perspective. There are some people in this world, artists and otherwise, who are prolific. My painter friend is one of those. I talked to him today at his studio, and came away feeling inspired. He writes a blog a day, which is amazing to me. He never misses a day either, and he's a painter. I felt small talking to him about it. I realize that he and I are different people, but it did strike me as odd that he writes more than I do.
      It's no coincidence that he's prolific. He has discipline. You have to put the time in. No time, no results. I put the time in, but I'm not a maniac about it. I should be though, not knowing how much time I have left. It's easy to think you have all the time in the world, but you don't. Wasting time is life's crime. And it's easy to do with all the distractions in the world, cell phones and what not. I've wasted a lot of time in my life.   Now when I see others wasting time it makes me angry. Probably because it reminds me of myself, and all the days I took for granted. 

      

The Final Magic Trick

We'll all disappear someday, some call it death, but it's just the final magic trick. 

Shuffles

   
      I played with a drummer once who refused to play shuffles. He had it in mind that they were beneath him in some way. I used to tease him about it, but he was headstrong and never gave in.
      Playing the blues was out of the question, and we couldn't play rockabilly or even certain rock songs depending on the beat. Needless to say the band was stifled by it, and eventually parted ways. Who wants to be in a band where you can't play a shuffle? 
      Every once in while we'd say let's play Cold Shot, and he'd just about flip out. I sometimes wonder about him. The last I heard he was playing in a rock band, and I wonder if he pulled the same thing with them. 
      I've always thought playing a good shuffle was difficult. To get it right anyway. But, no not this drummer. He hated them. 

Why I Don't Own A Gun

      I don't own a gun because I can be quick tempered, and quick tempered and guns don't always get along. I'd end up in jail no doubt. Know thyself when it comes to guns; that's what I always say.
      The other reason I don't own a gun is because I have fantasies of attending a NRA convention strapped to the nines, and the first time I heard the keynote speaker at the podium say something wrong or untrue, I'd get up and start firing. I figure I could pick off eight or so people before anyone got off a shot, proving the point to the NRA that guns in themselves won't protect you in all situations. It's a fallacy. It takes time to pull out a gun, and you can't pull out gun if you don't know what's coming.
      In my estimation those are pretty good reasons not to own gun. We don't need a bunch of lefties running around with guns. It would be safer for everybody if we just played it cool.
 
            

Maxims

It's nothing a Turkish apricot can't fix.

Sriracha wasn't built in a day.

The devil don't make no pancakes. 

Try as you may, there's no escaping yourself.

Avoidance is the mother of all procrastination.

Clutter is the root of all evil. 

No Trolling For Me

     I don't want to be a troll. They're too negative. My mom's negative. She's a troll and doesn't know it. We kids, her kids, admonish her when she's being negative. "Why do you have to be so negative?" She always looks surprised by our remarks, as if she has no idea what we're talking about. 
     She can't help it. She had a bunch of sisters and they'd talk on the telephone every morning, and undoubtedly someone would complain about their husband or kids and the negativity would snowball from one sister to another. 
     To put it bluntly, my mother's a shit talker, an eighty-seven year old shit talker. They're called trolls nowadays, but they've just been repackaged. 
     Anyway, I don't want to be none of that. It's in me though, I have to fight it. Sometimes it feels like it's easier to be an ass then to be kind. Being kind requires a certain amount of discipline, and patience. It's not always easy to take a breath, and let things go. It is easy to lose your mind with emotional tirades though, and that's the life of a troll. An emotional shit talker, the troll.