I'm done with music. It seems that nobody in this shithole town wants to work with me. I guess I'm too demanding. Too much of an asshole. How dare I expect people to practice on a regular basis? What fresh insolence of me to presume that musicians would want to write and perform songs on a regular basis! How arrogant of me to want to play gigs on a regular basis in more than one town!
What-fucking-ever.
The bands that have any sort of ambition don't need me. And all the other wannabes and poseurs in this fucking town are perfectly happy to dink about and play pretend rock star in front of their WAGs and a handful of alcoholics. And everyone closer to my own age is burnt out. No time for balls-out rock. Weak, wimpy folk music pays. Flatulent white-boy blues is approved. Inoffensive background noise for senior citizens is appropriate.
What-fucking-ever.
What-fucking-ever.
So I'm done. Joy doesn't want me to sell my gear, but came to the realization that she can't stop me from doing it. Part of me doesn't want to do it either, but sometimes it feels like an anchor around my neck. I'm going to be fifty soon. I have a sick wife. I'm up to my eyeballs in debt. And I have no outlet left for my anger and frustration. So why bother keeping things around that I'll probably never use again? So if you're looking for a well-used but well-cared for drum kit with a full rack, a mess of cymbals, the gear needed to convert acoustic drums into electronic triggers, and all the cases and bags to keep that gear safe? You know how to get hold of me.
I don't need it any more.
I don't need it any more.
