The Value of Two Bits

I found myself at an airport last week. I took my sandwich up to the flat, cold kiosk that stole the soul of a cashier. The total came to seventeen dollars. Then up popped the option to tip.

The humanless, pixelated stump must have been trained to mistake a slip of the finger for generosity. I sneered. Just enough of that cynical grin and my guitar case reflected back from its screen. Now machines are begging for gratuities too? Find your own corner, pal.

On my way out, a bright red magazine cover caught my eye. Conveniently, I only remember what I think I saw, in big gold letters:

Living in the Age of Grift

That's when Alan Watts's voice popped into my head, talking about the universe being a cosmic joke. The trick is learning to laugh with the universe, even while it's laughing at you. At least that's what I think he said.

I boarded. The plane landed safely. Seriously, great job. Humans still do valuable work. Work that keeps people alive. Mine keeps people singing along. So it's not hard to feel some guilt calling the 80s teenage dream my job. Even so, playing in front of people who want to hear me is great motivation to wake up every day with a purpose.

But choosing "guitarist" as a career may be the most willful abandonment of professional normalcy I can think of. [ ] GUITARIST doesn't even make the career questionnaire. [ ] SELF-SABOTAGE does.

Is it any wonder I worry I'm always asking for too much? There's this wave of common sense constantly looming, testing my nerves, testing my fatherhood. Testing that teen who fumbled away on a guitar that might never sound like more than two nickels rubbing together.

"Get a real job."

I hear you. If only I'd settled for that airport cashier position back in 1994. I'd have a colder, flatter story by now. And I'd still be wondering what I'm worth.

Then again, what's anything worth these days? It all feels like a modern pinball score. You launch the ball and you've scored 19 million points before you've done a thing. The points go higher and higher, and your connection to them becomes less and less. Streams, likes, followers. Even the money. What's real?

The real connection is the physics. The lights. The sound. The touch. The flipper buttons on the sides of the cabinet that kick the chrome around to make the game come alive. 7.54 billion points barely matters. All that fun and it's still just two quarters. One hip-check too hard and you're drained. Tilt.

Sitting here today, I watch bottomless bits assemble themselves into mesmerizing mirages. I hear soothsayers coining promises of a ride over the arc of a double rainbow to a free-for-all pit of gold. Maybe they're right. I won't bet one of my nickels on it. My hands are busier than ever. Creating sound. Capturing light. Crafting a new game. I'm building my own ark. Well, arcade.

You can't hold my music, so it might feel worth less than something you can. But it can still hold you. If my two nickels sound like two quarters to you, drop them in. And just like the machines I played at 13, mine gives five balls, realistic scoring, and a fair chance at a free game. Tipping: no accidents required.

That's my two bits, anyway.