So there I was, 23 years old and wearing my crucifix in a horseshoe, just so that I’m covered both ways. I couldn't believe that everybody really felt like this. Am I really just another cog in the system that is humanity; yet another moving speck on planet Earth? A servant to society and a dying breed since birth...What the fuck people? Could what I was seeing before my eyes really be true or just one lifelong nightmare?
'Unique' had become a word used to soothe the aching self-pity of man. Individuality was just a myth. No longer does originality exist; there are only copies of copies being copied for production purposes. Man had become a great big photocopier! Everyone just wants to be famous, and these days the easiest way to do that is to try and be an artist. This kinda means that almost everyone that was born with the talent to be a sports star or a bodybuilder is trying to look like they’re playing the guitar on TV in some song. The song was, to a real musician's ear, obviously created by a computer and doesn't even feature a guitar. So now you've got a whole world full of pissed off artists out there (who's only talent in life was to act out and be different from the start), because every single Tom, Dick and Harry has the same image as they do...Just like that, you've got another snowball effect. The artist breaks away from the normal line of art, but is soon followed by the steroid induced copy machine.
Now as promising as this may sound to the art world, having the potential to develop faster now, the problem is this: Mr Six-pack sport package looks better on posters than the little skinny junky trying to paint in the dark just to see the effect. And with modern day technology the sport star can sound good enough to please a crowd of imbeciles on a CD as well. So in the end video did kill the radio star.
Let's try and analyse the bullshit I just polluted these pages with shall we...There are five main categories in art:
All of this was brought to my attention when I suddenly woke up with a case of acute writer's block and just couldn't shake it off with any form of 'medication'. This brings me to my first point of this one-way discussion we’re having, DRUGS. Why the hell does an artist need a substance to be creative? It doesn't sound very creative to me. I mean if you listen quite carefully, you can actually hear which drug is talking to you in any form of art, and you can even narrow it down to the genre if you like. Let's start with music for example: Reggae is Weed's own song...Love and Rock Ballads are clearly written by Cocaine...Rock and Roll was definitely one of Heroine's masterpieces...Blues absolutely composed by Bourbon...Rave music by Ecstasy and Trance by Acid. If we move over to writing, there is definitely a distinct finger print of Gin and red wine on every book ever written (except for this one of course, because I couldn't find a sponsor, I had to drink beer), apart from children's books, they have definitely got some more hard-core drugs stapled to them. Move along to painters and sculptors, and you will find traces of Absinth and whatever you call that shit you get high from when you lick a toad.
Secondly you find that LOVE is a mainstream thing to work with. If you want to be famous, turn something into love...It's usually some guy that's either an asshole, emotionless bastard or some kind of monster like a vampire or war hero, that suddenly, after a whole lifetime of miserable behaviour, falls in love with some normal girl...That woman really believe men like us can change for the better is just beyond me. People aren't nice, so get over it. Obviously this book is not a love story, so you can stop reading now if that's what you're expecting...
The third point of discussion was meant to be the first one, but I decided that if I did mention it first, no one would even bother reading about my love and drug ranting seeing as they would've already been past the climax. This of course is SEX...The meanest, motherfucking, pardon-my-French drug of them all. If you want it, you fucking need it right now. If you've got it, you'd rather be fucking someone else...Satisfaction is the death of desire, my friends, and that is exactly the way that this drug's addiction factor works on you...
RELIGION...Don't wanna talk about it.
And last but not least, there is an art about DEATH...Which is so final; I'm not even going to elaborate on it.
Now, I know I said that this wasn't a love story, but unfortunately I'm trying to become famous just like everyone else does, so I've got to try and impress the ladies as well and because I don't like reading much myself, I don't know what a reader really likes in a book...So, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do to keep everyone happy. I'm going to try and write a book with enough of each of these artsy-fartsy subjects in it to please everyone and then hopefully end up on the red carpet with one of the other people-pleasing assholes that call themselves artists while using the same 1970's backtrack in their song as the person walking into the ceremony before him.
So here goes nothing....