It turns out my best writing comes from being spontaneous. Whenever I set out to follow an agenda I end up feeling like when the bright lights come up after last call. Now I weigh this against the entire reason why I pay webhosting fees and pull myself together for DIY writing therapy sessions. Certain compelling themes well up in my mind to the point that I want to rave like a lunatic in some public place, shouting about the about the apocalypse (as it relates to whiny fake punk emo bands). I have a lot more fun surprising myself with where I end up rather than boring myself with things like planning and rational thought.

I know about all the tedious things I want to cover, like how I wish I didn’t know k.d. lang and George Michael were so gay since I love their music not imagining the details. Like how the Pope probably doesn’t sell as many T-shirts as Tool. Like how I hear bands now I wish I knew about decades ago and I feel a void where I missed them. Like how my upstairs neighbor has late night bongo jams and I blast my Skinny Puppy records to wash it off of my brain; but then she retaliates with blasting church hymns at 6 a.m. Like how I’m pulling a long subversion campaign on my coworkers to thwart their inhibitions and open them up to music after 1970. Like how I’m trying to narrow down my “deserted island” survival playlist to under 100 records. Like the dangers of my addiction to late night YouTube video binges.

I might have polluted the Internet with these topics to quell my demons had I obeyed my agenda, but I would feel like too much of a gas bag. I have to accept that no one even remotely gets me, despite the otherwise common traits that I’m human, that I can (but don’t always) speak English, that I have the standard issue of human physical attributes, that I listen to a lot of music and watch a lot of movies that are distributed by major, well-funded commercial enterprises, that I pay a LOT of taxes, that I eat food pretty much like everyone on the planet, except that I just about gagged when I tried menudo this week, that I have limits to how deep geek I can go (LARP and cosplay prohibited). Last week I had a dream I was at a show with a typical blow-hard, ego trip hip hop impostor (think Kanye West). This guy was passing off some insipid speech impediments for gangsta street cred. At the show I was embarrassed for the guy because he really sucked. After I woke up I realized the yin and yang of crappy talent and bitter criticism were born from my self same imagination.