photo by art ascii(paul)

If there is some cosmic, overarching lesson in my life that I am supposed to learn, it seems to be that when it comes down to it, the only person I can truly count on is myself.

This is the lesson that has been beaten into me over and over and over again. And just when I think it’s the last time I have to learn it, I learn it again. Sure, I’ve learned my fair share of hard lessons just like the next person, many of which have taken more than one go around before I get the hint. But none have been so prominent and recurring as this one.

As the saying goes, you’re born alone and you die alone. In between we all get the chance to share and experience our lives with others. But when all is said and done, we’re still navigating through our lives on our own. We’ll meet some amazing people along the way. Some of them will be around for a long time, others will appear and disappear from our lives before we even realize it. Some will help us, some will hurt us. Many will do both. Some will go out of their way to boost our morale, to open doors of opportunity to us, to listen when we need to vent. Some will do anything to get ahead of us, manipulate our good intentions, or damage our reputations. A precious few will say they would do anything for our benefit, and even mean it.

But the fact remains: at the end of the day we’re only responsible for ourselves, we only have to answer to ourselves, and we can only, truly, fully count on ourselves. Friends and family, partners and lovers, they are beautiful things to have in our lives. But the healthiest among them will make decisions that, though they may take your feelings and desires into consideration, ultimately come down to what they need for themselves. And that won’t always align with your own agenda.

So what does this mean? Does this mean that we’re born alone, we die alone, and we live the whole stretch of life in between alone as well? I suppose on some level the answer to that is yes. But the true takeaway from any lesson shouldn’t be the negatives. I think what it means is that if we can only count on ourselves to make the decisions that will help us lead fulfilling and virtuous lives, we have no choice but to have an incredible amount of faith and belief in ourselves. We have to realize that our lives will only become the lives we want if we make them that way. If we choose for that to happen to ourselves. Not if we hope others will figure that out for us.

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photo by thebadastronomer

For millennia, man has wondered the same thing, over and over: do our lives have meaning? Is there some larger purpose that transcends the biological, evolutionary machines that are our physical bodies, something more important than basic survival and reproduction?

Any intelligent, critically thinking person knows that there is a very real possibility that nothing lives on beyond these fragile shells we dwell in—that when you die, the lights go out and that is that. I’m not saying this definitely is the case, but most people should have an understanding that this could be the truth of it all. Many have faith that there is something more; many don’t.

But for the sake of argument, let’s say that’s how it is. Would that mean our lives—insignificant specs in the vast cosmos—are intrinsically filled with no more meaning than our brains, with their immeasurable complexities, trick us into believing? Would it mean that, although helping others and changing people’s lives for the better is an indisputably noble cause, the fact remains that anything appearing to transcend the basic tenets of survival is but a byproduct of our own consciousness?

I obviously couldn’t tell you the answer to our endless existential query, but I can tell you the answer to the slightly smaller question of whether or not our lives could have meaning regardless of the post-mortem outcome.
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A few years ago, I decided I’d record a (pretty cheesy) rock guitar instrumental version of the Philadelphia Eagles fight song, a well-known tune among Philadelphians who sing it after every scoring drive during football games. No doubt it has come to be hated by many an opposing fan (just like how I despise the Atlanta Braves chant), thereby cementing its status among the Philly sports faithful.

I loved the obnoxiousness of it all, and thought it just hadn’t been represented in a modern, hard rock sort of way. I sent the result into my favorite morning radio show (and #1 show in Philadelphia), the Preston and Steve show, and to my delight they began playing it regularly on the air. At one point I even went in the studio and played it live. I have fond memories of that day.

This past week I was listening to that old recording and noting how shitty and lifeless it sounded. So to correspond with a new football season filled with the usual lofty hopes and dreams, I decided to give it a little update. This version sounds much better, thanks to advancements in recording technology and my own far superior engineering abilities. If you’re a Philly sports fan (or just curious to hear it in all its new glory), I invite you to take a listen below.

Here’s to hoping the Eagles can pull something off this year.

photo by Ben Bunch

One morning in high school, I woke up and looked out my window. It was gloomy; a thick, charcoal cloud blanketed the entire sky and light rain dive-bombed from above. On this particular day, I would be flying west to Colorado to go camping with my sister and her family. I was never a big fan of flying on days like this, but there was no use complaining about the inevitable. I groggily packed my things and shuffled out the door.

I sat in my airplane seat as it taxied to the runway and felt ambivalent. I was excited to go on a trip, but less than enthused about the flight that would precede it. It’s not that I was a nervous flyer…  I just didn’t feel like sitting in a cramped seat for five hours and breathe recycled air while snacking on stale pretzels. Waking up to dreariness had affected my demeanor accordingly.

The plane accelerated down the runway and angled up into the air. I watched raindrops streak across my window and shook with the bumpy turbulence of entering the cloud cover. I leaned my still-fatigued head back into my seat and closed my eyes.

Suddenly, the shaking stopped. I felt a warm light against my face. I opened my eyes and took a look out the window.

What I saw was nothing out of the ordinary, but it folded over me like a warm blanket. The sky was flawlessly blue, with a cheery sun shining brilliantly, alone in the atmosphere. Below lay the same mantle of clouds, but from above they looked like a fluffy dessert topping of bright white, expanding into a soft and pillowy landscape on all sides. The scene was inviting and serene, and my mood had abruptly changed along with it.

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During a recent recording session, I had a conversation about creating music and art for yourself vs. creating it for others. In some ways you create art for yourself, because it is a fulfilling thing that expresses a part of you. In other ways, the moment you have created something, it is no longer yours and suddenly becomes the emotional property of someone else.

So which is it? How can art be both for ourselves and for others’ enjoyment?

Actually, I retract that question. It’s pretty obvious from my first paragraph how it can be—and is—both of these situations. Us and them, creator and consumer, in it together. My new question would address how much of a share each side gets. Where is that line drawn, and what is the ideal balance between the two sides?

As with all things creative, the answer is largely dependent on the situation. If I write a song that’s entirely for myself, a song that satisfies every personal indulgence to the point where it is entirely satisfying to me without any thought given to the potential enjoyment of others, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Of course, I should be well prepared for the consequences of that, namely that this song very likely won’t be a smash commercial success. (Of course there’s always the possibility that it could be, but that’s not the point.)

If I write a song that completely panders to the audience I’d like to capture, I may have set myself up for a better chance at success among the masses. But I’ve also run the very real risk that this song will not be personally fulfilling at all, unless my only fulfillment comes from units sold. I’m sure for some people that’s the case, and all the power to ‘em.

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photo by KatLevPhoto

So much of how successful we are is determined by our ratio of persistence to rejection. Everything worth doing requires persistence, and everything done well requires the ability to handle rejection. The key to being successful (among other important things such as talent and intuition) is making sure your persistence outweighs your tolerance for rejection.

Every person who is successful, whether in a professional or personal capacity, has failed far more times than not. But I think most of us know that already. If you couldn’t take failure, you probably wouldn’t be at the point in your life where reading a blog post like this would even interest you. You’d already have resigned yourself to another life pursuit. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing in and of itself, I might add.

But you’re probably someone who has found a way to deal with, maybe even learn from your failures. That makes you persistent. From what I can tell so far (and I’m someone who doesn’t really feel like a true success yet), there are two guarantees in life for even the most persistent people:

1) You will get shot down more than once.
2) You will get discouraged by rejection at least once.

Because let’s face it: no matter how good you are at letting things roll off your shoulder; no matter how much you can compartmentalize and keep from letting things feel personal; no matter how well you can deal with it, it’s impossible not to get a little discouraged from being denied over and over again. It’s happened to me countless times. I do my best not to take it personally, but every once in a while it all catches up to you and you think, “damn… When will this ever go right?”

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I put a lot of pressure on myself. I am my own worst critic. I cut myself less slack than anyone else possibly could. If I don’t, I might create something that sucks. I might make myself vulnerable to legitimate criticism. I could cut off the bad stuff at the source and let only the most brilliant, genius, groundbreaking material get out into the public. That would be such a relief. Then I’d know everything I create will be wonderful, because I’ve already given myself so much shit and demanded I be great from the start.

If only it worked that way.

If only putting an undeserved and unhealthy amount of pressure on myself meant that everything I created would be loved by all. I like having high standards, but that’s a ridiculous thing to demand of myself. I am not a genius. And even the most ingenious artists in history summoned the ire of the critics. Actually, some of the best artists of all time have pissed off the most people.

Art is not supposed to be loved by everyone. It should exist in every way possible so that everyone finds something to connect with, but that’s achieved through the work of many different artists. It is not my job to connect with everyone. If it was, I’d be a shitty employee.

I do not need to be brilliant. I don’t even need to be good. I just need to be honest. I need to be authentic. And I need to be myself. That’s the only possible way for me to be satisfied. If I do that right, someone will notice. Maybe not a lot of people, but someone. That’s enough.

photo by Heinrich Klaffs

One time I saw a discussion on a video game forum about which band was better: Shaimus or Led Zeppelin. I’m not joking. That actually happened. While I genuinely appreciated the folks fighting for my band, I couldn’t help but laugh and think of the lopsidedness of the lists of accomplishments for each group (and the fact that comparing a nearly unknown indie act to one of the most influential rock bands in history is like taking on an army with a cap gun). And although musical integrity and ability is not measured by commercial success, at this point in time the average listener would have no choice but to consider Led Zeppelin’s music a little more influential than my own.

But that’s OK. Because my fulfillment does not depend on my becoming a rock and roll legend. No success in my life requires me to be a revolutionary. I like making cartoons out of dumb jokes. Maybe it’s not as biting a satire as South Park, but some people will probably enjoy it anyway. That makes me happy.

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photo by esc861

In my last post, I talked about doing what you love no matter how good you are at it. But it’s also important to do what you hate—as long as you know when to stop.

That might sound counterintuitive (especially considering my previous post), but the fact is that using life to figure out what you don’t want is far easier than just picking the things you think you will want. By process of elimination, it’s the best path to finding what you should do with your life.

You’ve probably already done quite a bit of this. Maybe your parents forced you to take piano lessons or play little league as a kid. Maybe you hated it… Then again, maybe you got lucky and one of these “standard kid extracurriculars” ended up being what you loved to do. But even if that was the case, it’s still important to do some stuff that you really, really hate. Otherwise, how can you really be sure that the path you’re on is the right one?

How many of us actually knew what we wanted to do with our lives when we were 17 and applying for colleges? It’s ludicrous to ask that of us. As a junior in high school, I was convinced that I wanted to study film. I had a sudden change of heart and switched to music shortly before the college application process because I realized that my genuine enjoyment for making home videos didn’t necessarily translate into a desire to be a motion picture auteur. Even in music school I changed my mind several times as to what specific career path to follow. Tons of people dropped out, because if you figured out that you didn’t actually want to devote your life to music, you had no choice but to go to another college.

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photo by visual.dichotomy

I was listening to an album of solo acoustic guitar music played by a virtuoso of the instrument, when suddenly it came to a track where he started singing. My first gut reaction to his less-than-stellar vocal ability was to say, “Whoa dude, stop. Stick to what you’re good at.”

But then I realized that’s complete bullshit.

I think it’s really important for us to be able to accept our limitations. It keeps us humble, realistic people in touch with our imperfections and humanity. But accepting your limitations is not the same as limiting yourself. Accepting limitations has nothing to do with saying, “I’ll never be able to do that, so I just won’t try.” In some ways, it’s actually the opposite of that. It’s saying “I may not be the greatest at this particular thing, but I’m gonna give it my all anyway.”

For example, I know I’m generally a better guitarist than I am a singer. If I auditioned for American Idol, I very likely wouldn’t make it very far. But the fact is, I enjoy singing, whether it’s on my own or performing live for a crowd, so I do it. I wouldn’t say that I have a great passion for singing, and that would be one reason (among several I’m sure) that I wouldn’t try out for a nationally televised singing competition. But if I really, really loved to sing and thought to myself, “What the hell, maybe I should go for it and audition,” I would do it… And I’m not talking about an alternate reality where I’m a better vocalist.

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photo by alancleaver_2000

Gas prices suck. It cost me $50 to fill my tank last time. Carbon emissions and the greenhouse effect suck, too. Even though I drive a certified “ultra low emissions vehicle,” I know those are just fancy words that don’t add up to my being “green” when I turn the ignition. It’s because of this that I have a conflicted relationship with my car. If it was nothing more to me than a mode of transportation—a means of getting from here to there—then I would have no problem saying “I hate this thing and I wish I never had to use it.”

But that’s not the case for me. Driving is one of the only times that I can feel completely relaxed, focused and in the zone. In the car (especially when driving by myself) I formulate some of my best ideas, have some of my most lucid mental moments, and even have what I would consider transcendent experiences where I feel a harmony and oneness with the world. I can understand if that sounds strange to some people, but weird as it may be, it’s the absolute truth. I have a bond with my car that’s more profound than just sitting in a metal box on wheels. It’s a little air-conditioned sanctuary for me. It’s mobile zen.

Why is that? I once read a book about people like me who have a tendency to incessantly fidget. It explained that fidgeters often focus best when several of their senses are being stimulated while they work; the key was to find certain types of fidgets (like chewing gum or scratching a rough surface of your clothing) that could be used as sensory stimulants that wouldn’t serve as a distraction to the people around the fidgeter. I think that driving essentially serves as a constant fidget for me. When I’m moving and feeling the vibration of the car while I listen to music, suddenly I feel like my mind is freed from the detriment of constant distraction. And this is why some of my most insightful thoughts and realizations have come in the driver’s seat, with music blaring, windows down and wind on my face.

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