Ryan Adams was inspiring the other night, and he's not even Jesus. I walked out of the theatre in such a daze that I hopped on the wrong bus. It was inspiring to see that my purpose in life was to write creative shit, but without a guitar, and Ryan Adams helped me to see that, although Ryan Adams couldn't point out what a bombastically long sentence this has been and how people often trivialize their accounts of spiritual awakening by transforming them into fluffy bunny shit.
Anyway, what a contrast that was to the soul-sapping catch-22 I live: dragging myself to work each day in order to afford grad school, while grad school promises to afford me happier work one day. To this, I say, Creative shit. That's the way!
So, when I saw how uninspired Ryan Adams appeared on stage and how his sycophantic fans cheered and laughed with overdone ambition at their vision of rock and roll divinity, I sat quietly, stewing in my venomous distaste for the whole situation. Just play your songs, then, goddamnit.
Too flip about my devotional duties, I was eventually asked by nearby people if I knew him. What? Ryan Adams. If I knew him. Of course I know him. (We just don't know each other.) Flattered by the association between me and my rock star, I considered a marriage proposal to the pretty little ash tray.
Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving!