26 February, 2004
the things that dreams are made of

well... it's obvious that i'm functional enough, roused from a deep sleep, to perform complicated tasks effectively.

case in point: disabling the "snooze" button on the cellie.

an hour-and-a-half later, i get to explore the ramifications.

after one cup of high-octane coffee (and a brief trip to the chilly balcony for a nicotine infusion), the rest of the systems are "go".

observing the ridiculously blue sky through still-naked branches, and the international flavor of people shuffling to their cars, I pondered how i got to this late hour:

...frenzied activity.

...wondering whether a particular employee had finally found the brink that he'd cross over, the next step being a blaze of cordite and atomized humanity.

...returning to my inflatable, quilt-decorated cocoon, and staying up way too late to find articles worth reading in the borrowed RollingStones.

it was the last bit that kicked my ass.

among the long-lost personalities that graced the studio, last Friday... one, in particular, has gone on to bigger (and arguably) "better" things... writing for said magazine. there was a time when it held some relevance for me... until SpinthenTrouserPressthenMojo spoke in less bullshit terms to my reluctance to mature. shit bands and excessive advertising didn't keep me there, either.

vacuous top-forty hits and fashionable clothing don't equate to hip, in my book. the whole punk and reggae experience blew all of that out of the water, right damned quick.

still, i like to hold some hope for the old rag.

Rob's contribution in February was a scathing-yet-sensitive review of the new album by Ms.LateCobain... who's continuing to slide down the slippery slope preceded by her spouse. a public self-destruction, that people seem to love so well.

that got me thinking.

Live-Fast-Die-Young. one of those romantic notions fed by hormones and unfamiliarity with dead loved-ones... and yes, the conviction that if you can't live on the edge like you mean what you say... you are a poseur of the first degree. that part i can accept...

...and power chords, and being unconventional, and being driven. can't condemn a little bit of wretched excess, either.

what's less easy to stomach is the role of Martyrdom... especially when it's externally fed by ego-stroking, a mountain of drugs and lakes of alcohol, and only rock&roll. i suppose there is romance in making a Big Noise and crashing like an explosive meteor before irrelevance and the next Big Thing comes along to replace you, but i don't see that point so clearly, anymore.

the crowd so dearly loves their martyrs... as long as they don't have to make the same choice.

and, as i recall, there haven't been too many Messiahs that strap on the electric six-string.

besides, some know all too well about sacrifice.

Rob would be one that knows, personally.

among the many inspirations that my little college station has provided over the years was a show that his (then) wife presented on Thursday... a kick-ass little program called "RedHeadWalking". LuciousJackson-LorettaLynn-JesusAndMaryChain-baseball-themed music... a mixed-bag in the most entertaining sense of the word. we were fans of each others' shows. and then, she was gone... brain hemmorrhage. how cruel. someone who had all the right reasons to keep on keeping on... and make other people feel good about it, too.

so, he writes with authority.

and there's at least one little thread in that wasteland of jiveass ads and manufactured, meteoric talent that makes the effort worthwhile.

...and takes the sting out of waking up late.

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