This is about something other.

I didn't like anything about what I was given as a kid. My adolescence was a common instance among millennials, but not the classic story. The classic millennial is given too much from their parents, asks for more, and then asks for still more from the world.

I was given too much from my BabyBoomer parents, and tried to put it all somewhere, anywhere but my life. It was not what I wanted. I wanted less. I didn't want a college education, and I didn't want material wealth. It was all evil.

But I still wanted "it all" in other ways. I wanted to achieve my dreams, all of them, while rejecting contemporary standards of success and comfort. These conflicting desires were like a bunch of fat people trying to get through the door all at once. I couldn't make up my mind, and I was too stuck up to admit that I actually DO WANT THINGS because I grew up with things (they just came from Kmart while my friends' things came from Abercrombie).  So I didn't ask for help, and I spent my 20s--the decade when American spoiled brats are supposed to transition from their parents' wealth to their own freedom--with no resources and thus no freedom, with my fat ideas stuck in the door going nowhere. 

I insisted on not devoting my life to any CEO or industry I didn't believe in. And something inside me insisted that I had something special to give the world. Both of these things prevented me from getting a "real" job. It perhaps occurred to me that in order to achieve success, I had to either get resources by working a "real" job or get resources by asking for help, but Bob Dylan contended that I could have two opposing truths coexist, and so I did, too: I didn't get a real job, and I asked for no help. I also spent my latter twenties living like a refugee. I woke up to 30 with no special career or real job, but dreaming of cable TV and pedicures.

There are two things I say I want (besides a home and a family): to write nonfiction and to play music. I don't want one more than the other, so don't ask. I already have a music website, so you guys get to be my writing audience, as well.

I hesitated to do it this way. If you read my writing, you'll know the real me--dear God--and whatever meagre allure my music "career" has conjured will surely crumble. But I declared in January 2014 that it was the year of honesty and by definition have had to deem all subsequent years the same. What could be more honest than to break the fourth wall of an artist's image? I really don't have the kind of career this sort of transparency could risk ruining,  and it might help me win my sanity. 

So in the coming posts, you'll learn: what I really do with my days, that not all musicians just want to make music (or maybe that makes me a fake musician), why Geauga County is the best place in the USA, why I don't live there, and what I wanted to do before I found myself in a recording studio. You probably won't read about what I watched on Netflix (I don't have an account), what my cat did, or who I'm going to vote for.

If this is a mistake, I'm sorry. But I won't be sorry long because mistakes are for learning, and I haven't made enough.