Smashing Bottles at the Feet of Dancing Girls

When I was twenty five  I wrote these little articles for rock magazines. The pay sucked, but there were substantial fringe benefits. Swag, parties, butt kissing. And once again, I was sort of popular. You’re not as bored when there’s things to do. Go figure.

One day I wrote a story about a local band. An obnoxiously loud, and amateurish noise-punk act. They compensated for their lackadaisical ways by cranking the knob and smashing beer bottles at the feet of their fans. I was nice to them, I thought. Instead of talking about my perception of their music I focused on the energy of their performance. Who am I to judge a band’s art after one drunken show?

After publication I was walking down Commercial and a cute punk girl yelled, “Tony!” from a bar patio. I recognized her from shows, but we’d never spoken. She was very cordial, asking about my day, and what’s up, and all that. The guy sitting with her glared. I was scum. I was Hitler. He muttered something under his breath and she elbowed him in the ribs. Then I remembered the guy, and his band … the bottle smashers. I’d publicly criticized his art, and he was pissed. Even more so because his woman friend was flirting with the writer who trashed his band.

When you decide to take life-improvement seriously and you dive into yoga and weight-lifting and Eckhart Tolle and meditation and do your taxes and mow your lawn and go out five nights a week approaching women; even after all that, you will still feel compelled to change something. Because it just doesn’t feel right. Not yet. So your art becomes of the utmost importance and you practice for many, many years and you make something very good and you know it — so they will come, and ask, “how did you do that? Who are you? Why? What does it mean?” Some will mock and some will applaud and some will laugh at you and say, “You’re playing too loud.” But the girls dance lightly at your feet over the shards of glass. And that’s the way it is. That’s part of it.

Then you start again at making something happen, and off it goes like a wind-up wood pecker, only bigger this time. Until your bubble pops and down you flap and sputter to your beginning state of sadness, stupor, fear and abysmal apathy.

You’re half-way to that bigger nowhere. And you’re happy, because you will only ever be half-way, and that’s cool. That’s a good thing. Everything happens for a special, cosmic and secret reason, especially when you design your life this way. So keep turning up the volume and smashing those bottles. The girls will dance anyway.