I heard that one of those four limeys from Liverpool once
said that “life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”
An old friend told me the same thing back in the day during one of my many
bitch sessions after work. I don’t know if the Beatles made that up or if they
jacked it from someone much smarter, but the statement holds up.
Once upon a time, there was a skinny brotha living in a
no-name, white-bred suburb in Who-the-fuck-cares, Arizona. He had a very
specific dream that one day he would rise to the top of the hip-hop industry,
ride the success wave for a bit, and (when his star power faced) retire in a
large home full of caviar and model bitches. (He’d never actually tasted
caviar, but he’d seen rich people eat it.) Being sensible, he set a time frame
for himself. All these small feats should be wrapped up by the ripe old age of
30.
Of course, we’ve all seen enough dramas to know that there
might have been a few flaws in this young man’s master plan. During his 20s,
his world changed dramatically, often without any warning. He found a crew of
like-minded individuals to join him on his musical crusade. As the nation’s musical
tastes began to grow and evolve (using the word very loosely), however,
he felt the industry would never understand his vision. This concern added to
his Everest of insecurities. His actual work began to draw more of his focus; he
realized he needed to make more money in order to build a solid foundation and
fund the dream. After all, as his friends loved to remind him, he made a horrible
criminal.
At 29, despair started to set up shop. With an alienated
family, a shelved album, a job that sucked up most of his time, and a level of
cynicism and bitterness that would put Lewis Black to shame, he doubted the
dream would ever come true.
At 30, a funny thing happened. Older age, it would appear, came
with a sense of clarity and wisdom. Sitting on the balcony of his Los Angeles
condo, he had a small epiphany: out of his top ten favorite artists, he’d met
eight and opened for four of them at shows. He was on the verge of releasing
his fourth album with his original crew. Even in his “dead end job,” he made
contacts of use in his musical pursuits. He had a home in the heart of downtown
LA – far removed from the culturally bankrupt town where he grew up. Perhaps best
of all, he woke up every day next to one of the most beautiful, loving, and
intelligent of God’s creations. The dreams of the 18-year-old kid were realized
by the 30-year-old man. The shape and nature were a bit different, but when you
peel back the layers, the heart of each dream is still there.
I like to think that 30-year-old me would challenge the
assertion that life is what happens when you’re planning something else. Instead,
life happens because we plan. And to that naive 18-year-old kid that thought he
was invincible and could conquer it all, I would say “Good looking out, little
homie.”
