2003-03-14 - 3:17 a.m.

My dear friend H. is right in saying that art that comes from struggle, from jeopardy, from utter lack of triumph, is better than John Teshesque muzak, that byproduct of, and enhancement to, a better life.

But what happens when you worship art, but can�t create it? What happens when you�re not theoretically struggling? You�re just not happy all the time, that�s all. No drama. No good stories to tell. No pain to brokenly relate, or, if necessary, scream.

Nirvana already happened, the band, that is, and so did Elliott Smith and Sebadoh and Hayden, and there�s no longer a market, and even less tolerance, for whiny curators of music shrines who can afford a cab, or sushi, every now and then.

Although I am really good at writing instant letters of complaint in my head--I get angry at something stupid that happens to me, I synapse-fire one off, and then imagine the issue resolved to my satisfaction, and the world being a better place due to my own intervention, but that�s shortlived--lasts about 10 seconds. Then I feel even worse �cause I picture someone getting fired over it, and who am I to put someone in a really shitty situation over something comparatively small?

Yeah, but I can do that whole thing really well.

I�m the biggest critic on earth. It pays off when I see something beautiful, when I can overanalyze it to the point of being sick of it, and when I can live someone else�s art like that, as long at it doesn�t mind being a t-shirt, or a sweater, I never take it off. Layers and layers �till my skin it wouldn�t mind a little air, and only then can it make its case.

But payday is biyearly at best, and barely covers rent.

And then I gotta play that role--the skinny striped football referee--best view possible of a situation I couldn�t possibly be involved in any more than I am.

Oh, and I get a couple of good jokes out of it, the whole overanalysis thing, but usually I just sound obnoxious.

Being a pompous jackass critic is not fun. I self-abort almost all of my ideas.

Or maybe, as I think I once said here, you only get so much creativity per day. Maybe my diary writin� is zappin� my music writin� skills.

Or maybe I just got a really excellent and pointless defense mechanism in place. The kind that shuts my brain down every time I try to think about it.

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