ME:	Ah, here's the story where I hate junk mail. And here's the one where I hate Jewel. And here's the one where I hate all the people in New York --
SHE:	Do you notice a trend here?
ME:	I have more articles than anyone else on staff except Crack?
SHE:	NO. Each article seems to detail how you hate this and you hate that.
ME:	Did you read the Subway Diary? That's all told in good spirits.
SHE:	Yes, but with an obvious subtext of how much you hate the subway.
ME:	Hm.
SHE:	You hate so many things in the world. No wonder you're such a miserable sack of shit all the time. No wonder you mope around, complaining that you haven't got any friends. No wonder you sit at home most of the time watching porn.
ME:	I do not sit at home most of the time watching porn!
SHE:	Says you.
ME:	Anyway. So you have a problem with the fact that, on Grumble, I write about things in the world I hate?
SHE:	You need to explore the positive side of life. You need to find something you love, something you can cherish, something you can describe in the same brilliantly illustrious wisdom of your other masterpieces, but with a glowing reference to love and beauty.
(Long pause.)
ME:	Damn, that's gonna be hard.

So, here I am, attempting to write my first uplifting Grumble article. I look back on my past, and try and think of the things I love. Or at least the things which have brought me joy. I like sushi. But who wants to read about me eating sushi, unless it involves an unwanted bacteria which brought about the worst case of Montezuma's Revenge since Montezuma discovered Japan? No one. I like music, but I'm not going to entertain my public with comments like, "Dude, even in the new millennium, Billy Joel rocks the free world." I like certain elements of nature, but if I spend a single paragraph touting the beauty of the Grand Canyon, everyone's gonna think I've gone crazy. So I look at what I can offer under this spotlight, and I realize that the one thing I love doing which could merit discussion in this forum is WRITING. Officially, I am not a writer. My tax returns say I am an entertainer, and even that's stretching it. I mean, I made almost as much money on the unemployment line as I did in entertainment last year. However, tally up my hours spent on any given task, and I'd have to say it breaks down like this: Sleeping: 28% Playing Piano: 24% Writing: 17% Eating: 14% Relaxing: 12% Other: 5% These numbers are based on a complicated array of statistics, most of which come from an arbitrary guess as to how many hours a week I do each of those things. And I love writing. Mostly, I write music. By trade, I'm a performance musician. By aspiration, I'm a composer. Recently, I wrote a score of original music for a play in Boston. Currently, I'm writing songs for a new musical (which I believe will be a huge success one day, probably after I'm dead). Otherwise, I've written music for two weddings in the past six months, a jingle for a new children's toy, several holiday-themed songs, scores for four other plays and one film, and two full-length musicals. None of this has made me famous, most of it is borderline crap, but all of it gives me great satisfaction. I also write fiction. I've written two books (neither was published, but as you may have noticed, that's not the point), both of which were funny, and both of which had a world of appeal to about two people. I've written a bunch of short stories, all but one of which totally suck. Currently, I'm writing two novels, neither of which will ever be finished. They're both sort of about me, but mostly about a fictionalized version of me that's a little better than I am. One of them includes a chapter that may someday appear in this magazine. And I write for Grumble. I've written a bunch of articles, mostly in story form, about things that have happened to me. Most of the events were somewhere between annoying and traumatizing, and friends tell me that I'm at my best when I'm pissed at the world. At least, I'm at my funniest. Writing is soothing. I disappear into the world of whatever I'm working on, and when I come out, sometimes hours or days have gone by. Or, if I'm blocked, it's about 30 seconds, and then I need to eat something. But working on a new song, sometimes the melody just flows, the notes connect to one another, the tune sings. I can't write the music down fast enough to keep up with my mind when I'm in that kind of groove. It's very exciting. When I'm writing a new story, or even a Grumble article (like this one), there's something exhilirating about getting my thoughts out where not only I, but my friends, family, and strangers I'll never meet can all read it. Sure, most of you are probably bored stiff, or have clicked something else and moved on to Dr. Wombat's latest effort or some such. But so what? Truth be told, I write for myself. I discovered recently that only about 25-30% of the people I meet will bother to remember me or find me appealing. Some will become friends. Some will become colleagues. Some will have a pleasant time for the 45 minutes we spend together. The other 70%-plus, they'll find me annoying. They'll think I'm a wise-ass, or worse yet, a dumb-ass. They'll think I'm ugly, stupid, pedantic, obnoxious, cocky, irresponsible, uncooperative, or -- never mind. This is starting to depress me. But the point is whether I try to impress people or I just act out of instinct, I'm still only going to appeal to 25-30% of the people I encounter. And if I think about it, it really doesn't matter which 25-30%. I mean, I'm going to befriend those who like me. Whether it's THIS group of people or THAT group of people, I have to let fate decide. So I've decided not to bother trying to please everyone. I've decided not to bother kissing up to my superiors or impressing my peers and students with stories of fame and glory. I've decided just to be me, do what I do, say what I say... I am what I am. I'm not apologizing for anything. God knows, if there are four people who bother to read my stuff on Grumble, two of them are my parents, one is my editor, and the other complains that I hate the world too much -- well, screw it. I love writing, and I will continue to write whether anyone reads it or not. I'm either entertaining or I'm not. You either read it or you don't. If you read it, you either like it or you don't. It's a binary world. Maybe it's the drugs (more Advil than is probably healthy), maybe it's the music (Englebert Humperdinck, you're my hero!), or maybe it's the fact that, this summer, I lived in Maine (state slogan: "Maine -- the way life should be"), but I'm beginning to recognize that, while I still possess an abundance of intolerance for idiocy, there's some good stuff out there. Sure, the world is still full of stupid people. Sure, there are horrible movies coming out every day. Sure the subway sucks, the ice cream truck is loud, and once again this summer, I had the potential of more sublet horror (horror which was thankfully avoided). I'm rambling now, and not being terribly coherent. Again, big deal. You either notice or you don't. I just thought I'd take the time to discuss a little personal philosophy, something which has made my life a bit happier, despite my constant rampage to obliterate all the stupid people in the world. So this article wasn't a story. It wasn't a narrative. It wasn't even all that funny, except for some of the dialogue between me and my friend, much of which was dramatized for effect. But if you read this far, you probably enjoyed it. I certainly had fun writing it.