Selling out. All of that. For two months now I have been dating a dreaded breed of man, that egotistical, self-centered, womanizing type known more commonly as the musician. And I have quite shamefully enjoyed every second of it. He played the guitar. I swooned. And so far he has managed to prove the stereotypes I’ve formed from two failed relationships, the experiences of my friends, and way too much Rock of Love Tour Bus, wrong. He has been for the most part sweet, considerate, and actually talented. And this is all cause for re-evaluation.
It strikes me now how similar my far-fetched dream of writing and being published is to scoring a record deal and making an income playing music. And I feel kind of bad for laughing at how silly they all are when, in all honestly, I am just as ridiculous.
But still, I sometimes see glimmers of those generalizations. For instance, the seriousness that is “the gig”. Meetings, two weekly practices, contracts, heated set list debates. It all strikes me as mildly amusing. Of the two times I’ve tried to have a meeting about KUWTB, it has quickly devolved into beer drinking and YouTube watching. Maybe I’ll reach that point someday and it won’t be so funny anymore. And probably with more consideration, practice, and conversation, I’d be a lot better at what I do. Although I doubt I’ll ever get any free bar tabs or flashes from drunk girls out of it.
Until then, I’ll allow myself the occassional chuckle and be hopelessly enthralled by weekly shows in the basement of a dilworth bar. Just be sure to kiss me a lot, mr. musician. Who needs principles, anyway?
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BRUHT