My Bachelor's Won't Earn Half the Debt I've Incurred

The title comes from, not surprisingly, a Crime In Stereo song called the Bride. It's about that space between college and post-graduate stuff where you're trying to find work with bills to pay and it rings a lot more with me now that I have that bachelor's degree and am trying to find something that will pay me.

Now, though, this is about more.




Zach once said, half jokingly, that I'm kind of important. I'm not. I write, ask people questions and transcribe the answers elsewhere. Occasionally, I google my name and some of my interviews pop up. First is my Twitter feed. Interesting. Second is pastepunk. (What up, brothers?) Oddly enough five pages deep is the blog of a friend of mine, in her initial post that mentions me. Mostly, I like the vouyerism. What work of mine do other people link to? What do they find important? But I'm not important. I'm not sure how many people read or listen.

I ended up playing Left 4 Dead on my own over the weekend (away from home, since I don't own a next-gen console), and leaving aside that I have memories attached to that game, the game frustrated me, not the least of which being my computer controlled teamates are too goddamned stupid to throw a motherfucking pipe bomb (or motherfucking moltov cocktail) when we're being attacked by the zombie horde, meaning, I, was the sole weilder of anything that could take the zombie horde off of us for a moment and had to wait for what I hoped would be the most judicious moment to use said pipe bomb/ass saving device.

Then, another boomer would show up, vomit on someone, calling another round of zombies and we'd be back at square one, this time, without a pipe bomb.

But, when you're playing Left 4 Dead with people, you need to come up with a plan beforehand. Are you going to run through the level as fast as you can on a mad dash for the endpoint? Are you going to take it slow and stick together? Or, something more detailed in between? Then, you have to get people to agree (and stick with) this plan. People on the internet are notoriously finicky, but even when one has those people in the room, there are several different ideas of how to proceed, most of them put forward by me, one of the worst people at the title playing.

(If at this point, you're guessing this is going to relate, closely, to my own life, pat yourself on the back: You're right.)

I've written, for the last three weeks, about feeling stuck and like there were too many options, well, I've begun to narrow them down and nail down a basic framework for action for the foreseeable future in my life.

It came down to a question: Adventure or grad school? I'm relatively young, I've got a couple years to mess around and what to do with a time in my life without a business suit? My parents are perfectly willing to subsidize my housing until I find something permanent, and for that, I am extremely grateful. If the music I listen to has taught me anything, it has taught me to try for the life less ordinary, the road without all the lighting or clear end point.

I presented a quick sketch of my plan for the next couple years of my life to my father, and a good friend of mine, and they both seemed to be okay with it. This summer would be me learning how to drive, this fall/winter would be an internship, somewhere, all the while, learning Japanese, in the vain hope that I could teach English over there come 2010. In case you're wondering, none of this is nailed down. But it's what I want to do.

The opportunity is here, now, to do something real and interesting. It means giving up on a couple things: It means, likely, saying hello to almost exclusively text based communication with my friends in the States and saying goodbye to even the idea of seeing my friends in real life. Speaking through Twitter, Facebook and IM clients. It means a lot of time spent learning a language that I have never even dealt with, a written language that isn't based on letters, but drawing.

But hell. I owe more than is fashionable to my early development to Ronin Warriors, Dragonball Z and Gundam Wing. (I still have the Dragonball Z tshirt from years ago...) Trigun and Cowboy Bebop broke and rebuilt my mind in high school. I've felt closer to JRPGs than most of the people I've ever met. Yes, I know Japan is crazy town. Or at least Tokyo is. There's a saying I was reminded of that the Japanese have: The nail that sticks up is the first one to be hammered. That's what they think of individuals. That kind of a culture is going to be hard to get used to. But isn't that the point of adventures? New experiences. New ideas.

As I told a friend of mine catching up at last night's Trap Them (if you like truly aggressive music in the vein of Entombed or Napalm Death, click the link and buy their full length, Seizures in Barren Praise. $6 for the digital download.) show, what's the point of listening to the music I do if I don't take a grand, glorious chance for something different and unconventional? Live your heart and never follow, right? Be scared. Get uncomfortable.

I keep telling myself I don't want the Dilbert existence. I'm willing to take a chance if it means that I'm on my own and I'm not being measured by some ridiculous standard that I'm constantly behind on. Fuck a computer program and the only variables being in the program code being what I'm measured against. But there's a nagging feeling and it says otherwise. It says:

James, who are you kidding? You've got little to say, nothing to add to a conversation and you made one of the your largest emotional failings your major in college: You think too much and now, you've got a B.A. in it. Your attempts at journalism are middling and your years spent offering criticism in music, video games and politics (domestic and international) are second rate at best.

Let's not forget, your "friends" in punk music, are using you. Period. If you didn't write for pastepunk, do you honestly think they'd email you or IM you out of the blue? Starbucks is hiring. You know someone who works there. Think about it. Cut your hair, comb it and then see about getting a degree that's remotely useful. Buy some ties and white shirts.

Your parents don't even read your blog. That should speak volumes.


After hearing that for a while, the feeling of safety and a steady paycheck is very, very tempting. A man far wiser than I, Jay Smooth, called it the Little Hater, what I'm going to hopefully not butcher and call the voice of doubt and fear in every creative person's mind. It's very reasonable. It makes sense. It's what any normal person ought to do.

Then I remember six words. These six words aren't the same six simple words that comprise Bedard's hosanna in What Makes Us Strong, though they're related, intimately. (I'll explain how if you're really interested.) Those six words are out of step with the world and suddenly, it rushes back to me.

I've only got one life, one chance and getting in step with the Dilberts isn't going to make me happy. Please, understand. Some things can't be unseen and I can't forget what I know, but I'm not cut out for traditional office work. It's not wholly about satisfying that frustrated, scared teenager that first heard Minor Threat through an Archos Jukebox on the southbound train to school, but the culmination of the knowledge that, no, really, I'm different and if I follow that, it'll take me places.

It's late, and I have to get up tomorrow to actually do something. So, while I still have my eyes open, let me end this with another Crime In Stereo lyric:

Oh, Doctor Palmer, what am I to do? This choice is for life and I can't decide...