Saturday Nights Allright for Typing

I feel ignored alot. I try to get out an socialize, but I somehow fall short. Apparently not being able to drive, through no fault of my own, makes me a reject. That and my shitty finances make me persona non grata in the musician world of Long Island. That shouldn't surprise me because this island is a cultural pit, all energy siphoned off into NYC leaving only the moldy crumbs.

I try to hook up a new band through Craig's list. Being that I know almost no one around here, it seemed like my best shot. I never get past the "Cant see right so I cant drive" part. Suddenly they gotta get off the phone or emails left unanswered. Yes, my gear is a little old and fucked up, Yes, I cant drive. NO, I am not interested in your bullshit image Dog and Pony Show. I used to drive. Its not the big deal these ego maniacal dickwads think it is. Somehow I'm some liability that's also a de facto Mega Pussy. Any person who has gone through over a decade of syringes in the fucking eyeball knows that ain't true. I persist but am always defeated.

That leaves me to other thoughts; Do I just plain suck, am I always somehow saying the wrong antimagical combination of words? The age cut off seems to be 40. I am 42. It's more often 35. A 33 year old will post an ad looking for someone between 25 and 35. Do they not realize that in 3 years they couldn't qualify for their OWN shitty ass band? What the fuck is that? So here I am, alone on a Saturday night, my Girl having gone out with her friends and I have not a soul to hang out with. In the boondocks listening to sirens blare for some bizarre militaristic Fireman's Christmas parade. It's loud as fuck, 50 sirens going off all at once. The 40 year plus ones want to play covers exclusively like they gave up wanting to express anything before they even started. Playing Born to be Wild and shitty Grand Funk copies, not even trying to put a new spin on it. Barely qualifying as workmanlike and sitting in judgment of me, a person who would rather fail being myself than succeed being someone else's mediocre transparency.

I'm not so great at small talk, preferring more weighty issues, philosophizing, asking meaningful questions and dirty jokes and insults at some apparitions expense. I have been a visual artist my whole life. From day one. That leaves one at a loss of social interaction due to the solitary nature of the work. My work has changed since my Visual impairment, but I keep on chugging along, busting out pieces at a pretty prolific rate. Music, however, was my way to socialize. Connecting with others in a venue where words were less important than deeds. But I feel now as if I have been robbed of that. I have been. Now I'm at the beck and call (or not call) and ignominious disdain of the flat, linear and mediocre. They are more successful because it is easy to find the bland and unadventurous. They are everywhere. They congregate where they have always resided. I have searched far and wide to find myself and I find myself, as I am, looking for connection.

Where I find myself is alone, on a Saturday night, typing words that may never be read like many of my other endeavors. I navigate the inner reaches of my thought processes, but the ocean I cannot navigate is the world of others. The world of temperate mediocrity. I wish I could, God how I do. Life would be more fun if I didn't contemplate so much and was happy doing the same old bullshit as everyone else, but I'm not. I have tried mightily but it feels like I am wearing someone elses underwear. So I sit and wait and contemplate a day so, so far away when I can listen and be listened to in a manner that my interior life is accustomed to.