Third of a Life Crisis

The epiphanies and panicked need for change once associated with mid-life seem to now come when we hit our thirties. Equal parts Fight Club and a Liftime Movie of the Week, thirty year old musician John Mayer’s heartfelt March 27th blog entry, still knocks at the door of some reclusive truths of the times we live in. I’ve always thought that insight, unlike wisdom, can come from anyone and from any angle. Incidentally wisdom only comes from men with white beards and blind black women.

What I’m about to write isn’t about fame or success or celebrity or the media. That’s my business.

This is about us all.

This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it’s actually toxic.

This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she’s awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She’ll take a hundred photos until coming up with one she’s happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she’s done poring over images of herself, will post one on her myspace page and then write something like ” I don’t give a f*ck what you think about me.”

This is about the person trying out for American Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe.

This is about me, the guy who walks through a throng of photographers into a restaurant like he’s Paul Newman, but who leaves a “reject” pile of clothes in his closet so high that his cleaning lady can’t figure out how one man can step into so many pairs of pants in a week.

This is about a young guy who maintains a celebrity blog that subsists on tearing other people down but who has wrestled with a lifelong battle for acceptance as a gay man.

This is about us all. Every one of us. Who all seem to know deep down that it’s incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we’re all just one sentence away from being brought to the edge of tears, if only it was worded right. And I don’t want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the past year, since I decided that I wasn’t going to care about what people thought about me. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that, sure, I couldn’t feel the negativity, but that’s because I couldn’t feel much of anything. And I think I’m done with that.

I’m not the first person to admit we’re all self conscious, Kanye was. But what I want to  do is to shed a little light on why we’re all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. We were spoken to by name through a television. We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to shake hands with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing.

And really? Really? It turns out we’re just not all that special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually.  And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. The paparazzo following me to the gym ain’t gonna be Herb Ritts and the guy he’s following ain’t gonna be Bob Dylan. It’s just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact. And for me, 30 sounds about right.

What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows. Of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art. Wear hoodies to dinner. Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.

Root for others.

Give more and expect the same in return, but over time.

Act nervous when I’m nervous, puzzled when I don’t know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that.

And when it’s all over, whether at the end of this fabulous career or of this life, which I hope takes place at the same time, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able. And so should you.

I’m going quiet now.

John

Thrown Bones

Before I dash off to work, a bone for my loyal inu-tachi. (I can do it too, Kirito!)

Though Utau-inu is in no way a resurgence of Cent-j, I have been enjoying translating again and hope to continue to make words into other, hopefully more comprehensible, words. Those of you asking if I plan on translating all of Orbital Period, the answer is yes. But I won’t commit to a time table. Hitch your wagon on here, and stick with me for the journey, it should be fun.

My Fucking day

Word of the Day

Thanks to Sakura who pointed out that, on this the fourteenth of March, I am the “word of the day” at urbandictionary.com. I think these fuckers just make shit up sometimes.
Example: Type in any fucking word. You’re sure to get at least three usages which are dirty. It’s like that King of the Hill episode where some dude comes in who thinks every semi-naughty sounding word like balls, crank, gas, etc. is call for ridicule.

But I’m the living word. And you’re all my boos.

Hello there beautiful.

The satellites are missing me since I lost my phone. They elbow for space at the “observation deck” around this big blue planet fighting for a good view of me. They worry about what happens when I stop making or receiving calls. It’s weird to think that we have relationships with things so far out of sight. But more and more day-to-day human operations rely on these outside relationships. Someday you’ll have to butter up your satellite on Valentine’s Day just to get good service. And you wondered why you had so few bars in the middle of the city. I wonder if the internet and my ISP get horny when I let their connection go unused for too long?

Fiasco!

What is a fiasco? An italian supermarket or a peculiarly picante soft drink?

It is neither. It is what you call driving out to the city through swarms of traffic only to end up coming back having NOT sung at karaoke and NOT drank a single drop of liquor. And why did this go down like a lead balloon? Because I could not, for the life of my future kids, find the party that I was invited to. In the meantime I managed to be invited into several forbidden worlds. Should I have gone to the 30-girl sweet sixteen party in the big room as they requested? I can only assume Go and his Go-horts were singing in an alternate dimension Duets, where dogs walk people and pancakes are what’s for dinner because I searched every inch of the real Duets and nobody showed up.

On the plus side I saved fifty bucks.