Behind the Bar, Beyond the Void
I listen to people for a living. I bat my lashes, pour them beers, and they hand me a 20. It’s simple work- carrying on a conversation with no words. Ain’t no different then lassoing clouds from the sky. I suppose having a pretty face helps. But here in LA everyone gots a pretty face so I like to think of the drunks just like my red wood raised soul. I like to think was destined to end up behind a bar—after all, the one constant in my life is that I’m always getting by, like a cockroach with rent control. Survival’s a funny thing when all you’re doing is moving to the next thing.
I figured out early on that there’s no such thing as a sad story if you leave pity at the door. It’s just a flower that got over life before it could fully bloom. A rose is a rose is a rose is a cliché. With that self-prescribed wisdom, I realized that people use those who talk about life to talk about their problems cuz they think their problems are their life. Through gossip, I’ve learned that humans have the cruelty of glass: clear as day, shatter at a sneeze, and when broken, they turn into weapons. Of which they’ll impale themselves and point fingers like you’re the one holding the murder weapon. It's fascinating to me how easily people can make themselves the victim.
I’m in this period where I think what’s it all about. You do this and you do that. And what does it mean? Really. I got this feeling that nothing means anything. Your own life dont got no meaning until it’s a memory and you apply some kind of lesson learned. You gotta be pretty stupid if you make all your lessons learn tragic ones. Lately I find myself asking what’s the point of learning if the answers come too late to matter?
I fear social media is rotting my brain. It used to be a place for food pics and badly edited pet photos. Now, everything is tangled up in beliefs. Politics, man—it ruins everything. The thing about politics is that it's unavoidable. Everything is political, even choosing not to engage. These days, social media has become a stage where people define themselves through their niche political perspectives.
I never know what I am. Whenever I’m with a liberal, I think, “Oh fuck, I’m a Republican.” And when I’m with a Republican, I think, “Oh for Christ’s sake, I’m a Lib.” The thing is, I don’t trust anyone who talks precisely like a popular image of the professional revolutionary. Kooks and commies, zealots and suits—it’s all the same show. Fascism yelling at fascism, insisting they’re the real hero of this mess. At the end of the day, we’re all just crawling around in the dark, looking for our car keys. And maybe, just maybe, someone will find theirs and hold it up like a flashlight so the rest of us can finally stop tripping over our own feet. But who the am I kidding? They’d shoot that person dead and plaster the headline: Breaking news: Local 'lunatic' takes a vacation from their Lamictal—chaos and existential dread ensue.