I was walking past the Westside Market and there's this guy who sits out there playing guitar. He's most likely homeless, though he looks pretty clean, so maybe not. Anyway, he sits there and plays folky-type music (he was just getting started on Buck Owens' "Act Naturally"), I'm assuming for tips. I pass by. He says "Hello," all friendly-like. Nice guy. Long hair. Beard. Burned-out hippie, most likely.
I say "How you doing?" Because I'm a nice guy.
"Oh, just livin' the dream," he says, wistfully.
I chew on this for a while, this romantic notion of living one's dreams. Who hasn't entertained fantasies of living off the land, stretching out and really living? It's very Kerouac-ian, very Thoreau-esque, y'know? Here's this guy and he's doing what he loves. He doesn't need a stage or a microphone or even an audience, really. All he needs is a guitar, a song and a patch of sidewalk. Am I this brave? Am I really doing what I would if I had a real choice in the matter? If The Man wasn't keeping me down?
"Livin' the dream." That's freaking heavy, man.
Then I remember. It's 30 degrees outside. Dude's sitting on the concrete in 30 degree weather singing songs for pocket change. In Cleveland.
Sorry to judge you, but that's a pretty crappy dream, man.
*******
The moral of this story: if you're going to follow your dream, make sure your dream isn't stupid. The end.
(Did somebody say "New Computer Desktop"?)
