Ain’t That Life?

by Bing Futch

“Starving”

Starvin’ Vol. 2, No. 1

Lord, bless us with the butter for both sides of our bread. That very thin

bread that you slice so that it looks like onion skin. And no butter, no

sir. Times are tough and the vast wasteland that is your refrigerator is a

loose convention of condiments (who bought all that mustard anyway?) Seems

to be affecting everybody these days, from blue collar grunt to corporate

drone–the more you make, the much more you have to make in order to stay out

of debt. It’s a sickening treadmill of a lifestyle, this rat-race,

merry-go-round from Hell that we were born into. It’s all you can do just to

get by, let alone manage to see your friends more than once a week and then

have the audacity to attempt squeezing a band project in as well. Where do

you find the time to get inspired? If only there was breathing room, a

chance to be alone with the muse once in awhile. Obviously, you make time

for rehearsals and gigs, but that’s when the boss starts getting pissed at

you for calling out sick on Saturday nights and you start getting vicious

little notes from your other half on the pillow every morning, can I get an

Amen? Little vicious notes! And the only phat moments of your life involve

stepping into a cocoon of music every so often and shattering all that

extraneous crap into microscopic bits. It’s good, that Jacuzzi of Sound.

Good for what ails ya. Some people get up at ungodly hours in the morning

before the sun rises, work all day on their feet, humming ideas into the

answering machine back home and then arriving at the Portastudio feeling like

a shower and a nap are first priority. Ever have a day off and wake up early

in the morning to work on music? There’s something about that period of time

after the brain’s re-charged. It’s even better if you get to wake up early

every morning on a beach in Jamaica and jog down to the beachhouse for a jam

with the boys. That would certainly stir the creative spirit in expansive

ways. But in reality, it was a 52 hour week and you’re now single,

everything on your car just went bad at once and you haven’t seen a movie in

the theaters since “The Phantom Menace.” Your friends think you’re dead and

what’s even worse is, your roommate polished off the last of the beer. You

know what I’m saying? “Hey now, this check is bigger than I thought, I can

really go out and,” (brain proceeds to screw it up with logic,) “pay the gas

bill from last month now, and half of the car payment. Krystal’s again

tonight.” But you’ve gotta drive through on the way to rehearsal, where

you’ll be for the next seven and a half hours. That one jam always seems to

go a little out of control, doesn’t it? Ah, but it’s glorious to go away for

awhile, to that Musical Planet of Love and Intense Vibrational Fusion.

Looking for some pasta in the Historical Society that is your cupboard, you

discover that there is no sauce–it’s typical of life, like being stuck in

traffic on the highway one exit before yours. Little “almost’s” that happen

every day, and they’re such the bummer. Why does equipment break down right

before gigs? You’ve never broken strings before, why are they snapping like

spaghetti strands tonight? Was that the LAST drum stick? Where the hell did

the pick go? Tell me this–is there some incredibly complex type of gravity

involving toothpaste caps and guitar picks? Because the two of them have an

amazing knack for taking leaps and bounces that defy gravity before

disappearing into fucking nowhere. I believe in elves, do you? You do

believe in Dreams, don’t you? Call me corny, but that stuff about wishing

and stars is right on the money. It’s the only thing you can bank on when

everything else goes to Hell, the music that you make and share with

others–fellow musicians, audiences, the trees the sky the rocks the water.

When it all turns to dust as the Big Flaming Fireball hits and we’re left to

re-build it all from square one, we’ve got the music forever. We are the

music. (cue Bics)

There’s cereal and no milk, damn it. If it was Captain Crunch, it’d be

alright, but it’s Grape Nuts. Ain’t that life?