INSIDE TONY'S HEAD

Destiny's Firefighter

I'm currently working on a theory. Not one big enough to make Vladmir Lenin bolt awake to see who's rattling his glass coffin, but maybe one that will make you unclench your teeth a little. My theory holds that because

a) what you do with your life depends more on chance encounters and casual decisions than it does on any sort of well-conceived plan, and

b) you define yourself by what you do, then

c) you really shouldn't take yourself so goddamned seriously.

If, at this point, you're rolling your eyes and shaking your fat cranium, feel free to exit my head through my mouth. I promise not to bite you in the ass on the way out.

If you're curious enough to read on, allow me to state my case:

a) What you do with your life depends more on chance encounters and casual decisions than it does on any sort of well-conceived plan.

Newsflash! Life isn't like it is in the movies. You're not a firefighter because you always dreamed of being a firefighter and you worked all your life to become a firefighter and now you'll go to your grave happy, never doubting that you are Destiny's Firefighter. You're a firefighter because somehow you got a bug up your ass, and the bug didn't say anything about being a dentist. Trust me, some day a bigger bug could crawl up there and wham, you'll be a musician.

How could that be? you ask. Every musician in every interview you've ever read claims that he "wouldn't know what to do" if he couldn't make music. This is what I know: they're all lying.

In fact, I'll bet you Michael Stipe's Rolls Royce that if you put any musician in front of the cash register at McDonald's and held a gun to his head, all of a sudden he would know exactly what to do.

Wouldn't you?

I, just like every other rock musician on the planet, listened to a lot of records growing up. Big deal. The truth is, I was a lot more concerned about getting my mother to lift her ridiculous and unfounded ban on the "Planet of the Apes" TV series than I was about cultivating any sort of future in music. I couldn't stand actually practicing my trumpet, and only did as much as would prevent me from wiping out on the high note during the Star Spangled Banner.

Of course, I've read enough crap in Spin magazine to know that once you're lucky enough to become successful at music, or at least successful enough to be interviewed (a dubious honor to be sure), you automatically become convinced that you are god's instrument, and baby, the genius just gets channeled through you. Everything you say takes on a new weight. People must care what you have to say because they are buying your records.

In the 21st century, you don't even need to be validated by the press. All you need is your own website and a loose jaw.

Take me for example. If you're still reading by this point, you must be either a masochist or my mother. Oh, I'll keep talking, all right. And I'll tell you that I became "a musician" thanks to a bug that crawled right up my ass so stealthily, I barely even noticed it.

I met my bandmate Devin when we worked together at the only writing job offered to either of us, through a connection at the University of Illinois, a college I chose after about 5 minutes of staggeringly shallow thinking.

I met my wonderful wife Tammy at that same job out of the same blind luck, and at my next job, a theatrically gay TV producer gave me a horoscope reading and told me I was a far better musician than I was a writer. This producer had never heard a note I'd written, played, or sang, but of course he knew I had a band. (He didn't bring up my secret talent for making personal phone calls on company time, so he obviously was not clairvoyant.) I didn't believe in horoscopes, but the mere suggestion that I could be "a musician" gave me all the reason I needed to stop waking up at 7am every day.

Whose idea was it to start this band? Neither Devin nor I can remember, it left so small a stain in our collective memories. On a different day, we might have decided to open a donut shop together. And been more successful.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I like my life just fine. Love it, in fact. I take full responsibility for every half-assed decision that has made me who I am. And I'm not saying I'm not good at what I do. I just don't want you to think that I think I'm Destiny's Firefighter.

After all, I think I could have become a halfway decent magician if I'd applied myself.

Which brings us to: b) You define yourself by what you do.

Do I have to convince you of this? If I met you at a party, and you asked me what I do, I would not tell you that I stare at a computer for half of the day and make soul-crushing phone calls the other half. I would tell you I am a musician and a writer, and let you imagine that when I am not tinkering away on my grand piano, I am frittering away my royalty checks at whatever sidewalk cafe catches my fancy.

What I should tell you, of course, is that I do whatever I feel like doing until I start bouncing checks.

c) You really shouldn't take yourself so goddamned seriously.

Look, I'm tired of arguing with you, and I'm clearly running out of steam. Do whatever you want. If you hate your life and you've recently discovered a startling new breed of insect in your rectum, quit your job and do something else. Life is too short. Or stay in your job and be happy forever. Whatever. I don't really care what you do, unless you're doing it to me.