You tired old blog. We thought you were the future, but we didn't know facebook was waiting to eat you alive.

Motivation has elluded me. If ever I had a muse, it has deserted me these past weeks. I mean, I had an idea, sort of. But then, as the idea grew, it changed. It morphed from this train of thought to that train of thought, from one angle to another and then another. Before long I just got frustrated with the whole damn thing. And now I have a deadline staring me in the face.

But maybe it's not so bad. Deadlines can do wonderful things. Of course sometimes they do vicious things.

So here's the deal. I'm writing an essay about what it's like to play music and make absolutely no money at it; or worse, make a couple bucks at it. When people ask me what I do, I tell them that I'm a musician. My JOB is cooking for a deli, and being a student takes up most of my time. But I think of myself as a musician. The thing is, I never make any money at it, so a little  part of me feels like really I don't count as a musician so I should stop telling people that it's what I do. I mean, I don't do it for a living. If anything, music eats up my living. I spend all this time playing in a band and busking out on the streets or down in the subways. I was busking just recently and this guy told me to get a job. I couldn't fucking believe it. I have a job. It's a shitty job to be sure, kitchen work's like that. But the way he said it it felt like he was telling me to shut the fuck up cause no one wants to hear it; go get a job so we don't have to listen to you anymore. 

In busking, like everything, there's good stuff and then there's crap. I like to think that I'm usually in the former group, but you know, sometimes I wonder.

Ah screw it.