A week in the den of rich young engineers. Believe me, only Seattle makes them just so. You may scoff, California, but deprive your nerds of sunlight and jack them up on coffee (fair trade organic, ground individually for each cup) and see how things go. Most of them are really nice, to be fair, but then this one guy had to lurk about me through my break and destroy any happiness I may have gained from getting a twix bar for only 10 cents. He began by prying from me the name of my chosen profession, and then, as do many people, he busted my chops about it. How do I make that work? What gives me the right to exist unless I become a famous opera star? That's not a profession, that's a hobby. The usual snidities inflicted by people in your more button-down lines of work.
I have a great deal of respect for the disciplines of science and engineering, and even for working stiffs who suffer crushing ennui for the sake of security. But it galls me when techies and insurance salesmen get up in my face about being a musician. I wouldn't dream of grilling some stranger about how he pays his bills, but people seem to feel at liberty to ask me really personal questions like that, and then treat me like some dilletante who contributes nothing to society. Do the squares really think that artists are parasites? Do they believe that security tags are more essential to human life than music? For my part, the only things that keep me rooting for Team Homo Sapiens Sapiens are our creative endeavors. I admire our intentional creation of beauty. So that's the thing I want to do in my life, and it's not my fault that I was borne into a world that makes you bleed for it.
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