Middle Class Career

I don't normally read the arts section of my Sunday newspaper.

Most of the time the artists are droll and predictable and I spend the rest of the day in a huff of vernacular superiority.

Sometimes they are classy and exciting and I spend the rest of the day in a huff of insecure inferiority.

Either way.

I huff.

At first glance of the front page I was fully ready to be dismissive. A sea of orange augmented by the artist wedged between two columns, eyes pinched closed, mouth wide open as if screaming with great passion against a deaf world.

Oooh.

There's such a fine line between the passionate fury of an artist on the brink of creation, and the temper tantrums Calvin throws when I tell him he has to eat one more piece of broccoli before he gets his ice cream.

And frankly, I don't think I can tell the difference any more.

But I open up the paper anyway, cause that's where my crossword is hiding and I saw a second photo of the artist below the fold line.

Hey, I thought, I know that girl.

"Jules Baenziger, aka 'Sea of Bees' is the toast of public radio for her yearning beautiful songs."

The byline read.

Way to go Jules, I thought.

And then I almost felt a little guilty for my pompous first reaction.

Almost.

The article was a good one. It had a beginning, a middle and an end. And I was rooting for the protagonist the whole time.

Near the end of the article was a line that caught my eye.

Jules had asked her producer if he could make her famous.

He said he couldn't.

But he fully believed he could help her achieve a nice middle class career.

What a great answer. What a great image. White picket fence, bologna sandwich in a brown paper bag, peck the little wife on the cheek, and out the door you go. Except its Friday afternoon and not Monday morning. And your brief case is a Takamine 6-String, and your suit is made of felt, and your wearing a purple cravat where a tie would otherwise go.

Instead of dead animals and half burned drapes in a hotel, you leave a five dollar bill in an unused ashtray for the maid.

Instead of rehab, you see a physical therapist for impinged nerves.

I'm still not convinced there is such a word as "impinged"

So I finished the article. I downloaded her album into my iPhone. (Which apparently she released in June of 2010, and I was in such a fog I didn't know it.) I scrunched up on the couch with my earbuds in and the crossword puzzle on my lap, and sat for a good hour feeling relaxed and happy to hear a friend gaining a little traction on the oil slicked pavement of the road less traveled.

It was almost half a day before the melancholy began tapping its finger on the back of my neck. My own little middle class career rests on the shelf like the baseball trophy you get for participating.

Oh there are enough pointed little fingers to go around. I'm not dedicated enough. I don't sacrifice enough, I'm not talented enough. I was never in the right place at the right time. Except that one time, but I was surrounded by the wrong people. Either way the dream is just a dream, and my middle class career is a stamp collection. Its that thing that daddy used to do. Its not even a footnote.

What's funny is that my real rock star dream is really about the writing. I just want to be a songwriter. Rock's equivalent of a "Stay at Home Mom." Let the Lady Gagas of the world strut their stuff, I want to get fat and grow old. Watch my kids do the same. I want to drink tea in the morning, a coke at lunch, a nice glass of wine for dinner.

I want the phone to ring and the person on the line telling me that Brittany needs a new ballad and could I have it ready by Friday.

Can do.

I want to be that dead guy who only the people in the know will get misty for. I want to be that kind of footnote.

I want a garage full of classic muscle cars, and I want to walk to the grocery store.

But for better or worse, mostly worse, the artists who want to strut also want to write. Its where the money is.

Can't blame them. Can't blame the machine.

So now I'm stuck. What do I do, what do I do? If music was just a hobby I could leave it on that dusty shelf along with the boxes of old photographs and classic novels I'll get around to reading some day. If it was the driving force of my soul I would be touring the little night clubs of Europe sending Facebook updates like digital postcards. I would wear thrift store clothing and smell lightly of cigarettes and scented candles. I could live off of tortillas and refried beans and drive a van.

So what do I want? Where am I? Where am I going? Am I serious? Am I a dilettante? And just before all this self deprecating thought spirals out of control . . .

I tell myself to back the fuck up.

I'm not a victim of circumstance. In fact, I've been quite deliberate in how I've chosen to live my life. In fact this middle class suburban thirty something life is the great inspiration and not the ball and chain its been made out to be by lesser men.

Grow a pair.

Get back to work.

Calvin's hungry and I've got a four part harmony to work out. There's a lawn to mow and a guitar line to play and an early dinner and a drowsy novel and a 4am wake up call.

Live the dream, fat kid, live the dream.

And as for Jules,

or Sea of Bees,

thank you for your album.

(available on iTunes, Songs for the Ravens)

And may you too be so lucky as to live the deliberate life. Picket fence and all.