Although it was terrific fun walking around town shooting up cop cars while armed with two hot chicks and some paint-ball guns, I decided we should quit while we were ahead, go to the mountain and finish off the Jack Daniel’s. There, in the drunkenness of the early morning, I began to climb down the dark mountain side. I was hoping the girls would follow me so I could ask them important questions like why their shoes didn’t match their hair. It was then I lost my rapport with gravity and tumbled head over heels a hundred and fifty feet down the mountain. I was lucky to land on top of a lonely tree.
It was on that lonely tree where I began to reflect on my life which, up to then, had been completely devoted to music. If that sounds like a noble thing, I can assure you it is not. My biggest mistake was trying to create music for the art of it. I realize now that music and art have nothing to do with each other. I have since checked my idealism at the door, along with my soul.
I got into music because I thought it would be a good way to express myself. I have always valued individuality. As a kid I constantly strived to express it. Recently though, I have come to the conclusion that musicians these days must essentially be characterless. Why try to create something new and original when it is so much easier, and the rewards are potentially so much greater, to copy something that has already been accepted?
I often become frustrated when I realize how many aspects of my life I have sacrificed in order to try to create something new and interesting only to show up to a gig and have some chick say, “Oh, he’s so cute.”
“I like the way he makes that little pouty face.”
“But I wish he would smile more.”
“What’s with the hair?”
“That’s alright,” I tell myself. “One day there will be a beautiful princess who will get it. She’ll understand and appreciate the thought and dedication that has gone into doing what it is I do. She will be the one.”
But if there is one thing I learned during my recent conversations with God, who I affectionately refer to as the “Ol’ Cocksucker”, it is that I have been dreaming, and there is precious little space reserved in this world for dreamers.
On the lonely tree I thought about a girl I used to know. She was the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Not that I would ever tell her that. She knows. They all know, even the ugly ones. I imagine it must be somewhat disappointing to them when they first realize how simple men really are. I wonder why I never tried harder to get her. I’ve never been one to be afraid of girls and sometimes I actually find them to be quite amusing. Maybe I feared the disappointment that was sure to follow when I discovered that even the most beautiful girl in the world didn’t get it.
Sometimes I wonder what is so special about being human. Like monkeys we spend enormous amounts of time mimicking other monkeys we see on TV. If I was in charge of the world, which will probably never happen because you have to know the right people to get that job, and I wanted to control the other monkeys I’d make sure there were plenty of examples on TV for the other monkeys to follow.
I would reward psychotic behaviors of all kinds. I would feed the monkeys drugs then lock them up for being evil enough to use them. I would encourage the monkeys to fight each other over such stupid things as the color of their fur. If I was feeling especially energetic I would start a religion. I would say, “I know you’re a monkey, but pretend you’re not. Just sacrifice all your monkeying around in this life then in the next one you will have a hundred monkey-whores feeding you grapes.” Then, just when the monkeys were about to give up their hopes and dreams and their faith in the greatness of monkeykind, I would fake a Mars landing.
Paranoid monkeys have a fancy word for this type of thing, and it’s the paranoid monkeys who know what’s really going on. They call it “imprinting”. They say imprinting is used by the head monkeys in order to encourage certain types of behavior in lower class monkeys, like musicians. I dare say that if the whole idea of imprinting doesn’t deeply disturb you, it probably hasn’t dawned on you yet.
Just then I heard a concerned voice call from the top of the mountain. “Are you alright?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answered as I checked for broken bones. My right knee appeared to take the worst of it but my ego also took a bruise.
“Good thing you’re so cute cuz you’re dumb as shit.”
As I climbed down the lonely tree I began to understand why the Ol’ Cocksucker invented Jack Daniel’s. I started my gallant quest towards the top of the mountain but this time I was especially careful because just like art and music, gravity and Jack Daniel’s don’t mix.