“Reach for the stars.” — Anonymous (but definitely a dick)
Ah, the sweet smell of success. Hath thy nostrils been graced by this succulent aroma? If so, please describe it to me. Because aside from owning almost every videogame console from the eighties, I’ve never gotten a whiff of it. My apartment is rented, my practical car is nowhere near being paid for, and my bank account balance often falls somewhere between Oh shit and Fucking Christ. Still, I’m well enough off that I haven’t yet had to pawn my ColecoVision, so I can’t complain. The money is usually there when I need it. But what about that real money? That “I didn’t buy the new Nintendo, I bought Nintendo” (or at least stock in Nintendo) money?
I want funds that ferment, turning from gaggles of luscious grapes into quarts of thirst-quenching wine. But why stop there? I want an Audi for spring, a Ferrari for fall, and a Porsche, Bentley, and private tour bus for the rest of the year. I’ll keep going. I want a house on a private lake, with a duplicate house on the opposite side of the lake, so when I swim across my lake I don’t have to swim back to my original house. You dig? I want it all. But I’ll never have it.
For starters, I’m not business-minded. I looked at my purchase of a French Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 poster as an investment. Also, I don’t know how to properly ration my money (please refer back to the terms “ColecoVision” and “Nintendo,” in addition to the movie poster line). Third, I’m not a visionary. I have no concept of laser focus or the ultimate goal. Grandiose ideas come to me, sure. But it doesn’t take much to throw me off the path. Had I been working in Tesla’s lab, the announcement of a local bar’s Jäger Bomb happy hour would have prevented me from participating in the discovery of the alternating current. It’s just how I’m wired, if you’ll excuse the pun.
If I’m being honest, though, I’m okay with living the regular life. Despite the fact that I work in show business, live in Hollywood, and am completely surrounded by, for lack of a better term, utter whores, I don’t have stars in my eyes. And that’s a good thing. I realize the quest for prosperity has brought us many an invaluable asset, from flight to fusion to frozen food. But it’s also created a lot of raging assholes.
The only thing I remember from the 2016 Summer Olympics is the Ryan Lochte controversy. In short, the decorated medalist possibly vandalized a gas station and allegedly lied about being robbed at gunpoint. He was then suspended from swimming for ten months (a gift if you ask me — like when you fuck up in high school and they punish you by making you stay home for a week).
But the American public couldn’t believe their ears when they heard about Lochte’s antics. Everybody just couldn’t comprehend that another goddamned celebrity acted like a dumb fucking schmuck. What’s the surprise here?
People always wonder: What’s the secret to success? The answer is simple: being a self-serving piece of shit. Celebrity scandals are frequent because being a celebrity means, essentially, being at boss-level. If you wanna be at the top, you gotta work your way to the top. And that’s a dirty, dirty job: plotting, manipulating, scheming, casting aside friends, ignoring family, and so on.
Have you ever had a boss you actually liked? I haven’t. I was never gender-biased about it either. Every female boss I encountered was a bitch and every male boss was a cocksucker. Even if a friend of mine moved up the ladder, I showed no mercy: “Got promoted to office manager!” “Congrats, you’re officially a douche bag now. Don’t come to Dave and Buster’s with us ever again.”
Generally speaking, only the worst of the worst reach the top of the heap. And that doesn’t mean they do bad work. It means they suck as people. Frank Sinatra? Love his music! Total prick. Barbra Streisand? Terrific actress! Walking nightmare. Harvey Weinstein? Need I say more? Admit it, you still love Pulp Fiction and you’re not going to throw away your special-edition DVD. Neither am I.
Reaching for the stars means exactly that: focusing on the upward climb, becoming so intoxicated by the alluring stench of your own underarms that you no longer recognize the value, needs, and sometimes rights of the people around you. Globally renowned comedian Louis C.K. (see what I mean?) once likened success to a rocket ship: It takes off and pulls everything around it up into its thrust. That’s spot on. Rocket ships have zero regard for the earth they scorch — outer space is all that matters. So many of the ambitious and motivated have turned their lives into one giant, perpetual selfie. That’s sick. (Incidentally, even if you’re not famous or successful, if your Instagram feed consists of nothing but selfies, that’s sick, too.)
This culture suffers from a terminal case of selective indulgence. We condemn rich foods for being too caloric. We outlaw trans fats. We denounce capitalistic greed and do our best to send gas-guzzling vehicles the way of the Dodo. But, boy, do we love to celebrate ourselves. Mouths are steadily being stuffed at the buffet of me, where every dish is a special because every customer is special. Every individual nowadays is a diamond-encrusted dewdrop, rolling down a piece of golden origami, with a heart that’s an ocean and a soul that spans galaxies. I swear, even on an empty stomach, I could puke.
Every individual nowadays is a diamond-encrusted dewdrop, rolling down a piece of golden origami, with a heart that’s an ocean and a soul that spans galaxies. I swear, even on an empty stomach, I could puke.
Look, I’m not saying we’re all worthless, I’m just saying we’re not that important. None of us is even the center of the internet, let alone the universe. And if you’re wholly incapable of not constantly staring at yourself in the mirror, at least take some time to notice the reflection of other people, too. They matter. So do you, incidentally. I don’t want you to ditch your dreams and settle for whatever life hands you. Don’t be a pig, is all.
So where’s the middle ground? It’s existing somewhere between the extremes: egomaniacal indulgence on one side and passive defeatism on the other. For me, the compromise is the true pursuit of happiness. I focus on the stuff I actually want versus the stuff I’m told I’m supposed to want. There are a million of life’s perks I’d love to obtain (cash, cars, lake houses), but I can fall asleep at night knowing I have the necessities: friends, family, and a roof I don’t own, but which still keeps the rain out.
Sometimes it’s okay to lay down at the end of a long day, feel pride that you made that Honda Civic payment once again, and relish in the fact that you finally beat Castlevania III. Hell, if you have a window in your bedroom, you can even look up at the stars. Just don’t be compelled to reach for them, you dick.
