Today, on my way home from the pub, I decided it was a good idea to stop by wal-mart to buy some adhesive-backed felt to finish off my didgeridoo wall-mount. And I met Noel. He stopped me because of my T-shirt, the Ziggy Marley one I got from the concert last summer, and we talked a bit about reggae, and then the islands. From there the conversation went to working on cruise ships, living in Boise, Idaho, Hawaiians, Celine Dion, and twenty minutes later he was telling me we should hang out sometime. I did my usual backing down, 'I don't go out because I'm over Vegas' bullshit, and failed to let a potential friendship germinate.

I did this when I first moved to Vegas. Had to go to get a new Social Security Card to get the job at NYNY. In the office, it was much like a DMV in that there were unhappy people behind the counters serving unhappy people in front of the counters. The number before me was called, and I watched this blind guy get up and have issues trying to find the window. He didn't make it in time, they called my number, so I went up to him and helped him to the window. Almost got skipped over myself. So as I'm leaving, I see him finding his way to the bus stop, and I offer him a ride. He accepts because it'll take me 20 minutes to drive him, the bus'll be a couple of hours. So we chat, and it was one of the first times I've really appreciated how much it must suck to be blind. He was so into my car, which I had just got at the time, listening to the engine, and it occurred to me that no matter how much le loved cars, he would never get to drive one. I think if it's a choice between losing my sight and my hearing, just kill me now, I don't want to go without either. But when I dropped him off, he talked about getting together for drinks at some point, and I was evasive again. Never heard from him again.

So the Wal-mart incident made me think about the blind bloke thing. And it made me think that I've been going about my life the wrong way for the past six months or so, ever since I decided I need to move on from my job. Technically, my career. Because that what I have, and it sucks that I want to leave it. As average as I've always tried to be, I've come too far too young to be happy in what I'm doing, and as anyone who'll lend me an ear know, I want to write a series of books. My trouble is finding motivation. I keep trying to find things to blame, and the most recent excuse is that I need a muse.

And, quite frankly, that's bullshit. There are so many muses in the world that they're just crying out to be used. My senses should be my muse. I still have them and they bring me joy every day. Or my parents. They called me last night, celebrating their 31st wedding anniversary in a restaurant in an Oregon Vineyard that they had to themselves. Their commitment to each other and the family they've somehow managed to raise across a couple of continents, religions, and learning difficulties, should be motivation enough for me to make something of myself.

Instead, I think about making my emotions my muse. Or emotion, because it seems I feel anger more than anything else. But it's not true, I just realized that all the others blend in together, and anger is the only one that differentiates. If I take that anger and use it as fuel as energy to write, to act, to focus, is that a bad thing? Every positive thing leads to happiness with the world as a whole, and every negative thing seems to lead to anger. Stupid people, frustration, criticism, lying, they all lead to anger, so if I use it doesn't it make something good?

I don't know. Whether yea or nay, I couldn't have typed all this shite tonight were it not for the anger that's there, the anger at mistrusted people and falsehoods, anger at the acceptance that other people have with the status quo, and the title of this rant. The muse to end all muses. A glass of Scotch. Tonight's special: A ten-year-old Islay Single Malt, Small Batch Origine out of cask 3, one of 600 bottles.

Maybe I am an alcoholic despite all my protestations to the contrary. If I need a glass of Scotch to write, to loosen up enough to say what I want to, then what am I but dependent? Just poured my second glass, and now I'm going to stare at a paragraph that begs to be added to until I fall asleep.?