This Is What It Feels Like

I walked outa’ work last night into the brightly lit bustle of Times Square and I thought, ‘Ya’ know what? Fuck this!’ All this tail-between-the-legs shit I’ve written the last few days, I mean. Yeah, so life’s tough, and I’ve been seeking some big break for what feels like a long time and all but… fuck this! How lucky am I?

I live in New York. I have a great day job that I love. I have great friends and family that I love. Every few days or so (when I’m lucky), new songs mysteriously pour out of me. I make records in New York and L.A. I tour. People like my music. They know it’s good. I know it’s good. I’m healthy, happy, and sane (usually). So what else is there? A record deal? International acclaim? Gazillions of dollars? As a good friend oft reminds me, I wouldn’t be satisfied if I won a Grammy. ‘Oh, it’s just for Song of the Year.’ So what gives?

So fuck it. I’m not cool. I’m not trendy. I’m not huge, or even big. Like I said to myself on my drunken answering machine message last week, “This is it. This is what it feels like.” And it usually feels pretty good.

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