Hey Girl. Hey.

Recently a very smart and talented friend of mine, posted on Facebook that the television show, "Girls" was basically an over privileged, shallow, shitty show.  For as much as I enjoyed the show, I could see his point.  But, I also believe that it is a fairly honest representation of many.  I don't know why, but suddenly, I wanted to defend the characters, its not their fault they have a sheltered, privileged, white life.  It doesn't mean they shouldn't share their story.  Every story is important, right? Art is so very subjective.  It's like finding the right pillow, too soft, too hard, too something and just right, is different for everyone.

So, I didn't know if we were fighting or if I was even defending the show, but I knew we had opposite opinions.  At first I was startled, I felt a physical response in my body, I didn't want to disagree.  I stopped myself from debating this show, because I didn't really care about the show, I just wanted him to understand my opinion.  A few hours later, I realized that it was okay that we disagreed.  Placing different values on things is normal.  Just watch an episode of "American Pickers" if you need more of a visual.  I mean these guys, will stumble into a rat infested trailer, on the back forty of some good old boys property and act like they've hit the lottery and when they find an old sign advertising car oil. 
But one scene in Girls, stuck with me.  There is a scene where the main character has to go back home and she got a glimpse of what her life would be like if she wasn’t in New York City, struggling to “be” a writer.  On top of that struggle, constantly questioning herself, if she had the talent to become "someone" or if she’s just chasing the luxury, ego driven life of the young, white and overly privileged. She wonders about the reasons that motivate people to be slaves to New York City. NYC and its competition, overpriced apartments and grandiosity. 

 “Why don’t they move out to Michigan and start the revolution?,” I think she says.  Which made me think that there are so many things in this world that don't have "value" until many people discover the same value. It's kind of like, becoming famous. Just look at some of the famous comedians out there today.  Whenever you read their biographies, they all speak of the struggle.  Working jobs they hated to could get five minutes on stage. Practically begging to work for free, begging friends to come to a show, sleeping on couches.  Living the dream, man. Then one day, they are charging $75.00 bucks a seat and selling out whole theaters.  Bam. 
The process of becoming famous is very strange, it seems. Because you have to believe in yourself so much its scary.  At least it is for me.  It's terrifying at first to stand up in a room and say, “Watch me, I’m entertaining.”  Sometimes, I hear a voice that says,  “Why do you think you’re so special?” "What if you’re really not talented and you just think that you are and you’re making a fool of yourself and no one is telling you?" " What if this will be like everything else in your life and when you get near the finish line, you’ll just stop and say, that’s close enough?"  Or something to that extent.   Maybe the voices inside your head are nicer and more encouraging, maybe they sing you lullabies and reaffirm your talents before you slumber every night.  One can only hope.  Mine are pretty much just assholes.

Fame isn't really the goal, you just want to get a paycheck.  In order to get a paycheck you have to be marketable, people have to like you, you have to get out there.  It's imperative that people know about you, at least a little bit.  And so you have to sell yourself sometimes before you have anything tangible to sell.  You know, something super easy.  Smooth criminals, each and every one of us. 

Yesterday I broke down crying in the kitchen, putting away groceries.  I couldn’t help it, I was like a tragic figure in a Lifetime movie. In between the pizzas and the frozen hamburger, I lost it.  Suddenly, trying to accomplish this dream seemed foolish.  Shouldn’t I run back to college, finish a degree and get a nice job teaching English someplace?  But now at 37, even that seems so far away.  Fuck. I guess, I've got to keep on moving.

I look back at this blog post and think, man, it's kind of all over the place.  I don't think it ended up being what I thought it would be, when I started writing.  I think it's okay, you can't knock it out of the park every day.   It's the fourth of July and my lady is determined to rearrange the bedroom before we can head to the lake.  This may not be my dream for the day, but it is hers.  I have just been summoned.  I may not know a lot, but I know this; when momma's ain't happy, ain't no one happy.