Oh . . Now I Understand that REM song, 'Low'

I always thought it was sorta stupid, Michael Stipe groaning on and on about low low low.  I'd play it and just feel like I was on a Vicodin binge;  or what I imagine a Vicodin binge to be (seeing that I've never really been on one). 

Low,Low, Low.

I am at my company's convention.  We are in San Francisco. 

I love my company.  It is pregnant with purpose bursting with integrity and passion.  It is as much a cause as it is a job.  We are changing the world.  At least it seems we are. And we could be . . . except for our flaw.

The flaw is greed and a hunger for speed, to do it quicker quicker quicker.

I came to this meeting full of hope for who we are and who we are becoming.  I was in there wheeling and dealing with them as hard as I can, trying to wrench my piece of this wonderful pie free so that I could build it and nurture it and grow value. 

Instead, I find me bypassed again and again.  Others with not nearly the talent or track record have somehow taken the prize.  And my god like leaders, the people I love, respect and trust, have made selfish piggish decisions, stupid decisions in the long view -- but decisions that will better themselves, not the corporate family.

I am sickened.,

I've worked so hard here, put so much of myself into this.  It's been a wonderful ride, one where my thoughts, my words and my actions all merged into one coherent whole:  no disconnects, no half truths, no puffing the goods.  This was real.  And it was a shockingly  good idea. 

Now I find hat it's just another springboard for the deviate fat cats who seem to find the strings at the top of all organizations to line their own nests.  And that's strong language.  Mostly because the people at the top here are some of the best human beings I've ever worked with.  I believe(d) in them.  But it would appear that they are just as self centered and piggish as the last band of pirates I worked with. 

Shit.  I'm such a patsey.  You show me a vision that seems honest, true and RIGHT and I jump with all my energy and passion, pour myself into it and make it immensely more powerful and true. . . And then you say, 'Thank you, Jazzguy,' and cash your chips at the window and trott on down the lane. . . . leaving me:  where? 

Crap.  Once again I have nothing.  Except a new boss.  Who came into this thing less than a year ago -- who's a good guy, who I respect and believe in -- but who IS NOT ME.  And that's ok, because that's not what I wanted anyway:  I wanted to own a piece of this motherfucker and I told everyone who counted that that's what I wanted.  But suddenly everyone has other plans.  And I have a new boss. 

Fuck it.  I'm going to do my sessions, sing my songs, wow the crew and inspire the family.  But I leave here on Thursday for an extended road trip visiting offices.  It will have hours in the car.  It's time for me to look at yet another plan B.  Because it looks again like I've put my hopes into a dream that isn't going to happen. 

Oh, there are still chances, opportunities, possibilities.  But what I learned over tha past 4 hours leaves me saddened, sickened and ready to just walk into Mexico, grow a mustache, hide under a pancho and drink myself to death. 

I'm in San Francisco.  It's late on Monday.  Tomorrow I have to stand in front of lots of people and be fabulous.  I'll do that.  But I am in San Francisco.  At 3pm tomorrow afternoon, when my last session is done, I'm going on a city trip like I've never had here.  There are so many things to see and do:  The weird hallucinogenic Chinese Whiskey that comes in a burlap bagged bottle only in secret bars in Chinatown.  Folsom Street.  The Tenderloin and South of Market.  I'm sure I'll come away with many fine tales to tell.  Keep watching.