Oh, the Futility of It All

I am 23 years of age. I guess I always thought I'd be doing better at this point in my life. I should have graduated a year ago, and I should have a grown up job, and I should be paying back loans and wearing a tie in some high school trying to get kids to appreciate Fitzgerald and Hemingway. I should be doing these things, but I'm with my friends at The Clock office at 9:30 on a Monday night, trying to think of some ridiculous opinion about music to share with you people. Who are you people? Students? My fellow staffers? Does anyone even read this? Maegen will read it, but only because she has to. Maybe I'll spell something wrong at the end and see if she reads it all the way through. On Friday, I'll put a link to this very column on my Facebook page, and maybe a couple of my friends will read it, and maybe they won't this week, and maybe I'll send a copy down to my parents, and my Dad will skim it or something before he goes to bed. Music journalism has been, for as long as I can remember, pretty much the only thing I've wanted to do, and it just doesn't really seem to be an attainable or even remotely feasible goal.

In May, the stars will align, and I will collect my diploma from this illustrious institution, and I will go on to do what I've been trained to do here: namely, mold young minds and grade tests. From time to time, in my old age, maybe I'll pull a yellowed old Clock out of some sticker-branded hope chest and reminisce about the good ole days. Next year, someone will replace me at this desk and do a fine job of it, I'm sure, and I will miss the people in this office more than anything when we go our separate ways.

But why does it have to be like this? Sure, I could send all my clippings off to Alternative Press and Decibel and cross my fingers, but that impending icy sting of defeat may be too much weight to bear in the end. What is music journalism anyway? It's not like field reporting, where there are right and wrong answers and definitive events; it's all opinion based, futile, never ending arguments about trivial things.

I have spent my whole memorable life obsessing over and collecting music. I started with cassettes and eventually worked my way up to thousands of CD's. I have been subscribed to every music mag you can think of since I was 12. I've seen over a thousand different bands live. A thousand. Music has been my entire life. I think it about it constantly. I want to share these opinions with you and talk about them for hours, even though there is no real resolution to the matter and it doesn't really make a bit of difference what I say in the end; the kids will like what the kids will like.

Somehow, some way, for reasons I cannot explain to you, I will keep going. After I graduate, I'm sure I'll start some unreadable blog that no one will read. I will maintain it weekly, offering interviews with whoever will talk to me, and reviews of things I like. Because I just can't stop. I remember writing reviews in notebooks in middle school, just for myself. I was the only one who would ever read how many stars I gave that album, and I did it anyway because I just couldn't turn it off. So I guess, more than anything else in college, I've learned to keep doing what you love. It sounds cheesy because it is cheesy, but just because you graduate or your passion isn't included in your major or, if you're like me, your greatest wish in life is to enter a field just now echoing its death rattle. Keep doing it. What choice do you have?