I
worry. Do you people ever do that? Worry? It’s pointless, but I do it. I was at
home last night listening to my records and getting way WAY too worked up about
a DJ gig playing records before and after a Man or Astro-man? show at Saki that’s over a month away. But it’s fun to
go through your records because somebody asked you to. It’s a nice change of
pace. Usually it’s just me alone, having a Me Party. Now I have a sense of
responsibility. I think “what about this?” and pull a record and put it on and
think “no, that’s gonna bum people out” instead of “no, this is bumming me out.”
I got so caught up in it, I completely forgot to watch hockey and read my
Travis McGee book.
Playing
records in public is an odd exercise. Nobody ever gives a shit. Name one time
you’ve given a shit while being in a room that had a person in it who was
playing records.
Never.
Maybe
you’ve thought “oh cool, they got a guy here playing records,” or, “oh great,
it’s one of THOSE, somebody catch me, I’m swooning because of how cool this fucking
brunch place is.” But you’ve never given a shit what records that person is playing.
Unless you HATED what they were playing, in which case you, normal human being,
were probably like “this place blows, let’s leave,” and thus immediately solved
the problem of giving too much of a shit. Or, if you’re a drunk idiot, you took
matters into your own hands and went up to the DJ and requested that they play
Jethro Tull or whatever other drunk idiot thing you like.
Nobody
except complete weirdos gets all excited about the records a DJ is playing. Can
you imagine? If a DJ had a following
of people who liked the records that one person played? If another human being
actually got up out of their house where they live and went to a totally
different place just to hear another human being play records? That would be
sad.
I
guess that happens. You know, if there’s dancing. If it’s like a dancing place.
Maybe. And if there was booze and you could get laid if you went to that place.
Maybe. But following one specific person who plays records, as opposed to general
enjoyment of the Saturday Night Come Drink Booze And Dance And Get Laid Club?
Does that happen? That shouldn’t happen.
Nonetheless,
one’s taste in music is a very personal thing. You can get a little
self-conscious about offering it up for public judgment. Even if it’s the
feeble judgment of nobody but drunk idiots giving a shit unless you’re so bad
at choosing and playing records you actively ruin somebody’s chance of getting
laid. Even if the stakes could not be lower. Even if the number one most
expected outcome is universal indifference and nobody is going to pay attention.
You’re still putting yourself out there for judgment. It’s like life. Double rainbow
all the way, you guys.
I
tend to think in worst case scenarios. I worry. And the worst case scenario for
a DJ gig is somebody I respect would come up to me and tell me I suck. That my
taste in music sucks. That I chose the wrong records, both to own and to play.
And since this fictitious person would be somebody whose opinion I value, for
instance Brian Teasley,
and they would say this and make me feel like a real horse’s ass for living my
life the way I have so far. That’s the worst case scenario, here. That Brian
Teasley, a guy I’ve never met but really liked the intro he wrote probably like
ten years ago to a feature in a zine
that I also wrote for, is a bully.
But
then I realized something. Brian Teasley sucks. I mean, he’s funny, he wrote
some funny shit once upon a time, but he’s just a dude. He was a drummer in
some good bands. If he, nightmare high stakes worst case scenario he, is a
bully and tells me I suck, what I will do about that is I will tell him HE
sucks. And I will be right.
I
can’t emphasize enough that this is all happening in my brain. It was not a
thing that happened. Or that will happen. It’s not even worth sharing, really,
except insofar as it’s funny to write a blog about Brian Teasley sucking just
because my own insecurities made me picture him in my brain being an asshole
about the number of times he’d had to listen to a DJ play “Telstar.” “Do you know
how many times in my life I have heard that song,” he would say, “what do you
want to play next, ‘Margaritaville’ or ‘YMCA?’” I think in mind’s eye he was also
wearing his robot costume from Servotron.
This is a moronic thing to be afraid of, because it would be funny.
Anyhow,
as I was deciding against even bringing my Sound Ceremony reissue, and
having a totally pointless worry-based internal debate with an unrealistically
dickish veteran rock drummer, I had this minor epiphany: I suck. Everybody in
the world sucks. As soon as you say something else sucks, which you have to do
if you’re being honest because almost everything sucks, you also have to come to
terms with your own massive, incurable suckage. We’re all one big happy human
family, all sucking, all day long, every single day. Not a single one of us
doesn’t suck. Even Louis CK. He sucks. He SUCKS. Okay? He sucks.
And
even though we all suck, all of us all the time, we still have to say that
things suck. Because people always always want to act like they don’t suck. I
know I do. I want to act like I don’t suck. Because I suck and I know it and I’m
afraid to admit it because what if everybody finds out how much I suck, you
guys? Well, guess what. I suck a lot. I suck almost all of it. I’m trying my
best to be up front about it. A lot of other people won’t. They’ll get all
upset about it if you tell them they suck. They’ll be like “no I don’t.”
Bullshit. You do. You suck.
Any
human. Donald Trump and David
Longstreth and Scarlet Johansson and Gloria Steinem: you suck. Sorry, them’s
the rules. You can act like you don’t suck all you want, but guess what. You
suck. It’s okay. You can suck. The rest of us suck too. Just be okay with it
and don’t act like you don’t suck. Never forget: you suck.
Repeat
it to yourself. “I suck I suck I suck.” Shout it to the heavens. You suck. It’s
great. You’re gonna love it. And if you ever see anybody say, “Why do you have
to be so negative, why can’t you just do your own thing instead of telling me
that I suck,” remind yourself how much that person, while making a good point,
sucks. A lot. They suck so bad, they even suck AT SUCKING. An honest person
would be like, “Ya got me. I suck.” What they do instead is bitch and moan
about everybody reminding them they suck all the time. Well, somebody’s got to.
Apparently you’re not doing it yourself.
Maybe
there’s an argument for lying to yourself about how much you suck in order to
get anything done. Sort of a, “Here we go, hopefully this won’t suck.” Well
guess what. Doing something and sucking is the only way to suck less. True G’s
hope they suck, so they can learn how not to suck. I hope I try my very best
and yet totally suck at playing records. I hope nobody gets laid. I hope
everybody requests Ke$ha to the point where I’m ashamed that the only thing I
know about her is she’s the one with the dirty picture. Actually I don’t hope
that. The only thing I’d learn from that is not to leave the house, and I’m
trying to learn not to worry and that things are fun.
Hey.
If you guys are in Chicago and aren’t doing anything June 15th,
there’s a decent chance you’ll be able to see me have a nervous breakdown while
playing some records you’ll probably hate. At Saki. Before and/or after Man Or
Astro-Man? play. They put on a good show. Should be a fun time. It’ll probably
suck, but hey. Everything else you might end up doing with your time will also
suck. Guaranteed.
