Art Monster

This blog represents the last decade and a half of my creative and emotional journey. I assumed this would have been turned into a book of aphorisms and essays by now. My creative zenith was documented and captured. My embrace of Whiplash-coded creative sacrifice was plastered across the internet for all to see.  Now, I have no delusions of financial or critical success. I’ve traded freedom for security, and buried my artistic soul. Art is a young man’s game and this is the nadir. 

I can hear my friend Tim screaming at me from the back of the room. He’s been the sheepdog to my artistic journey since before I could drink. We once flew to New York to see a play. We were rubes from a culture-less barnacle of a town and reserved front-row center tickets a year in advance. After staring up the actor’s noses and missing everything upstage, we quickly realized our folly. Any idiot knows (and now this idiot knows) you sit fifth-row center. Still, we were moved. Our little hearts stirred with themes of bravery, boldness, and idealism. Afterwards, we sat on a park bench in silence. I was just offered a fancy corporate job. He said to me, “Nick, you can take this job, and you’d be great at it. Hell, you could be an astronaut if you wanted to. But, here’s what I know. You won’t be happy if you aren’t making things with your friends. You won’t be satisfied without art.” It was this speech that prompted me to move to Chicago to pursuing writing, acting, and music. It ultimately lead to the creation of this blog in 2010.   

Last week I was re-watching a VHS copy of Goodwill Hunting not long ago, and for the first time, I didn’t identify with Will. I see that Robin Williams nails his ass to the wall and sees through all his petulant bullshit. In the self-righteousness of youth, I somehow missed this part. Got lost in, “Do you like them apples” and Will’s magnificent 90s haircut. Tim used to be my Ben Affleck, but became my Robin Williams.

Fast forward twenty years and I took the fancy corporate job. I wear business-casual clothes and circle back. One of the supreme ironies of my life is that I was once hired for an on-camera job where I played an office worker. The shoot was hand-focused so they sent me to get a manicure the night before. To all ladies, I get it. When that clear coat went on, and my shit was perfect, I felt like a queen. The first scuff on the clear coat sent me into a despair loop. 

Since my entire wardrobe consists of band t-shirts and jeans, they had to send a PA to go buy me khakis. They came back with a Banana Republic Oxford cloth button down and non-Chuck Taylor shoes. I demonstrated the fuck out of the three paper shredders and collected my paycheck. I now wear my costume to my real job. I went from cosplaying as an office worker to a vertical-mouse-to-reduce-my-wrist-strain, per-my-previous-email, cc’ing-for-visibility type of motherfucker.

Tim was right. 

Life isn’t satisfying without art. Now my 401k is maxed, but the light in my eyes is as dim as the overhead florescent lighting on my floor. Reno gets fancy wet food and I have a YouTube Premium subscription, so it’s not all doom and existential dread. It’s fine. 

Long-time readers will know this is the part of the blog where I vow a renewed ferocity to my creative endeavors. Where I Rocky II this shit. But not today. Today I’m going to go to the grocery store to get a 9-Volt for my smoke detector and search the Value Village for a VHS copies of Back to the Future II and III. I’m going to sit on my porch with my cat and talk shit about the birds. I’m going to the gym to maintain a mid-physique and hope my shoulder injury from paying pinball doesn’t flare up. 

Let’s hope this is the end of Empire Strikes Back part of the story and not the final credit sequence.