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Here is what he has to say:
A Wedding at Wal-Mart
There’s a song to be sung and a war to be won and something else that rhymes. Yes, it is true that among my gifts, phenomenal, dare I say, near-divine words of inspiration and love exist in superfluous supply. I am a writer at heart, and thus I’m sort of a lyricist as well. So, people frequently ask me about my muse. So I’m sort of obligated to talk about her. Let’s see…she is a spicy seniorita. She occasionally wears her hair down, when she’s not being standoffish, and she really likes V-necks. She comes packaged with…Okay, let’s be real. I honestly don’t know what to say when somebody asks me about my muse. Unlike Dante, I don’t really have my Beatrice, someone I’m willing to brave nine circles of hellfire for. But as far as muses go, I’d have to unapologetically admit that she’s usually music. However, my mistress is movies.
There’s nothing quite like a good song, one that drags you through the gutter of heartbreak or spiritual emptiness, and then rises you up from the ashes. I mean, essentially, we’re kind of sadistic beings if you take the time to examine us. We like to feel things like pain and love and even regret. We pay (cause who downloads?) to have singers muse about their misery or that missing chunk in their heart, while they consistently search for “love” in all the wrong places. We essentially become their invaluable audience, paying to keep their screw ups current so as to create fuel for their next heartbreak lullaby. (nod to my bro, Emilio. www.myspace.com/hurricanemusicgroup)
But I love music. Like, probably too much.
I think I fell in love because of my older brother. He bought me a CD for my birthday years back. It was the album “Some Kind of Zombie” by some obscure rock band you’ve probably never heard of. That album formed a desperate curiosity I fed from then on, so I bought the band’s follow up. The memory of me unrolling my wad of singles at the counter of Wal-Mart to purchase a band I believed in has left a mark upon my mind. A wedding took place that night. A wedding at Wal-Mart, between the young, future writer/philosophizer ( Zoolander, anyone?) and musicalicity.
So after I took my beautiful bride home to the stereo, it was pretty much love at first several hundred listens. Yeah, it was a grower. Fast forward a few years and it really starts to click. I realized that there was more music out in the world than just this one band. Today, my library has an obscene amount of music ranging from rock to hard rock to much harder rock to the quiet stuff to the occasional rap jam to…okay, you get it. Needless to say, there is much to peruse.
Listening to the right song at the right moment can change a person’s life or even inspire a novel. As a writer, lyrics matter so much to me. In fact, they are paramount. A song may have the best rhythm and rock moments and whatever, but if she can’t talk to me, give me something other than lousy first date flatter, I’m likely to avoid the bigger commitment. She needs to mean something to me—this muse they call music. A good song is an honest and true song. One that can mean different things to different people or exactly the same thing to two totally different people. One that can change a sunset to a sunrise or fill an empty heart.
There has been a bunch of rambling and a ton of seemingly nonsensical information here, but at the core, all of this is actually true. C’mon. Would I mislead you? I mean, I only make crap up for a living. But seriously, it’s kinda true. So, find your muse, and even contemplate a mistress, because in this story they are allowed to mingle. Oh, and kids, no matter what they tell you…don’t get caught up in the lullaby of bad music. She may seem lovely and inviting, but she’ll just take half your heart…and most likely half your stuff in the divorce.