The Manifest

I haven’t updated this blog in a long time, so I’ve decided to address the issue at hand as I sit on a balcony looking out on the Gulf of Mexico in Key West, FL. I’ve only been outside a few minutes and am sweating like Lebron James in the final minutes of Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Finals, in which the Miami Heat came out triumphant last night. Loud obnoxious children are frolicking in the pool floors below, and occasionally a slight breeze sweeps across the coconut trees lined up feet from the railing which makes everything else tolerable.

I came here to figure shit out. To Palm Beach, the Bahamas, Key West and onward. I am looking for an answer to that annoying question that bugs all of us at some point. Living in Los Angeles, California has grown somewhat bleak. She’s a beautiful city, don’t get me wrong. I’ve enjoyed her far better than my time spent in New York. I’m just struggling to find what is going to make my life count out there, or anywhere for that matter.

I have spent the last two years working for a music magazine, which, like all printed media, has recently converted to a digital medium in order to stay alive. The beeps on the heart monitor are growing further apart. I produce video content, or “short artist documentaries” is what I prefer to tell people. It sounds cooler. The adventure has been fun and has put me places I probably wouldn’t have ever gone on my own, including Portland, Oregon’s Potato Champion food truck or James Record & Tapes in Huntsville, Alabama. Neither of which are popularly known, but highly recommended. I have also decreased my livers lifespan significantly. I look at my Brita filter, which needs to be replaced every 90 days less your water tastes like piss. Either twenty-first century filtration technology is totally shit or I am going to need a new “filter” soon as well. I seem to find many work situations that include heavy alcohol consumption amongst other things. I have a stubborn preference towards high quality rum though, which can often times keep me sober, and other times… I don’t really remember the other times.

The fact of the matter is that, I am ultimately not doing what I want. Not living my version of the American dream. I just looked down to the pool again. Fat kids splashing their fat parents slurping sugar infused rum daiquiris. Is that the American dream? Two and half untrained children. White picket fence surrounding a home somewhere in east bumfuck with a mortgage held by Satan himself. A job crunching numbers for a generic behemoth corporation and two weeks of vacation. Modern slavery. Yeah… no thanks. In my opinion, I’ve got it pretty good when compared to these slobs living the modern American dream. They remind me of the people in Wall-E. You used to be able to… nah, I’m not getting into it. I’d sound to much like a grumpy grandmother. “I remember when…”

What is my American dream then? Fuck man. Maybe it is eventually finding some beautiful woman settling down and raising a couple hellions. But goats can screw my rotting dead corpse, if I allow myself to give up on some sort of adventure first. I’m not talking about vacation. That is what modern slaves get. Vacation from “something,” which is often times their miserable life back home. I get it, most people don’t have a choice. I feel bad for them, I truly do. Many of them don’t know better. Usually you vacation to someplace better. I just don’t know why you wouldn’t live there. Seems obvious. Before I digress to much, I was talking about adventure. Not knowing what is going to happen next. No itinerary. No carefully scheduled plan. Live now, don’t think about what’s next. There is an indescribable thrill that lies in not knowing.

I do know this much. I want to stay warm. I really like the ocean and everything inside it. And much to my liver’s dismay, I’d like to keep drinking good rum. I think if I knew the first thing about distilling the substance of the gods, as I like to call it (I’ve actually never called it that), I might try my hand at making it myself. I wish privateering was still endorsed by governments too. I think I might be good at that. Although there isn’t a whole lot of gold being transported via sailboat or any type of sea vessel these days. There is a complete lack of gold being transported via any method. (Realization sets in) I guess I need to get over my dreams of being a pirate.

So as I sit here, trying to figure out my life, I guess I am enjoying the fact that I have no idea what is next for me and my little life. For now, I think I’ll grab a rum (read: poison) daiquiri and join the slobs in the pool.