Then I suggest you do that shit, jackass. Life is SHORT. Seems like only yesterday I was a little dude lighting G.I. Joe action figures on fire, walking down the waterline to the Delaware Plaza to shoplift Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from Woolworths. Next thing you know I’m dead ending my way through corporate America without any destination and no direction home (apologies to Bobby Z). Yeah, I had dreams of being a superstar drummer, and yeah I failed at that shit. Truth be told, I didn’t have that much talent to begin with. But at least I put my balls on the table and pushed that shit as far as it would go.
Listen to me, Goddamnit, I don’t say this stuff just to hear myself speak (well, maybe a little). The artists path is a hardcore and crooked one, indeed, it’s lined with the bloody detritus of those who have gone before and failed, epically. The journey of a thousand miles, you peasants, begins with one power chord.
You know why you can’t get your shit together? Of course you don’t, you’re completely self-unaware. It’s because you’re smoking too much weed. You’re spending far too much time on the couch, buddy, mouth wrapped around that devil’s cock you call a bong, watching Adult Swim (what kind of man watches cartoons?), and not enough time in the basement working on your chops, arranging practice schedules, and booking studio time. You know why else you can’t get your shit together, yup, your girlfriend. She’s holding you back, man. Your friends are all talking about it, but they don’t have the guts to tell you to your face. Listen to your old uncle Kev - meet, cheat, dump, repeat - that’s the rokkers creed.
Okay, so now that we have you clear of mind and heart, the next thing we gotta do is get you to focus on your craft. You’re going to need material to bring to the band my friend. That means creativity. Here’s my fail-proof song writing technique. Follow your non-sense to it’s most illogical ends, then work yourself into a creative fervor (you should be speaking in tongues), spin around in a circle 50 times, stop everything, sit on a hard surface and punch yourself in the balls with such force that you puke, then hit record on your tape deck, and play whatever the hell comes out of your axe. You’re playing for Jesus now, Christ-light will shine the way. Now, whatever it is coming out of your axe, you really gotta commit to it, no half-stepping or noodling about looking for something. This ain’t a Phish show, this is THE PATH. Once you’re done, and you’ve smoothed out all the changes with the guy in your band who has the talent (but you’ve got the focus, remember that), record and upload that shit onto poddymouth, and watch the money, poon-tang, and glory roll in.
That’s it you cretins. You’re welcome.
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