America Is an Oddball’s Paradise
I don't know much about the outside world. Born in LA, lived in California most of my life. Now here we are in Boise, not far from where the explorer Donald Mackenzie passed through on his way to Astoria. Up until our Japan trip two years ago, I'd only ever been to Canada and Mexico, and all that was long, long ago. Never served in the military, though I've photographed a lot of soldiers and vets and their families.
Regardless, I still think that of all the places you can be, America is an oddball's paradise. I mean that in a good way. Here, if anybody tells you what to do, you can just tell em to f*ck off. That's freedom.
You can be Taylor Swift, or Guy Fieri. You can be nobody. You can rise above the noise to where everybody knows who you are, despite the fierce competition and fragmented centers of attention. How is that even possible in an age when we design our own radio stations? Three hundred million radio stations with an audience of one. And yet, we still have the household names, the megastars, the supernova one-hit wonders who come crashing down to earth because they weren't really what we wanted, after all.
I keep telling myself I need a real job, because who the hell hires a storyteller? Especially an old one who doesn't want to travel the back roads in a microbus, surfing couches and performing on street corners till something miraculous clicks. There's more than one way to stage a meteoric rise. Those who scream "my way or the highway" are usually the ones who make it.
I actually like the idea of a real job, with good pay and benefits, along with enough soul left over at the end of the day to continue slogging on fameward. All those Taylor Swifts started out pressing labels onto shampoo bottles before they became the shampoo. Nothing wrong with being an employee, even if it ends up being forever. Tell that to your business coach.
Just don't quit being Taylor Swift. Why am I even picking on her? I'm neither fan nor not fan, "but if memories were all I sang, I'd rather drive a truck." I dredge up a lot of memories as I forge ahead, and part of me wants to be more forward looking. Besides me, who cares about Dylan and Petty and Muhammad Ali, or Sonny Liston, for goodness sake? Who cares about Louis Barney Katz? I'm not saying you should.
Let's face it. Being whoever you are can be an oddball proposition. Don't let anyone (except your husband or your wife) tell you what to do.
