I'm so tired... tired of playing ze game!

I really don't know why I bother. I continue to wade through various construction job ads, day after day, in hopes of finding something that my resume leans toward so that I can bring a little financial security to my modest family of young Billz to feed, and then continue the usual trade-off of resigning myself to an unsatisfying career that at least busy me a new bass every couple of months so that I can pretend I'm a rock star with one of my band's usual Two Tables Worth crowd. Even though I mostly tolerated my job in construction, sometimes loathing it with even rarer moments spent enjoying it, the actual job itself wasn't exactly torture, but now that far too much blame for the destruction of Western Civilization can be placed upon the endless pile-on of many more shells than absolutely necessary for human survival, I'm no longer passively dissatisfied with such things, but rather openly angry toward them. Look, tract housing has always been ugly, and these days it is rarely more than a blight on the landscape in the form of unfinished streets whereupon vacant foundations rot in the sun. Even those that were actually completed during the beginning of the housing bust have become empty hovels with missing chunks of copper and drywall, occupying what could have been a lovely 50x100 dirt field for coyotes to hunt wee bunnies and spent chewing gum in the night. It was always gross, now it is just flat out disgusting. I really want no part of such nonsense any longer.

So, I signed up to an actual paid musician's bulletin board jobfinder thingthing, and am forging a plan to scour the LA area in search of anyone in need of a 4-string mangler of the deep. Oh sure, I probably just blew $49 I could not afford, and will surely while away much more than that in gas over the coming weeks, but even though I may still look young, fact is I'm 30 and if I don't sell out soon my Charming Good Looks won't get the kind of spam-laced response every poorly typed Craig's List posting deserves. Not that I've ever made more than a few hundred bucks as a musician over the last two decades, but some of them do out there, and a few meager scraps from the door split with a cover band would be a lot more than my current median income of Zero Fucking Dollars. I already engage myself upon the genuine creative outfits I desire, provided I have the time and energy to continue such passions I'll go play corporate for a spell. Best example I can think of where I may fit was a Delerium show at the El Rey Theatre I went to last year with the woman, complete with similar sounding opening acts and a swath of lesbian fans. While I quite enjoyed myself and would willingly travel toward such a live act experience again, it is not exactly my style of music so I rarely grab the albums in question from our mutual CD shelves. So, I spent a good chunk of my time that evening watching the bassists of the night, wondering why in the god damn I wasn't up on a similar stage doing just that myself. Especially considering that a few years ago I was playing in a Cuban rock band with a drummer who didn't even speak English and having an absolute blast, I have nowhere to go but up. The only reason I left that band is because I had a A Career to attend to, which was the first and only time I'll make that stupid fucking mistake because we all know how far that officeful of bullshit got me. Bring on the paid gigs!