Serving Glimmers: How Art and Performance Can Save Lives

I had a realization a while back — one of the reasons I pursued music therapy was because it looked “good.” It seemed like a noble profession, using music to improve people’s lives in a meaningful, measurable way. I’d tell people I was studying music therapy and it was an instant “Ah yes, I can trust her, as she is clearly a good person.” All my boyfriends’ moms loved me for it, and strangers would tell me what I’m doing is so beautiful, so kind. It may just be playing guitar for some kid in a hospital, but to that kid, you’re a hero! And who doesn’t want to be a hero, you know?

I think I have a hero complex, and I think that’s what’s prevented me from jumping headfirst into performance instead. I always wanted to be a hero. I wanted to help people. And if I became a rock star, who would I be helping except my own selfish desires?

The typical perception of pretty much everybody is that performing and the arts are just little “extras.” They’re nothing but fun little distractions, right? No one needs a movie or a comic book or music to live.

QUICK! GET HIM THE LATEST TAYLOR SWIFT ALBUM!

What I’m slowly realizing is that, while we don’t need the arts to live, we absolutely need the arts to really live.

When I moved to Kalamazoo, I searched frantically for work. I would have taken damn near anything, but I wanted to try finding a job involving music. And lo and behold, a trivia company was looking for a music bingo host in my area. And I mean, getting to essentially be part-DJ, part-game show host every night?

I love what I do. It’s a great gig. But for a while, I was feeling like what I did didn’t really matter in the long run. People come into the bar, play music bingo, and leave, going on to live their own lives. I imagine there are probably nurses and firefighters in the audience, and what I do must seem so inconsequential compared to what they deal with every day. And I think those thoughts were starting to wear on me, because I got complaints from one of the bars I work at that I wasn’t “engaging enough.” At first I was angry, because what do you mean I’m not good enough?! But then I realized maybe I’m not giving it my all, and maybe that was because I felt like my job wasn’t important.

So I determined that this show would be my best show yet. I dressed just short of a full drag queen getup, picked some banger categories, and drank enough caffeine to kill a horse. I promised myself I’d socialize the whole time, even if I wanted to sit down. I even moved the chair so I wouldn’t be tempted to just sit down. I was going to give this show my all.

Then, something amazing happened. Sometimes, when you put good vibes out into the universe, the stars align and give you exactly what you need in that moment. What I needed was a glimmer.

Everyone knows what triggers are, but I recently saw that someone coined a term for the opposite phenomenon — glimmers. These are the tiny moments that make life worth living. I experience a glimmer every time I laugh with my wife, or hug my girlfriend, or hear my parents say they’re proud of me. They’re what being alive is all about. They’re little moments of pure joy, which was exactly what I needed.

I walked into the bar to an array of balloons. It was an older couple’s 55th anniversary, and I was going to be hosting music bingo smack dab in the middle of it. Thankfully, the couple was cool about me coming to blast disco at them and even joined in the game, along with many of the other folks in attendance. The older woman who was celebrating her anniversary came up to me and told me that her and her husband’s song was “You’re Still the One” by Shania Twain. And anyone who knows me knows I never miss an opportunity to play Shania Twain.

Tangentially related fact: I was so obsessed with her as a small child, I’d draw pictures of her and not my mom. (Yes, my mom was a little jealous.)

When intermission came, the bar dimmed the lights, leaving only the hanging Christmas lights to illuminate the room. I cued up the song and introduced the couple to the entire bar. Then, everyone gathered around the couple with their phone flashlights. Seeing all of their friends and family surround them in a sea of twinkling lights actually made me tear up a little. The family would remember this moment for the rest of their lives.

A moment I helped make happen.

It’s easy to dismiss entertainment as an opium of the masses, even more so than religion, as Marx famously said. But I’d argue that entertainment is as important as the STEM fields, just in a completely different way. Sure, a particular song may be insignificant to you, but that song could have been the one thing that stopped someone from taking their own life. There’s a reason for this album’s existence. I know people who stay alive because they want to see what happens next in their favorite video game franchise. The arts and media provide those small glimmers that keep people going.

So maybe I will go all-in on being an entertainer and creator. Because someone somewhere needs my music. Someone somewhere needs a fun game night at the local bar. Someone somewhere is reading my writings about mental health and my own personal journey and feels less alone because of it. Artists, writers, musicians, video game developers, game show hosts — they’re all heroes in a unique but important way. Entertainment and art communicate ideas, and more than that, hope.

That’s why I do what I do.

Reflecting on the Year That Almost Broke Me

As of writing, we are halfway through December, which means the new year is lurking. As everyone prepares to sing “Auld Lang Syne” and kiss a stranger, now is the optimal time to look back at the previous year and reflect on how things went.

And damn, did they go awry this year.

2024 was a trash-fire year for me, rivalling 2015 for the title of Worst Year of Jessa’s Life. 2015, of course, was the year I simultaneously got my heart broken by my crush of four years, graduated and realized I wasn’t going to find a job in my field and would probably never find success, and also dealt with some familial and health issues. But this year was honestly worse in every way. Like, this has literally been the worst one.

To think of how optimistic I was at the start of the year too. I was getting ready to begin the internship I’d been working toward for over a decade. I had just moved to Fort Wayne and was expecting an adventure. And what I got was a soul-crushing internship experience that I had to leave for the sake of my own mental health. I was going to drive my car into the fucking river if I cried one more time at that godforsaken clinic. I couldn’t handle the pressure. I failed.

Tail between our legs, we retreated to Niles, MI, where I could at least be close to my girlfriend. But we had trouble finding paid work in the area, our savings were dwindling, and we couldn’t afford to keep living out of AirBNBs. So my wife decided we should check out Kalamazoo instead, as we’d previously talked about it and decided it was a good central location between our family in Detroit, our new friends in Fort Wayne, and my girlfriend in South Bend.

Moving to Kalamazoo was the best decision we could have made, as the only good things to happen this year happened because of the move. My wife and I got involved in the local karaoke scene and made a lot of friends, which is new for us. We’d been shut-ins for most of our marriage. I decided that since music therapy was off the table, I’d pursue a different dream, one of becoming a producer and audio engineer. So I applied to the local university and actually made it into the competitive multimedia arts technology program. And I got back into doing what I love for a living — teaching music.

I realize I started this blog post very doom-and-gloom, but the more I write, the more I realize this year wasn’t so heck. Sure, we’re still broke and I still wasted so much time and money on a career that will never happen. Then there’s all the political unrest and the fact that the jabronis who won the election want to make my marriage illegal. But if there’s anything I’ve learned this year about myself, it’s that I’m resilient as fuck. When shit hits the fan, I’ll figure something else out. That’s what I do best.

Looking back at 2024, I don’t know how I could have survived without the people I’ve met this year in Fort Wayne and Kalamazoo. I never realized how empty my life was without my own little “tribe” of sorts. We’re social creatures by nature and we need each other. Maybe I’ll never be a music therapist. Maybe I’ll be broke for the rest of my life. But when I’m surrounded by the amazing folks I’ve met this year, well, you can’t buy that feeling. My Little Pony had it right — friendship is magic.

The real music therapy degree was the friends we made along the way.

I don’t know what awaits me in 2025, but I’m confident I can face anything now. This year absolutely took the wind out of my sails, but I’m going to keep persisting. I’m ready.

How I Invented Myself (As a Thirteen-Year-Old Girl With a Sketchbook)

First of all, this blog post needs a visual:

This post isn’t just an excuse to share a picture of me looking like an absolute baddie. You see, I made this very weird, very cool realization when I scrolled through recent pics to find this particular one.

That woman in the picture? I invented her.

When I was a kid, I had a lot of original characters. They were kind of my only friends when I didn’t have any to speak of. It’s easy to forget that I was ever uncool, but I very much was for most of my early life. I’ve talked about how I had to eat lunch in the library to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets, but that was really the tip of the iceberg. It got a lot worse than that at times. I scarcely remember a day in middle school where I didn’t come home from school crying. So I made up these imaginary people, usually rock stars, who’d be my friends, and on occasion, I’d make one whom I wanted to be.

That was Anne…I can’t remember her last name. It was Greek. She was Greek, as I had a brief Greek mythology phase (every teenage girl has one, I swear) and I’m pretty sure I made her to be the modern incarnation of Aphrodite. But I distinctly remember almost everything else about her. She had long dark hair, wore sort of gothy clothes, including fishnet stockings and gloves, and impossibly high black boots. She was the lead singer and guitarist of a rock band called Valentÿne (the umlaut is v important), and she had a teenaged little sister named Sophie of whom she’d become caregiver. She was an amalgamation of women I looked up to at the time — the Wilson sisters of Heart, other rocker chicks I admired, my own older sister, even. She was very much a wish-fulfillment OC, as I wanted nothing more to be a bad bitch with a soft side who wore cool-ass clothes and had confidence.

And I think I’m finally there. I’m not a rock star by any means, but I have people who follow my music career and love what I do, and that’s enough. I’ve got the looks now — dyeing my hair dark for my 30s was a good move. And in a way, I do feel like I’m the caregiver of a smaller, more innocent me. Sophie was always sort of my “inner child” in a way. I’ve become this character I invented as a little girl, and it’s so cool to see realized.

I keep drawing the Queen of Wands when I ask my tarot decks questions about myself, and I think that’s telling. I’m not superstitious, but I’m a little “-stitious,” so to speak, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence I keep getting this card.

The Queen of Wands represents a fiery, sexy, confident, vivacious woman who knows what she wants and knows how to get it. She is everything I created Anne to be, and I feel like I’m finally seeing those things in myself too.

It took me long enough, but I’m happy with who I am today. In fact, I think that might be a small reason why I’ve had trouble coming up with characters and stories as of late — I’m actually content with who I am and who’s in my life. That’s never happened to me before. It makes me want to hide inside my imagination less. Which is honestly not a good thing for a creative, so I should probably address that sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, I’ll enjoy this contentment.

It’s hard to believe I manifested this version of myself as a lonely 13-year-old girl with a sketchpad and big dreams, but stranger things have happened, ya know? I remember a time when I hated being me, so I feel like I’ve earned this feeling. I hope I continue to evolve into even greater versions of myself as I continue through life, and I’m excited to share that journey with you here.

Empathy is Dead

So uh, about that election.

As you could probably infer by the fact that I am a queer woman, I am not thrilled with the results. I feel betrayed by everyone who voted for the Orange Menace, and even more betrayed by the leftists who “protest voted” against Kamala for her stance on Israel. As if Trump isn’t going to level Palestine the first chance he gets. Now, we’re stuck with the consequences. The Supreme Court will be stacked with conservative judges for decades to come, and if Roe v. Wade being overturned is any indication, they’re coming for gay marriage next. It was cool having a wife while it lasted, I guess. Not to mention the fact that I’m probably only going to be able to conceive with my girlfriend, who is trans and saved some of her baby-making material, via IVF. If these clowns come for reproductive rights, I’ll probably never get to be a mom. Which is fucking heartbreaking and I might never get over it.

Those are not the things that scare me most about this election cycle. I think there’s something far more sinister going on.

We have an empathy problem.

I wrote a while back about how humanity is dead, and empathy is close behind. I’ve lost so much faith in humanity beings these past few days. People really don’t care about others. I see so much pain and heartache amongst those who will be most affected by the new regime, and these fucking insensitive maggots are gloating in their faces over it. It’s sick. Literally, I posted about my frustration with the results and the overwhelming response I received on social media was “suck it up, homo.”

And charming replies like this one from the aptly named johnpoophead.

I don’t think we’ll ever be okay again. I’ve lost so much hope. And people left and right are trying to gaslight me into thinking things will be fine, that Trump is the “most pro-LGBTQ president ever” and none of the terrible things I fear happening will come to fruition. I hope they’re right, for my sake. I’d rather hear “I told you so” than “get in the gas chambers.”

The results of this election have proven to society that bullying pays, that people who do things like, well, everything listed here, are acceptable leaders. And if Trump were to drop dead of natural causes tomorrow, none of this would disappear. The hate and ignorance are too strong now. I’ve even heard reports from folks in other countries saying their politics are turning far-right as well. Even if I could flee the country, where could I go? Nowhere is safe anymore.

My heart hurts. I didn’t want to believe people could be this terrible, but here we are. I’ll never trust anyone again, not when there’s a chance they could have voted against my right to have a family of my own. I want to believe humanity is good and that most folks are decent, but then…

It’s going to be a long four years.

Finding a New Dream (When Your Old Dreams Were Crushed)

Oh hey, another blog post whining about my failed music therapy career. But bear with me!

Although I must confess I don’t have a bear.

This is a happy blog post, okay? Sure, I wasted more than a decade of my life pursuing a dream that ultimately fell through. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t sting. I do get a little weepy when I think about all the beautiful musical moments I’ve had with my past clients. I still remember playing piano for a dying man and his wife and how sweet it was to perform “their song” one last time for them. That’s something I’ll miss about music therapy. What I won’t miss? All the paperwork and clinical BS that comes with. Simply put, I’m not a clinical person. I’m a creator and a performer, first and foremost. Even if I had pursued cardiology as a career, which was my original plan, I probably would have noped out of that life eventually too. It’s for the best that my parents talked me out of pre-med in favor of music.

Becoming the first parents in the history of human civilization to talk their child *out of* being a doctor.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel some degree of hope. Tonight, I submitted my application to the multimedia arts technology degree program at Western Michigan University. It’s been a long time coming. I’ve been toying with getting serious about music production for a while and researching programs to teach me how to be a better mixer and producer. I managed to make a few friends out here who are already in the program and they all highly recommend it. One friend had a buddy who went through the program and became the touring sound guy for Avenged Sevenfold!

Who I admittedly know nothing about, but they’re famous, so that’s something!

So what to do with this degree? Well, my plan before leaving music therapy behind was to create a space for people of all ages and abilities to make music. I think music should be available to everyone regardless of their circumstances or disabilities. I wanted to build a recording studio not for famous artists, but for everyday folks who want to join in the act of creating music. I’m no longer pursuing music therapy, but those dreams never changed. I don’t need a music therapy degree to apply what I’ve learned about working with people of varying abilities in a musical context. I don’t need a music therapy degree to build a neurodivergence-friendly studio. And I don’t need a music therapy degree to help people make music.

My new dream is to start my own recording studio/music school. I want to provide lessons to the community at an affordable price, and I want a space for my students to record and produce their own music with my help. I want to make my studio a sort of “third space” for the community to be able to meet like-minded people and practice their instruments, and maybe even rent out instruments so folks can try things they might not have ordinarily tried. And if my studio catches on, I want to open multiple locations. I want to start a movement of sorts. Lofty, I know, but what’s the point of dreaming if you don’t dream big?

Quitting music therapy was a difficult decision that made me question my entire place in the world. Still, I’m convinced I can still change people’s lives through music, even without a fancy schmancy music therapy degree. Honing the craft of music production will take me one step closer to doing just that. I refuse to die before I’ve made a difference in the world.

And before I’ve built a studio cooler than *this.*

So, here’s to a new dream!

The Autistic Bimbo: My Former Life as a Dumb Blonde

I was on That God-Forsaken Platform That Shall Not Be Named when I saw someone share this status:

Everyone is cringy at 14, but I was a special kind of cringe. You see, at age 14, I was a very different Jessa (or shall I say, Jessie, as I was going by back then). I was in a sort of state of transition, as most people are at that age. For me personally, that transition was between shy, awkward me and cool, confident me.

I remember the catalyst for that transition being my seventh grade obsession with this cool guy named Kyle Kelley, who I was definitely going to marry someday. Suddenly, I wasn’t content to stay in the corner doodling pictures of Richie Sambora and imagining what Pokémon I wanted to add to my team when I got home. I desperately wanted to be one of the popular girls, like Kyle Kelley’s cheerleader girlfriend.

But that would involve me — gasp — talking to other kids!

I’ve touched on my autism before. I will admit I’m not officially diagnosed yet — it’s damn near impossible to get a proper diagnosis as an adult AFAB person. Because of the sheer amount of gatekeeping when it comes to diagnosis, most autistic folks accept self-diagnosis as valid. And believe me, the signs were all there. I was sensitive to loud sounds, hiding whenever I heard the neighbor girl’s loud bass from her car or the sound of the vacuum cleaner. I’d hyperfocus on things like Bon Jovi and parakeets, learning everything I possibly could about them and talking incessantly about them to anyone who’d humor me. I’d stim by making bird sounds and running around randomly. I would finish my homework quickly so I could spin around in the back of the classroom (okay, that one might be on you, ADHD). And I was garbage at socializing. Talk to people? You might as well have asked me to build a rocket to the moon, because that was not happening.

Then, of course, I met Kyle Kelley and suddenly, I had this burning passion to become “cool,” whatever that even meant. I studied meticulously the mannerisms and interests and the clothing of the girls I thought were cooler than me. It was almost like a science project, observing the “cool girls” in their natural habitats and trying to emulate them. Looking back, it was just baby-me learning how to mask, and I was absolutely terrible at it at first.

Which led to me being labeled something of a bimbo, despite me being one of the smartest kids in my class.

I didn’t know how to speak to people properly, and I’d often clam up when confronted with an actual conversation. And so I’d say the first dumb thing that came to my head in my desperate attempt to say anything. I honestly didn’t know how to interact with other folks my age. I figured it was better to be considered dumb than be an outcast, and the kids in my grade thought I was funny and silly because of it. So I went along with the “dumb blonde” label, because at least it wasn’t “weird kid.” It was such a pervasive label, I even got typecast in the school play as the stereotypical bimbo. Like, this character was soap-eating levels of dumb. At least I didn’t have to actually eat soap for the bit (it was white chocolate).

And thankfully their chocolate tastes *much better* than their soap.

At some point between high school and university, socializing became more natural to me and I was able to shed the “dumb blonde” label. I certainly shed the “blonde” label when I dyed my hair dark (bleaching was starting to take a toll on my hair, and I wanted to emulate my hero, Ann Wilson). But I still have some empathy for the little girl who thought popularity was more important than being viewed as smart or deep. It wasn’t her fault people didn’t take the time to get to know her as anything else.

And I’d like to think she had a lot to offer.

The “Now” List: Part One

I have a confession: I read a lot of self-help. Maybe it’s because I need a lot of help. After all, I could slap my name on the DSM-V manual and call it my autobiography.

I’ll be signing books at a Barnes & Noble near you!

Some of the books are total woo-woo, others have good ideas but aren’t practical. But every once in a while, I find one with substance.

Enter How to do Everything and Be Happy by a fine British fellow named Peter Jones.

How can you *not* be happy looking at a cover like that?

I was pleasantly surprised with the wisdom of this book. You see, Mr. Jones tragically lost his wife only a few years into his marriage to her, and he realized just how fragile the human life is. Which, of course, led him to reevaluate everything. One thing led to another, and he found himself making a series of lists of things he wanted to do during his time on earth. Kind of like a bucket list, but this list was a now list. He wasn’t going to wait until he was knocking on death’s door to accomplish the items on this list. He wanted to start working toward them now, setting aside a day every month to either complete an item or research how to complete an item.

In the book, he encourages everyone to make a series of lists as well, including their own “now list.” Which got me thinking about all the things I want to do with my time here. After all, I have a lot of varying interests and goals. So much so that when I decided to share my own list on my blog, I realized I’d have to break it up into smaller chunks. There were just so many items! These are going to take some time to finish, possibly my whole life, but I want to give it my all and try my best to experience everything.

So without further ado, here is the first installment of my “now list.”

1. See Taylor Swift live

Anyone who knows me knows I’m a bit of a Swiftie, albeit initially against my will. I remember being on tour with my former band and being locked in a van with 1989 playing on repeat, back when it first dropped. I hadn’t been impressed by her in the past. So she’s a white girl with a guitar and some songs about boys — like, I’m all those things too. It’s not that special, right? But something happened while I was trapped in that van. I actually started to appreciate her songwriting style, and her music was actually…good? I got home and bought all her albums for myself, and it turns out I enjoyed them more than I thought I would.

Years later, I still consider her one of my biggest musical inspirations, to the point where I’d probably rank her alongside Max Martin and Kara DioGuardi as one of my all-time favorite songwriters. But from what I’ve heard, her performances are nothing to sneeze at either. Her highly celebrated Eras tour has been making waves across the world. I didn’t catch this tour, mostly because tickets were prohibitively expensive and difficult to even come by, thanks to the shitshow that is our ticket sales system. But I’m hoping to catch one of her shows eventually. I was banking on her having a Vegas residency or something someday, when all the hype around her has died down. I always said I’d catch her when people stop caring about her, but what if one or both of us dies before that happens? I’d rather save up and jump on the opportunity as soon as it arises, which is why it’s at the top of my list.

2. Get my passport

I’m almost embarrassed to admit I’ve never left the country, save for a brief trip to Canada. (And what Detroit-area native hasn’t gone to Canada at least once?) I feel like I’m missing out on so much stuck here in the Midwest, bouncing between Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, and literally nowhere else. I’ve been to Colorado once, and the south, where my immediate family is from, quite a few times (although I’m hesitant to go back now that I’m openly queer, because of the everything). Aside from those excursions, I’ve seen very little of the world. And I want to see all of it. But that will be hard to do without a passport.

I tried getting a passport recently, but I apparently need my divorce date. I guess my inconsequential marriage that lasted less than two years is something the state needs to know about before giving me permission to leave the country. So the first matter of business is to go to the county clerk and figure that shit out. After that, it should be $130 or so for the actual passport. Then, the world will be my oyster. That is, assuming I have any money to travel out of the country. That’s a problem for later-me, though. First things first, as they say.

3. Go to the Pokémon Center in Japan

Pokémon has been a central part of my childhood ever since I first brought home Pokémon Red from a Blockbuster in kindergarten. I was immediately hooked. I loved all the creatures and the world and the gameplay mechanics. I wanted to become the very best, like no one ever was. I wanted to immerse myself in this silly game. My Pokémon became friends to me before I ever had any friends. And it grew with me. As I got older, I drifted away from the franchise for a while, but I always found myself first in line for the new RPGs, and I even befriended my future wife through Pokémon.

Going to the Pokémon Center in Japan would be like my childhood coming full circle. I don’t even know what I’d buy there. I’d just be happy to see it in person. The Pokémon phenomenon has been such a huge part of my life, and now that I have a passport (assuming I’ve completed the second item on this list), what better way to honor my inner child than by indulging her in a trip to the epicenter of it all?

4. Play a major music festival

As a little emo kid with a guitar, was my dream for years to play Warped Tour. It was one of my favorite festivals to attend, and it seemed accessible. I had friends who played it, and my former band even played a one-off gig as part of it, albeit before I joined. Now the festival is gone (unless?), but my dream of playing a major festival persists.

I specify “major” because I technically have played a festival with Wake Up Jamie, but it was a tiny one in the middle of nowhere that nobody cared about. Now I’d be tickled pink to play South Bend’s YART festival, but I want to aim high. Maybe Bonnaroo, or Lollapalooza, or some other equally silly-sounding festival. I don’t care if I play it with Wake Up Jamie, my new band, Syrin, or even as a solo act. I just want to play a big festival and see people screaming along to my music. And probably be covered in glitter, but that’s a given, considering it’s me. Speaking of things that involve lots of glitter…

5. Learn to pole dance

…I went to a “gentleman’s club” for a good friend’s birthday recently. And I have to say, I think I enjoyed it as much as he did! Not only were the girls beautiful (and I am very homosexual), they were so talented. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dazzling women as they spun around so free and graceful. It made me wish I could do something like that. And it got me thinking, what’s stopping me?

I was bound and determined to get picked for the prestigious swing and samba performances when I was in dance class, so much that I practiced my ass off every night. And it paid off! I did get selected to do those dances. And I’m sure if I put the same amount of effort into learning the art of pole, I bet I can achieve the same amount of grace as those dancers I saw at the club. I invested in a sturdy pole, which looks hilarious in my dining room, but it’s not like I was using it for its intended purpose anyways. Like, who sits at a dining table anymore anyways? Stripper poles are a far better use of the dining room space, am I right?

6. Sew a dress from scratch

I admittedly know next to nothing about the sartorial arts, and I’ll confess that the pillowcase project I bought for myself lays embarrassingly behind my tv stand so I don’t have to look at my own failure every day. I don’t do well with silly things like “instructions,” which is the main reason why I haven’t attempted to sew much in the past. You kind of have to follow a guide, or else you’re not going to make much of anything presentable. I learned this the hard way with my foray into crocheting, where I gave up on reading the directions halfway through and came up with this:

But I’ve always wanted to sew my own clothes. I liked the idea of tailoring things to myself and picking out cool fabrics. I admired people who could whip up amazing cosplay outfits, and I wished I could do the same. So when I was coming up with this list, I thought, “What’s stopping me?” (Aside from my crippling inability to follow instructions, that is.) I did buy my wife a heavy-duty sewing machine to work on her currently postponed fursuit endeavors. I just need to buckle down and learn how to use it myself. If I could whip up something like this, I’d be content.

To be continued!

A Fork in the Road: The Three Potential New Careers I Might Pursue

Oh hey, another writing prompt!

List three jobs you’d consider pursuing if money didn’t matter.

It’s funny that this prompt came up right now, because I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching regarding my career. After all, music therapy didn’t exactly pan out for me, and the more I learn about the field, the more I’m kinda glad it didn’t work out. Apparently burnout is rampant and no other professionals take it seriously, from what I’ve gleaned from r/musictherapy on Reddit. But for most of my life, if you asked me what I wanted to be, the answer would have been a resounding “music therapist.” It was my entire personality. It was my destiny, or so I believed.

Now, I’m scrambling trying to figure out a Plan B. I didn’t have a backup plan. In my desperate attempt to grasp for alternative career paths, I tried to think of what drew me to music therapy in the first place. Was it helping people? I mean, I’ve worked pretty extensively as a caregiver, and while it feels good to do good, I still didn’t feel completely fulfilled in those jobs. Maybe it was the respect. I could see myself as a celebrated professor or researcher in the field. But in all honesty, music therapists don’t really get a lot of respect at any level (also according to r/musictherapy). That left just one potential reason — I need to make music.

Music is my entire life. I don’t know who I’d be without it. It was my first language. And all I truly want out of a career (and life in general) is to create it. And so I began to brainstorm other careers I could pursue that would allow me to play music, or at least be in close proximity to it. These are the ideas I’m currently batting around.

1. Luthier

l’ll admit this one’s farfetched. I’m not a crafty person or a handy person, so making a thing from scratch is a very intimidating prospect. Still, the idea of building and fixing guitars is attractive to me. It’s a very male-dominated field, so being a female (well, femme-by) luthier would make me cool and unique, right? There’s a luthier school an hour and a half away from where I live now, but that would be a ridiculous commute, so I’d have to either live in the dorms or get an apartment out there. My poor wife has been through enough with the Fort Wayne saga, though, and the tuition makes it prohibitively expensive.

2. Music Producer

This is probably the thing I want to do most, if I’m honest with myself. This is a purely creative job. I’d simply be tasked with making music and helping other people make music. I’ve already been doing some producing, although I’m by no means an expert. The local university has a multimedia arts technology degree that seems promising, should I want to hone the craft. One of my friends has a buddy who went that route and ended up touring with Avenged Sevenfold as their sound guy. That being said, that program also costs money I don’t have, not to mention getting the space and equipment I’d need to open my own recording studio. And then I’d need clients, which means I’d have to advertise, which means I need more money. And if I don’t get clients at all, I’m screwed.

3. Professor

When I was pursuing music therapy, my ultimate goal was to become a professor and researcher. After all, I thrive in academia, and I’ve always enjoyed teaching. If I go this route, I’d likely enter the graduate composition program at the local university, and eventually earn a doctorate. I love the idea of being Dr. Salisbury. I want the respect, the stability of being tenured, the freedom to study cool shit and make money doing it. But alas, this program also requires money.

I guess if money didn’t matter, I’d pursue all three of these at different points in my life, maybe go the producer route first and subsequently start my academic career, then learn the craft of building guitars as a retiree. I still (hopefully) have many years ahead of me. But realistically, I’m going to choose one to focus on, due to financial constraints. Unfortunately money does matter.

Maybe I’ll start a GoFundMe.

What do you think I should be? Leave your ideas in the comments!

Let Me Sing You the Song of My People (Or, How Rock Music Makes Being British Kind of Cool)

I remember the shock when I got the results back for my 23 and Me test (that I drunkenly ordered back when I did drink).

So I’m pretty British. I was expecting that much, considering my government surname is Salisbury and I don’t think there exists a more British last name. (Except maybe like, Buckingham, or Worcestershire. Is that someone’s last name?) But I wasn’t expecting the sheer amount of Britishness I ended up being. Hardly anyone I know has gotten more than 90 percent of a particular ethnicity, and here I am more British than the late queen herself (probably).

Was I a little disappointed at first? Maybe. It felt like the most basic ethnic background I could have possibly gotten. We don’t speak a fun language that isn’t English, we’re so white the sun tries to kill us anytime we walk outside, and all we’re really known for is tea and trying to take over the world (and fucking things up for like, a bunch of other people in the process). And like, soccer and shit, but I never cared for sports. Why do I wanna watch a bunch of people I’ll never meet play a game? Wouldn’t you rather play the game yourself? I mean, I wouldn’t want to play personally, but that’s only because I suck at anything that involves silly concepts like “teams” and “balls.”

My point is, I didn’t think there was a whole lot to be proud of. Why couldn’t I have been born, well, anything else?

There had to be something cool about being British. It couldn’t all be earl grey and imperialism.

And then it hit me.

The thing I’m most passionate about.

Music!

What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?

It’s well-known that Black Americans invented rock and roll, but the British…well, I can’t say they perfected it, since, well, Black Americans also perfected it. But we Brits had a hand in codifying it into the behemoth of a genre it is today. The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, Pink Floyd, Queen, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, Fleetwood Mac (well, partially at least)— it’s probably easier to list legendary rock bands that aren’t British.

So how did Britain become such a hotbed for rock music?

Thankfully, your favorite armchair ethnomusicologist is here to break it all down.

As this very well-written article explains, after World War II, Britain was pretty beat up and down bad. But in the 1950s, American rock music infiltrated the tiny country and re-energized a whole generation of folks. As the writer puts it, “…rock ’n’ roll arrived like a form of deliverance, an alien transmission that electrified British youth, literally driving them wild.” The Brits didn’t have any connection to the blues and folk that initially influenced the budding genre, so up-and-coming musicians had to rely on the records they were consuming to learn the ways of rock. At first, artists tried to mask their Britishness to fit in better with the American musicians they were learning from, but eventually, these artists began incorporating their own culture into their music. For example, it was uniquely British repression and rage that fed into subgenres like punk.

I found it strangely comforting to research British influence on rock music. Reading this stuff makes me feel like I’m part of something bigger than myself, that I actually do have a heritage I can be proud of. Although I’m only a second-generation British-American and have never visited the isles myself, I feel a connection to my ancestry through rock’s storied history. It’s kind of cool that music is what ties me to the land my family originated from, since music has been my entire life.

So, it’s actually kind of cool to be 93 percent British after all. (But like, I could live without the sun trying to kill me.)

“Dude, Can You Play a Song With a F**king Beat?!”: Why Pop Music Needs a Revival

I’ll admit it — I’m a poptimist. I was converted back in seventh grade, when I first heard the Swedish pop duo Roxette.

What’s with Swedes and perfect pop music?

Prior to Roxette, I was firmly in the “rockist” camp. This music journalism term refers to the belief that rock music is superior to pop music in artfulness and authenticity. That was one-hundred percent me at the ripe old age of twelve. You’d think I was a grizzled boomer man instead of an innocent millennial girl judging solely by my music taste. I preferred Boston to Britney Spears, Led Zeppelin to Lindsay Lohan, and ELO to whatever *NSYNC was doing at the time. I looked down upon my fellow tweens for their shallow taste in music, convinced my favorite artists were leagues ahead of theirs.

Then, I heard “Listen to Your Heart.” Not the bullshit DHT version (I will stand by that opinion). The real version by Roxette. I remember being taken aback by the bombast, the emotion, the sheer magnetism of the hook. It had everything I liked about my rock music, but with a pop veneer. I had to investigate, which led me to dig deep in their discography. Their songs were so…catchy. It lit something within me that’s been burning ever since. There had to be an art to creating pop music, because Roxette had mastered that art.

I then fell down an even deeper rabbit hole of pop music, uncovering songwriters like Max Martin, Kara DioGuardi, and (unfortunately) Dr. Luke, who’d go on to shape my entire worldview as a songwriter in my own right. I challenged myself with creating music that was as catchy as theirs. This elusive concept of “catchiness” became my lifelong obsession. To this day, I get a twinge of glee when someone says they get a song of mine stuck in their head. That’s always been my goal, and while I’m still a rock girlie at heart, my love of pop tints all the music I touch.

So why have I fallen out of love with pop music in recent years?

I initially chalked it up to aging. After all, studies have shown that your taste in music solidifies after 30, which is why your mom still listens to hair metal (which, to be fair, is an underrated genre). But there had to be more to it. Since the dawn of popular music, old folks have complained that the younger generation’s new music was too loud, too brash, or too risqué. The Silent Generation complained about Boomers and their heavy metal, the Boomers complained about Gen X and their grunge, and Gen X complained about Millennials and their rap. But I found I wasn’t offended by the pop music the younger generation was putting out. In fact, it was offensively inoffensive, too bland and soft to really stand out. It wasn’t brazen or daring enough, nor was it, dare I say, catchy.

I recently went to a karaoke night at a bar that’s frequented by Gen Z patrons. After all, I live in a college town, so many of the local hot spots are hangouts for younger folks. Although I still look fairly young for my age, I was almost certainly one of the oldest people there. You’d think karaoke night would be the time to sing your favorite party anthems, but to be honest, the song selections were a total snoozefest. One sad slow song after another. I had to leave, it was just getting me down.

When did pop music get so…somber?

I blame the almighty Lorde.

In the early 2010s, we were still experiencing a boom in silly mindless party songs, which, while not exactly lyrically groundbreaking, were sheer poppy fun. We had guys like LMFAO creating bops like “Party Rock Anthem” and ladies like Kesha and Lady Gaga with their array of club bangers. Then, the “Smells Like Teen Spirit” of Gen Z hit and wiped out that scene as fast as Nirvana had dissipated the hair metal that came before. That song was “Royals,” and it set the bar for everything that came after it. Suddenly, pop wasn’t “fun” anymore. It was much more subdued. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, and “Royals” is certainly not a bad song, but it made “avocadas and bananaes” the standard for female vocals, and — worst of all — it killed off the big choruses and catchy hooks I loved.

My wife and I have a joke about the trend of sad repetitive trappy songs. It sounds like musical Xanax, we always say. And it’s true. One of my favorite newer artists, The Band CAMINO, has a song I really love called “Roses.” “Why you wanna be a sad boy?” they ask in the first verse. The whole song ponders why we as a society have to be so sad all the time when you can just “stop and smell the (fuckin’) roses.” I get it — life sucks sometimes, and then you die. But pop music is supposed to be an escape from all that negativity. There’s a time and a place for sad bops, but when all you’re being served is sad bops, it gets a little tiring.

I think that’s the real reason it’s been harder for me to get into recent pop. We’re still living in a post-“Royals” world, but I do have hope that things are turning around. This summer, the newest generation of pop girls set the world ablaze. Olivia Rodrigo is bringing rock-tinged pop back to the charts. Charli XCX engineered an entire movement with her Brat album (and got a nod from President Obama of all people!). Sabrina Carpenter’s newest song has been on repeat for me this past week, and I don’t foresee it leaving my Spotify “on repeat” playlist for a while. And don’t even get me started on Chappell Roan. What we need is a pop music revolution. A femininomenon, if you will.

So let’s stop being sad and play a song with a fucking beat!