Hi, I was just wondering why everyone makes such a deal about the band 'Brokencyde'? I, personally, love the band. And, of course, I know that many people don't. Everyone's entitled to their opinion, but I just don't understand why everyone ridicule and degrade them so badly. I just find it cruel. They don't rape, kill or anything.. they just produce music for our entertainment. Why can't these people just back off? It's downright disrespectful.. and frankly over the top. Haters threatening to boycott the band if they play at the warp tour? Death threats? The insults are just horrendous. Everyone's different. Some like screamo, some like pop, classical, rock, etc. Some people think music is useless and a waste of time. So stating your opinion (i.e. Brokencyde sucks, they have no talent) and passing it off as FACT is just stupidity. What's with all the hate? Isn't hate the reason for suicide, depression, war, etc? Isn't it the reason for Michael Jackson's death? I know for sure that hate is the reason for my depression and my sister's death.
I'd like to hear what you have to say to all this. --S.L.
Dear S.L.,
Thanks for giving me some room to work with on this one. If it was just another question about that band, I wouldn't have even bothered to answer it, but you were good enough to have more than just that to say, so thank you for it.
Should I assume that you read my previous entry regarding Brokencyde? To summarize, I was asked why a man in his early thirties might enjoy their music, and further, what my thoughts on the band were. Needless to say, I'm not a fan, and while I did withhold from unloading hate from both barrels, so to speak, I posited that part of the band's appeal to their audience is the polarizing power of hate-- that the band shrewdly exploits this in order to better market their music, by making themselves targets of the uncensored hate all over the internet here.
It's great (for you) that you love them, but there are plenty of folks out there who just find the music terrible, or the fashion sense deplorable, etc, considering it mere fodder for the lowest common denominator, whatever. But I think your question has more to do with hate than it does Brokencyde, am I right?
Here's the thing about hate and the internet: the internet gives everyone a voice, regardless of message, spelling/grammar skills, presumptive social values, or purpose. Have you ever read the comments section on any youtube page? ESPECIALLY the popular ones. Pick one. Any. For every "oh dude that's awesome" or "OMG i <3 ____'s (music/face/body/whatever) so much!!!!!111!!!," there are plenty of barely articulate rants and gibes, as rife with spite as spelling errors, and all about as necessary as a condom in a convent. It's everywhere. Visit your favorite websites, especially ones where the content has a comments section-- same rules apply. Maybe it's moderated, maybe it isn't-- but if it's not, you can bet your ass it's full of serious garbage.
And why is that? Why do people find the need to vent like that? It's easy-- because people CAN vent like that. Any public forum, unmoderated, if visited enough, will ultimately degrade to the worst of things, because the anonymity of the internet makes it easy. Some people do it because it's funny-- and you know what? Sometimes, it is funny-- especially if it's well-crafted. There are entire websites out there dedicated solely to cutting down things that the authors of the sites despise. Personally, I can get behind that, because I believe speech SHOULD be free and uncensored. I'm willing to put up with the bullshit to be able to say whatever I want to say. Yes, it does sometimes get out of hand, and yes, that's a shame, but these are the risks we as a society have decided to accept in favor of being able to say and think whatever we want.
I could sit here right now and tell you why I think the band Coldplay is God's way of punishing us for NOT executing the members of U2 (for the crime of continuing to put out increasingly terrible records after blowing their collective wad on their artistic zenith in "Achtung Baby"), and I could think of all sorts of clever metaphors. I could use the phrase "languish forever, consigned to the horse-phallus forced-sodomy ring of hell." I might think that was funny, and you know what? I probably have some friends and readers who would laugh, as well. Does that make me right, or just an opinionated asshole? Does it matter? I'm making use of my freedom to speak as I will.
But obviously, there's more to it than that. And there's a difference between internet hate and legitimate, real-life hate. The difference is, people aren't killing people because someone calls your favorite band a bunch of diarrhea-flavored eunuchs. You could write a blog criticizing Brokencyde, for example, and not a single member of that band is going to dive into the Grand Canyon. I'll concur with you far enough to say that "hate" gets out of hand on the internet, but there's personal hate, and then there's spitting for spit's sake.
Hate, internet or otherwise, didn't kill Michael Jackson-- pills killed Michael Jackson. A hard life killed Michael Jackson, and a few decades of bad choices. Personally, for the record, I think he did some fucked-up shit, made a mess of his life, and is probably better off now, but it wasn't bloggers, comment-section ninjas, or internet trolls that killed him. Personal responsibility, you know?
Now, I won't say that NO ONE has ever been killed or driven to suicide by harassment on the internet or even in real life. I won't say that no one has ever cried from some hurtful words, virtual or spoken. I'd go far enough as to say that there are plenty of people who suffer from depression, and getting picked on or hated on, regardless of venue, is a serious problem. I won't offer to excuse the behavior of bullies and assholes-- even when I've been a bully or an asshole. What I will, and emphatically, here, state, is that people suck. Always have, always will. You can't change that, and you can't stop it. Let me tell you, I've tried. It doesn't work, at least not until my Empathy Bomb (patent pending) goes off and teaches the world the real price of every action.
So what can you do? The same thing anyone can. If you can't change the world, you have to be strong enough in yourself to stand against it. Keep things in perspective. You're articulate enough to ask an intelligent question, so I'm sure you're smart enough to realize that there's nothing anyone can SAY to you that, as mere words, will actually alter the fundamental nature of who you are-- unless you choose to let it affect you. Your skin is as thick as you choose. Someone could make fun of you for liking Brokencyde, or the Twilight books, dogs over cats, or McDonald's cheeseburgers or Jesus or the color orange-- but does that make you any less than who you are? People say shit to me ALL THE TIME, because I have a tendency to make myself a target by being free with my opinions. I don't mind admitting that I hate things you may like, or like things you may hate-- but I don't care what your opinion is about it. If you like something I do, or something about me? Awesome. That's cool. It won't make me be your friend, though-- you have to earn that by less superficial means. By the same token, do you hate MY favorite bands? The music I write? This blog? The color of my hair, my cat, my blue eyes, my ethnic heritage, or how clean I keep my toilet? I don't care. Hell, you can hate me PERSONALLY, and it doesn't really affect me because I choose not to let it do so. That's your watch, not mine. If you live your life based on what other people think or believe, you're going to be sad. There's enough sadness and strife in one life that there's hardly any reason to start adding to the pile, you know?
I don't know what factors in your life are tearing you down or making you depressed, but I'm willing to bet that you have the power, inside you already, to be better and stronger than that, or to get whatever help you need to take charge of your life. Seriously.
I don't know if this was the answer you were looking for, but I hope it helps, one way or another. Take care of yourself.
Always Listening,
Dr. Sunday
Monday, October 26, 2009
Orange Juice? or....?
Doctor:
What kind of person throws a half full gallon of orange juice out on the highway? I saw this around 8:30 am today on 75 North and felt curious. I have some ideas....
A) The type of person that would take a bite out of a burrito and chuck it out a car window on the highway because "it is filling".
B) Someone on a serious acid binge.
C) Some kind of douchebag that is not satisfied with ordering a large orange juice with his McGriddle.
What do you think?
--Stupefied on 75
Dear Stupefied,
Those are all excellent possibilities. Finding items in strange places does set the mind to wandering. I once found half of a Taco Bell burrito in a dressing room at Macy's, for example, and thought "you could wait long enough to go from Taco Bell to the mall, and on into Macy's, before you started eating, but you couldn't wait until you were done trying on clothes?" My immediate hypothesis there was something along the order of some strange nigh-superhuman, whose metabolism runs well faster than anyone's ever should-- and thus must consume food in strange places and in strange amounts.
Regarding your orange juice conundrum, I could of course speculate, but instead will regale you with an instance from my own personal life that might shed another sort of light on the matter. As many of my readers know, I'm also a musician-- and during various times in my life, must travel for my art. In younger years, I've spent that time in a van, with a group of whatever gentlemen I'd enlisted to my cause in the context of a van. What many people may not realize, is that guys travelling and sleeping in a van may not always be the most mature or well-mannered, and that the rules and customs of the road are not always the rules and customs of civilized people.
My story, which I assure you will rapidly become relevant, begins with one of the many amusements with which we would wile away empty hours. It was a game with no name, and only one implement-- an egg. Just a plain, ordinary egg, which made its way into our van through a complicated series of dares and bets, but became the focus of several hundred miles of the American Midwest. The rules of the game were simple: if you had the egg, you had to pass it off to someone else, without them realizing it. Break the egg, and you lose-- be the one to place the egg last, and you win. *PROTIP: If you want to play this game at home, drawing faces, phalluses, the Batman logo, or the profanity of your choice on the shell of the egg is OPTIONAL.
During the course of this travel, the egg aged and passed many ordeals-- being hidden in pockets, hoodies, shoes, lunchbags, and hats. Unfortunately for me, it came to its final resting place in my pillow. I discovered it upon laying down to rest, somewhere east of Cleveland, it being my night to be too drunk to drive the van. Of course I felt the strange sensation of the well-placed object, under my pillowcase yet above the pillow, as my heavy and heavily-intoxicated head came to break it, but I was too tired to care. In fact, it was the complaints of my bandmates, who could not abide the stench, that awoke me and alerted me to the issue, an hour or so later... when we pulled over to throw the pillow out in a gas station trashcan. Unfortunately, I realized that my hair now smelled of the distinctive sulfur of rotten egg.
Instantly sober and stinking to the high heavens, I vowed my bitter revenge. And, in the custom of Young Men Travelling in Band Vans Across States, it was to be vulgar in its own right.
We went inside to gather supplies, including sodas for the trip and ice for the cooler. Only two of us were Mountain Dew drinkers (one being myself, and the other being the winner of the egg game). This, I would use to my advantage. Procuring two Mountain Dew BIG SLAMS (the one liter-size, a term no longer used on the packaging, but familiar to many), one for myself and one for my quarry, my trap was soon to be set.
Once back in the van, I neglected to go back to sleep, but rather to drink every drop of my soda right then and there. I concealed this fact from my quarry (who was fast asleep in the passenger seat, and due to take over driving in a few hours), keeping the empty close by me. Now, per the customs of the road, had I not finished mine, I was to write my name on it, before slipping it in the cooler. I did neither. In fact, I took my quarry's soda from the cooler and drank a couple gulps of it, wrote my name on it, and put it back in the cooler.
I didn't sleep for the next long while. I used the time, instead, to void my bladder into the empty Mountain Dew bottle-- first a couple of long, tiresome "beer pisses" and then the logical outcome of guzzling an entire liter of Mountain Dew in a matter of minutes. The bottle, unsurprisingly, was nearly full, and thanks to the green color of the bottle, wasn't that far off from what one might expect to see. I wrote my quarry's name on the bottle, placed it in the cooler, and went to sleep.
***Editorial note: For the record, urinating in a plastic bottle while on the road may SEEM vulgar, but if you think it is, you've never traveled long distances overland with males, where the rule of the road is, always, that the strongest bladder is the one calling the "piss stop."***
Some time later, we pulled over to change spots-- my quarry in the driver's seat, myself in the passenger, the rest of our part in the back. Of course, the quarry instantly wanted to crack open his Dew to get started, and thanks to the cooler, it was nice and cold for him. Ice cold, like the revenge I was to have.
It took exactly one deep, thirsty guzzle before he spat most of his "soda" all over himself before closing the bottle and throwing it out the window. "Fucking awful, I must have gotten a bad one," he would splutter later, never once knowing what he had willingly taken into his body. To this day, he doesn't know, and in the off-chance he's reading this, I've spared his name.
Did someone later, though, wonder why an almost completely full bottle of Mountain Dew was discarded? Did someone, perhaps, years later, pull a similar prank with a gallon of orange juice?
We may never know. I hope this has helped you.
Always listening,
Dr. Sunday
What kind of person throws a half full gallon of orange juice out on the highway? I saw this around 8:30 am today on 75 North and felt curious. I have some ideas....
A) The type of person that would take a bite out of a burrito and chuck it out a car window on the highway because "it is filling".
B) Someone on a serious acid binge.
C) Some kind of douchebag that is not satisfied with ordering a large orange juice with his McGriddle.
What do you think?
--Stupefied on 75
Dear Stupefied,
Those are all excellent possibilities. Finding items in strange places does set the mind to wandering. I once found half of a Taco Bell burrito in a dressing room at Macy's, for example, and thought "you could wait long enough to go from Taco Bell to the mall, and on into Macy's, before you started eating, but you couldn't wait until you were done trying on clothes?" My immediate hypothesis there was something along the order of some strange nigh-superhuman, whose metabolism runs well faster than anyone's ever should-- and thus must consume food in strange places and in strange amounts.
Regarding your orange juice conundrum, I could of course speculate, but instead will regale you with an instance from my own personal life that might shed another sort of light on the matter. As many of my readers know, I'm also a musician-- and during various times in my life, must travel for my art. In younger years, I've spent that time in a van, with a group of whatever gentlemen I'd enlisted to my cause in the context of a van. What many people may not realize, is that guys travelling and sleeping in a van may not always be the most mature or well-mannered, and that the rules and customs of the road are not always the rules and customs of civilized people.
My story, which I assure you will rapidly become relevant, begins with one of the many amusements with which we would wile away empty hours. It was a game with no name, and only one implement-- an egg. Just a plain, ordinary egg, which made its way into our van through a complicated series of dares and bets, but became the focus of several hundred miles of the American Midwest. The rules of the game were simple: if you had the egg, you had to pass it off to someone else, without them realizing it. Break the egg, and you lose-- be the one to place the egg last, and you win. *PROTIP: If you want to play this game at home, drawing faces, phalluses, the Batman logo, or the profanity of your choice on the shell of the egg is OPTIONAL.
During the course of this travel, the egg aged and passed many ordeals-- being hidden in pockets, hoodies, shoes, lunchbags, and hats. Unfortunately for me, it came to its final resting place in my pillow. I discovered it upon laying down to rest, somewhere east of Cleveland, it being my night to be too drunk to drive the van. Of course I felt the strange sensation of the well-placed object, under my pillowcase yet above the pillow, as my heavy and heavily-intoxicated head came to break it, but I was too tired to care. In fact, it was the complaints of my bandmates, who could not abide the stench, that awoke me and alerted me to the issue, an hour or so later... when we pulled over to throw the pillow out in a gas station trashcan. Unfortunately, I realized that my hair now smelled of the distinctive sulfur of rotten egg.
Instantly sober and stinking to the high heavens, I vowed my bitter revenge. And, in the custom of Young Men Travelling in Band Vans Across States, it was to be vulgar in its own right.
We went inside to gather supplies, including sodas for the trip and ice for the cooler. Only two of us were Mountain Dew drinkers (one being myself, and the other being the winner of the egg game). This, I would use to my advantage. Procuring two Mountain Dew BIG SLAMS (the one liter-size, a term no longer used on the packaging, but familiar to many), one for myself and one for my quarry, my trap was soon to be set.
Once back in the van, I neglected to go back to sleep, but rather to drink every drop of my soda right then and there. I concealed this fact from my quarry (who was fast asleep in the passenger seat, and due to take over driving in a few hours), keeping the empty close by me. Now, per the customs of the road, had I not finished mine, I was to write my name on it, before slipping it in the cooler. I did neither. In fact, I took my quarry's soda from the cooler and drank a couple gulps of it, wrote my name on it, and put it back in the cooler.
I didn't sleep for the next long while. I used the time, instead, to void my bladder into the empty Mountain Dew bottle-- first a couple of long, tiresome "beer pisses" and then the logical outcome of guzzling an entire liter of Mountain Dew in a matter of minutes. The bottle, unsurprisingly, was nearly full, and thanks to the green color of the bottle, wasn't that far off from what one might expect to see. I wrote my quarry's name on the bottle, placed it in the cooler, and went to sleep.
***Editorial note: For the record, urinating in a plastic bottle while on the road may SEEM vulgar, but if you think it is, you've never traveled long distances overland with males, where the rule of the road is, always, that the strongest bladder is the one calling the "piss stop."***
Some time later, we pulled over to change spots-- my quarry in the driver's seat, myself in the passenger, the rest of our part in the back. Of course, the quarry instantly wanted to crack open his Dew to get started, and thanks to the cooler, it was nice and cold for him. Ice cold, like the revenge I was to have.
It took exactly one deep, thirsty guzzle before he spat most of his "soda" all over himself before closing the bottle and throwing it out the window. "Fucking awful, I must have gotten a bad one," he would splutter later, never once knowing what he had willingly taken into his body. To this day, he doesn't know, and in the off-chance he's reading this, I've spared his name.
Did someone later, though, wonder why an almost completely full bottle of Mountain Dew was discarded? Did someone, perhaps, years later, pull a similar prank with a gallon of orange juice?
We may never know. I hope this has helped you.
Always listening,
Dr. Sunday
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Sewing Kits for Men.
Dear Dr. Sunday,
I have a brother who is trying to come up with a way to masculinize (if thats a word- if its not, it should be) a sewing kit. How do I tactfully tell him that he wants to do the impossible?
Befuddled in Bethel
Dear Sir,
I'd be happy to answer your question, save for the fact that it is based on a false premise. You believe that to masculinize (and yes, that is indeed a word) a sewing kit is an impossible feat.
Not so! In fact, while outmoded minds may consider the art of sewing to be feminine in nature, we now live in the 21st century, where most items need not have gender roles assigned to them. It's a sewing kit, not a box of tampons. If your brother, who I am certain is a wise and bold young man, has decided that not only will he own a sewing kit, but that he wants to decorate or modify the pieces (say, creating a custom thimble that fits his hand better but is in the form of a Dalek from Doctor Who, and turning the box into a miniature TARDIS) to better fit his personality, then he's doing the most bold and masculine thing he can do!
Consider: I'd be willing to wager that both you and your brother have had ear piercings in your time. And say, hypothetically, that your father was a bit old-fashioned with respect to changes in fashion, so he might have objected at various times, finding earrings to be effeminate, a grievous sin, in his eyes, for his sons to commit. Now, I bet that brother of yours, even as a young teenager, was astute enough to remind your father that ear piercing, historically, has not been a gender specific concept, and has only been forced into such during say, the days of your father's youth, and the cultures that preceded said father's youth. Did having a piece of metal in your ears make you any less a man?
Thus with the sewing kit. This is not exclusive to one gender or another, and customization, maybe because it came in a box that happens to be a soft pink, and doesn't stay closed very well, and is awkward in size/shape overall, is probably wise. Your brother doesn't feel feminine because he's GOT a sewing kit-- he just doesn't like the colors assigned to some of the accessories, the failure at proper closures, and awkward size/shape, and chooses to make them more conducive to his own personal tastes, while perhaps paying homage to a great British scifi show.
You should be ashamed of yourself for making fun of your brother, especially since he could still probably kick your ass as he did back in the day, when he was a much more cruel and unkind person.
I hope this has helped you.
Always listening,
Dr. Sunday
PS-- Give my love to your little ones, and tell Mom & Dad I said hello.
***Editorial Note, for background purposes: This message comes in response to a conversation which took place on my twitter page, wherein I suggested that, since I had such a hard time finding a good thimble or a sewing kit that wasn't feeble in appearance, that I would make a more "masculine" or perhaps merely a "geek" version, likely by making my thimble into a Dalek and the kit box into a TARDIS, and so on, because Doctor Who is, quite frankly, the shit. And yes, this was my brother who asked the question-- I break confidentiality only with his approval.***
I have a brother who is trying to come up with a way to masculinize (if thats a word- if its not, it should be) a sewing kit. How do I tactfully tell him that he wants to do the impossible?
Befuddled in Bethel
Dear Sir,
I'd be happy to answer your question, save for the fact that it is based on a false premise. You believe that to masculinize (and yes, that is indeed a word) a sewing kit is an impossible feat.
Not so! In fact, while outmoded minds may consider the art of sewing to be feminine in nature, we now live in the 21st century, where most items need not have gender roles assigned to them. It's a sewing kit, not a box of tampons. If your brother, who I am certain is a wise and bold young man, has decided that not only will he own a sewing kit, but that he wants to decorate or modify the pieces (say, creating a custom thimble that fits his hand better but is in the form of a Dalek from Doctor Who, and turning the box into a miniature TARDIS) to better fit his personality, then he's doing the most bold and masculine thing he can do!
Consider: I'd be willing to wager that both you and your brother have had ear piercings in your time. And say, hypothetically, that your father was a bit old-fashioned with respect to changes in fashion, so he might have objected at various times, finding earrings to be effeminate, a grievous sin, in his eyes, for his sons to commit. Now, I bet that brother of yours, even as a young teenager, was astute enough to remind your father that ear piercing, historically, has not been a gender specific concept, and has only been forced into such during say, the days of your father's youth, and the cultures that preceded said father's youth. Did having a piece of metal in your ears make you any less a man?
Thus with the sewing kit. This is not exclusive to one gender or another, and customization, maybe because it came in a box that happens to be a soft pink, and doesn't stay closed very well, and is awkward in size/shape overall, is probably wise. Your brother doesn't feel feminine because he's GOT a sewing kit-- he just doesn't like the colors assigned to some of the accessories, the failure at proper closures, and awkward size/shape, and chooses to make them more conducive to his own personal tastes, while perhaps paying homage to a great British scifi show.
You should be ashamed of yourself for making fun of your brother, especially since he could still probably kick your ass as he did back in the day, when he was a much more cruel and unkind person.
I hope this has helped you.
Always listening,
Dr. Sunday
PS-- Give my love to your little ones, and tell Mom & Dad I said hello.
***Editorial Note, for background purposes: This message comes in response to a conversation which took place on my twitter page, wherein I suggested that, since I had such a hard time finding a good thimble or a sewing kit that wasn't feeble in appearance, that I would make a more "masculine" or perhaps merely a "geek" version, likely by making my thimble into a Dalek and the kit box into a TARDIS, and so on, because Doctor Who is, quite frankly, the shit. And yes, this was my brother who asked the question-- I break confidentiality only with his approval.***
Culinary Conundrum, or What Will I Be When I Grow Up?
Dear Dr. Sunday,
There are certain times of the year when I'm very satisfied with and challenged by my career--times when I'd go so far as to say I get that peace-filled and remarkable feeling that I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, when I'm supposed to be doing it. This, I believe, makes me very lucky, and I truly appreciate my employment. There was a time when I was sure I had my dream job.
But:
There are also certain times when my mind is overwhelmingly distracted from my work, and it's mostly to think about cooking. It's considering recipes, researching techniques, planning menus and reasons to entertain, constructing shopping lists in my mind, wishing I had more money so I could cook more things.
I love food, but I love cooking so much more. It's challenging and frustrating and satisfying to a degree I've only experienced elsewhere in personal romantic relationships.
So I wonder: am I in the wrong profession? Should I be cooking? Should I go to culinary school and have the chance to cook so much more than I do now? Or am I too old (almost 27, sheesh) already to consider such a thing? And do I not have enough natural talent? I'm really not that confident in my cooking, even though I manage to do a lot of it. I'm never quite happy with what I make, but the experience is always satisfying.
I guess I'm worried that: a) I'm pressing my luck--I already have a kickass job, b) I'm too old, and c) I'd end up being even worse than the trainwrecks that are eliminated in the first few weeks of every season of Top Chef. Plus I have a real and true and highly irrational fear of cracking eggs (terrified of the possibility of a partially developed chick inside).
I'm feeling delusional, but also kind of excited. Am I crazy?
Curious,
not-a-chef
Dear Not-A-Chef,
Finding one's true calling in life isn't always easy. There are people I've known personally from childhood, schoolmates, family friends, who always seemed to know where they would be going-- and simply fell into line, lived the life, and are thriving or at the very least comfortably surviving in their own little niches, never really having had to question their routes. In some of my more somber hours, I envy them the simplicity of their lives, the ease with which they appear to travel the paths of life, and wonder if they've ever spent the anguished and exhausting sleepless nights that some of us (like myself) still endure to this day.
And just as your story relates, I know people who work jobs that are very fulfilling, yet want for more, or perhaps simply wonder what else there could be. On a personal note, there is a man I know, a close blood relative of mine, who works a very honorable job which he loves-- yet he too, dreams of other things, at times, knowing that he possesses a passion (and honestly, even with my personal connection to him, I can state OBJECTIVELY, a true talent as well) for something else. Still the passion he desires to pursue is a bit less practical and immediate, for the needs of his life and his family, so he devotes himself to that which he must do to provide, while occasionally dabbling or even diving into the passion which haunts the quiet places of his soul.
Even for myself, I can state that I've walked this line. I'll go ahead and admit for the readers, as I have to my close friends, that I dropped out of college, walking out on a rather substantial scholarship to a very reputable institution, for the sake of pursuing careers in music and writing. I've spent my years since high school alternately supporting myself, sometimes in part, and sometimes in full, with my passions-- writing, recording and performing music, or various aspects of free-lance writing, not to mention the occasional art commission/sale, audio production, or event promotional role. While this is lovely, I also know that as an independent artist, I don't get health care or a 401K, and I'm lucky to have a savings account or even a place to rest my brilliant and beautiful head, so I've also made damned sure that, as needed, I've kept day jobs.
I promise this personal, expository narrative will soon become quite relevant to your circumstances, and I appreciate your patience, which you will find rewarded in a matter of a few brief paragraphs.
In the early days of leaving college, and the years that followed, I was a teen, or a lad in his early 20's, arrogant enough to believe that no harm would ever come that would require, say, the need to visit a hospital. Thanks to my upbringing (very folksy and rural, coming from a long line of bold and stoic people very close to the earth, with a liberal helping of German stamina, Irish courage, and Native American wisdom), I've been able to heal myself and keep myself well-preserved, despite years of very hard living. However, periodically, I've sustained injuries beyond my own abilities, such as when I broke my knee a couple of years ago (onstage, while playing a guitar solo--I'll spare you the details here), which once more revealed to me the benefit of having a very good "day job" which paid my bills and provided me with the high-level health care that allows me to walk, run, climb trees, fuck, fight, and maintain my yoga regimen to this very day. Even now, I work two jobs (one in finance, one in public relations) while continuing to make music (beautifully, I might add) and pursue all of my other ambitions (some more serious than others), which often actually make me some money-- a nice thing, to be sure, but more importantly, satisfies my desire for adventure, passion, and magic.
When I was recovering from the aforementioned knee injury, my father drove me to and from the surgery that was required. In an opiate haze, I recall resting on my bed in my apartment, while my Dad ran to McDonald's to get a fish sandwich for himself (it was a Friday during Lent, and he's Catholic enough to be like, forty-third in line for the next Pope). Dad came back, and asked again exactly what had transpired, and I told him. We had a discussion very similar to that which I have already mentioned to you, and he said it was good that I was wise enough to keep my day job while pursuing my passion. I agreed with him, and he told me this: "Sometimes, there is value in taking risks-- living life without a net. But if you can have what you want WHILE MAKING SURE that the basic needs of your life are cared for, you'd be a fool not to do so. Everyone wants to have a cake and eat it too-- that's the best of all possible worlds, son." Now, while he did tell me afterwards to cut my hair, stop wearing makeup, and to start eating meat again, since the vegetarian thing is probably why I got hurt, since I was already halfway to being a girl and when the fuck was I going to snap out of that hippie bullshit already, seriously, etc, I still consider him, in most respects to be perhaps the wisest person I know, and almost as smart as I am. Almost.
This is my advice for you, my dear: You should follow your dream. I do think, however, that you should do it in such a way that you do not sacrifice the life you have, at least for the moment. Sure, there's romance in the idea that you drop everything to flee to some far-off city to learn the culinary arts at the hands of venerable masters, but the truth is, you can have your cake and eat it, too-- and in the process, learn how to make the kinds of proverbial cakes that astound and astonish, that are as much a joy to prepare and devise as they are to eat and to share. Work with your schedule-- make some sacrifices for yourself and for your art. Figure out how to attend cooking school while still maintaining the job that you have. You will, then, have quite a bit of time to ascertain which life suits you best. Maybe you end up becoming a chef, and loving it-- and maybe you keep doing what you're doing, but go even further towards astounding the people who love you most by preparing meals of such amazing depth that your passions are sated, desires met, and your happiness is assured. The fact that you're willing to ask yourself this question, rather than dismissing it as some foolish dream, tells me that you're onto something worth pursuing.
I've given this question a lot of thought, and every time I look at it, I realize how totally right and very fucking smart I am. I think you're ready to take this step-- maybe you just need the impetus of hearing from someone on the outside. Follow your dreams, but save yourself the peace of mind that your "day job" will offer. You'll stay satisfied and you'll learn a lot about yourself. That's the kind of education that only life itself can provide.
I hope this has helped you. If you need further consultation, you know where to reach me.
Always Listening,
Dr. Sunday
PS-- You're never too old to follow your dreams. Betting on yourself is NEVER pressing your luck, and reality television is about as far from reality as you can get.
And for the record, the eggs that you purchase from the store are not ever fertilized, and thus will not contain any sort of embryonic chicken babies. I can state this categorically. Unless you're buying your eggs from a man on the side of the road, or driving to a farm to get them right out from under a hen, you've nothing to worry over, I assure you.
There are certain times of the year when I'm very satisfied with and challenged by my career--times when I'd go so far as to say I get that peace-filled and remarkable feeling that I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing, when I'm supposed to be doing it. This, I believe, makes me very lucky, and I truly appreciate my employment. There was a time when I was sure I had my dream job.
But:
There are also certain times when my mind is overwhelmingly distracted from my work, and it's mostly to think about cooking. It's considering recipes, researching techniques, planning menus and reasons to entertain, constructing shopping lists in my mind, wishing I had more money so I could cook more things.
I love food, but I love cooking so much more. It's challenging and frustrating and satisfying to a degree I've only experienced elsewhere in personal romantic relationships.
So I wonder: am I in the wrong profession? Should I be cooking? Should I go to culinary school and have the chance to cook so much more than I do now? Or am I too old (almost 27, sheesh) already to consider such a thing? And do I not have enough natural talent? I'm really not that confident in my cooking, even though I manage to do a lot of it. I'm never quite happy with what I make, but the experience is always satisfying.
I guess I'm worried that: a) I'm pressing my luck--I already have a kickass job, b) I'm too old, and c) I'd end up being even worse than the trainwrecks that are eliminated in the first few weeks of every season of Top Chef. Plus I have a real and true and highly irrational fear of cracking eggs (terrified of the possibility of a partially developed chick inside).
I'm feeling delusional, but also kind of excited. Am I crazy?
Curious,
not-a-chef
Dear Not-A-Chef,
Finding one's true calling in life isn't always easy. There are people I've known personally from childhood, schoolmates, family friends, who always seemed to know where they would be going-- and simply fell into line, lived the life, and are thriving or at the very least comfortably surviving in their own little niches, never really having had to question their routes. In some of my more somber hours, I envy them the simplicity of their lives, the ease with which they appear to travel the paths of life, and wonder if they've ever spent the anguished and exhausting sleepless nights that some of us (like myself) still endure to this day.
And just as your story relates, I know people who work jobs that are very fulfilling, yet want for more, or perhaps simply wonder what else there could be. On a personal note, there is a man I know, a close blood relative of mine, who works a very honorable job which he loves-- yet he too, dreams of other things, at times, knowing that he possesses a passion (and honestly, even with my personal connection to him, I can state OBJECTIVELY, a true talent as well) for something else. Still the passion he desires to pursue is a bit less practical and immediate, for the needs of his life and his family, so he devotes himself to that which he must do to provide, while occasionally dabbling or even diving into the passion which haunts the quiet places of his soul.
Even for myself, I can state that I've walked this line. I'll go ahead and admit for the readers, as I have to my close friends, that I dropped out of college, walking out on a rather substantial scholarship to a very reputable institution, for the sake of pursuing careers in music and writing. I've spent my years since high school alternately supporting myself, sometimes in part, and sometimes in full, with my passions-- writing, recording and performing music, or various aspects of free-lance writing, not to mention the occasional art commission/sale, audio production, or event promotional role. While this is lovely, I also know that as an independent artist, I don't get health care or a 401K, and I'm lucky to have a savings account or even a place to rest my brilliant and beautiful head, so I've also made damned sure that, as needed, I've kept day jobs.
I promise this personal, expository narrative will soon become quite relevant to your circumstances, and I appreciate your patience, which you will find rewarded in a matter of a few brief paragraphs.
In the early days of leaving college, and the years that followed, I was a teen, or a lad in his early 20's, arrogant enough to believe that no harm would ever come that would require, say, the need to visit a hospital. Thanks to my upbringing (very folksy and rural, coming from a long line of bold and stoic people very close to the earth, with a liberal helping of German stamina, Irish courage, and Native American wisdom), I've been able to heal myself and keep myself well-preserved, despite years of very hard living. However, periodically, I've sustained injuries beyond my own abilities, such as when I broke my knee a couple of years ago (onstage, while playing a guitar solo--I'll spare you the details here), which once more revealed to me the benefit of having a very good "day job" which paid my bills and provided me with the high-level health care that allows me to walk, run, climb trees, fuck, fight, and maintain my yoga regimen to this very day. Even now, I work two jobs (one in finance, one in public relations) while continuing to make music (beautifully, I might add) and pursue all of my other ambitions (some more serious than others), which often actually make me some money-- a nice thing, to be sure, but more importantly, satisfies my desire for adventure, passion, and magic.
When I was recovering from the aforementioned knee injury, my father drove me to and from the surgery that was required. In an opiate haze, I recall resting on my bed in my apartment, while my Dad ran to McDonald's to get a fish sandwich for himself (it was a Friday during Lent, and he's Catholic enough to be like, forty-third in line for the next Pope). Dad came back, and asked again exactly what had transpired, and I told him. We had a discussion very similar to that which I have already mentioned to you, and he said it was good that I was wise enough to keep my day job while pursuing my passion. I agreed with him, and he told me this: "Sometimes, there is value in taking risks-- living life without a net. But if you can have what you want WHILE MAKING SURE that the basic needs of your life are cared for, you'd be a fool not to do so. Everyone wants to have a cake and eat it too-- that's the best of all possible worlds, son." Now, while he did tell me afterwards to cut my hair, stop wearing makeup, and to start eating meat again, since the vegetarian thing is probably why I got hurt, since I was already halfway to being a girl and when the fuck was I going to snap out of that hippie bullshit already, seriously, etc, I still consider him, in most respects to be perhaps the wisest person I know, and almost as smart as I am. Almost.
This is my advice for you, my dear: You should follow your dream. I do think, however, that you should do it in such a way that you do not sacrifice the life you have, at least for the moment. Sure, there's romance in the idea that you drop everything to flee to some far-off city to learn the culinary arts at the hands of venerable masters, but the truth is, you can have your cake and eat it, too-- and in the process, learn how to make the kinds of proverbial cakes that astound and astonish, that are as much a joy to prepare and devise as they are to eat and to share. Work with your schedule-- make some sacrifices for yourself and for your art. Figure out how to attend cooking school while still maintaining the job that you have. You will, then, have quite a bit of time to ascertain which life suits you best. Maybe you end up becoming a chef, and loving it-- and maybe you keep doing what you're doing, but go even further towards astounding the people who love you most by preparing meals of such amazing depth that your passions are sated, desires met, and your happiness is assured. The fact that you're willing to ask yourself this question, rather than dismissing it as some foolish dream, tells me that you're onto something worth pursuing.
I've given this question a lot of thought, and every time I look at it, I realize how totally right and very fucking smart I am. I think you're ready to take this step-- maybe you just need the impetus of hearing from someone on the outside. Follow your dreams, but save yourself the peace of mind that your "day job" will offer. You'll stay satisfied and you'll learn a lot about yourself. That's the kind of education that only life itself can provide.
I hope this has helped you. If you need further consultation, you know where to reach me.
Always Listening,
Dr. Sunday
PS-- You're never too old to follow your dreams. Betting on yourself is NEVER pressing your luck, and reality television is about as far from reality as you can get.
And for the record, the eggs that you purchase from the store are not ever fertilized, and thus will not contain any sort of embryonic chicken babies. I can state this categorically. Unless you're buying your eggs from a man on the side of the road, or driving to a farm to get them right out from under a hen, you've nothing to worry over, I assure you.
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