The Old Year

I’ll be honest. I don’t know how to start this blog. I want it to be crisp and golden out of the bag, but then I’m afraid to ruin it with phrases like “crisp and golden out of the bag.”

I got laid off today. It’s not new. It’s happened to me once or twice. It’s kind of an old hat at this point.

Never fired, mind you. Never has my work ethic not been up to snuff, or my attitude poor. I’ve never taken money from a cash register. I’ve never called in sick just because I didn’t want to be there. It’s always been a business decision.

We need to cut costs. Let Jameson go. I’m the first sand bag over the edge of the hot air balloon. The first lifeboat off the Titanic that was Blockbuster. The third metaphor in a paragraph where one would suffice.

I’m a hard-working guy who thrives around artistic people. Unfortunately, it’s tough to parlay that into anything resembling “job security”.

I left the building and hugged my boss, a woman I’ve known for two and a half months. No hard feelings. A decision that had to be made. Genuine tears were shed by the wrong party, and that’s what makes this feel like a positive experience.

So I left the office. I smoked a cigarette and I drove here to my girlfriend’s house to use her computer and type this all out.

I’ve been exceedingly absent from blogging and podcasting in recent months, as the expansion of the squeezecast family has necessitated an expansion of my own role on the team.

Between producing Whiskey Deep with Tom Plute, The Interesting Hoard with Erik Tait and *currently seeking a new title* With Dusty Estepp, time to work on my own show has dwindled.

Then, of course, there was the matter of my recorder being stolen back in August. It’s pretty tough to make my podcast work with no car and no recorder.

So I fixed that and got a car. Which was subsequently broken into and my laptop stolen from it..

Believe me. I know this sounds like the kind of ridiculous sob story one would use to win American Idol, or a more currently relevant contest show, but it’s all the truth.

And throughout it, I have rarely allowed myself to get discouraged.

The reasons for this are twofold:
1) Zoloft is effective.
2) My Grandfather and my father have both told me at different times that a positive attitude can propel you to the next thing.

So I’m going to keep on plugging away. I’ll find another job. I’ll keep recording on my cracked old iPod touch and whatever sound equipment I can get my hands on, and I’ll keep on making stuff happen.

And starting tomorrow, I’m going to start writing open letters to artists I respect.   Every week.

Happy New Year, fuckers.

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