Nurse the Hate: The Powerball Loss

I was slightly stunned that I did not win the $1.2 billion dollar Powerball drawing.  I did place myself in a position to win by purchasing a ticket from a shockingly seedy 7-11 in San Francisco.  This seems like a reasonable place to purchase a winning ticket, snatching it by sheer chance from one of the alcoholics or homeless patrons that seem to be the exclusive customer base of this particular 7-11 location.  I had a fantasy of the press conference where I would place myself in front of the storefront, award the very friendly clerk a cool mill or so, and then ramble on for a few minutes in a confusing diatribe about how I would spend the winnings on chemical weapons, an apartment in Paris, slaves, a television network, the mummified remains of Jimmy Rogers, a pony, and a bottle of 1961 Cheval Blanc.    

Ultimately it is for the best that I did not win.  The second that money is dropped into the winner’s lap they no longer have a single person they can trust.  Every single human being that they come in contact with will resent them for winning that jackpot.  It’s you against the planet from that moment on, and I like the planet’s odds.  Would I have been the winner that gave the best press conference of all time had I won?  The answer I can say without question is “yes”.  I would have been the topic on every talk show on the planet for weeks with my increasingly staged erratic behavior.  It’s a shame.  I can imagine myself in some sort of Idi Amin styled self-created general’s outfit with medals clanking on my chest talking with great urgency about “my enemies” as I lurched around with Lindsey Lohan in tow.  Camera flashes exploding as I leave a horrible nightclub.  “Bill Gates is a goddamn punk!  Bring me the head of Rupert Murdoch!”.  It would have been a hell of a thing. 

With my close call of becoming a billionaire now past, I will concentrate on the matter of hand of the next Daredevils record.  We have written what I think is a very interesting group of songs concerning people and events that have surrounded us in the last year or so.  While the production won’t be nearly as good if we had unlimited time in a state of the art studio with Brendan O’Brien at the helm, I feel pretty good about recording in the region with our team.  I won’t be able to spring for the 1961 Cheval Blanc for drinking while doing vocals, but it’s hard to sing about the shit I wrote about with a glass of $2500 wine in hand.  Eh, what can I do?  It’s daunting to make a new record.  Is there any purpose?  Does anyone care?  Is it only an exercise in self gratification?  Has it ever mattered on the rationale to make these songs?  Has there ever really been a choice?

I’m reminded of a quote by one of my favorite writers, James Salter. “I'm tired of my life, my clothes, the things I say. I'm hacking away at the surface, as at some kind of gray ice, trying to break through to what is underneath or I am dead. I can feel the surface trembling—it seems ready to give but it never does. I am uninterested in current events. How can I justify this? How can I explain it? I don't want to have the same vocabulary I've always had. I want something richer, broader, more penetrating and powerful.”

There are no magic potions in life.  No instant solutions.  There’s only one thing.  I’m going to do my best.