Nope, I got nothing

I have a business. It's mine, but it's a product I neither produce nor price to the market.
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I sell a product that hands no product to the end user, pays out only in the event of a catastrophe, commands very little customer loyalty nor offers me the ability to do amazing things for my clients other than extract more money for more perceived services.
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This is why I would prefer to make music. Writing/playing original music for people offers even less success than my "real job". I can guarantee that 90% of the listeners will dislike it. Most of that 90% will dislike it immensely.
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Such is art.
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If I had any success in music a mere .017% of the 300 million population of America buying, say a cd of my songs it would translate to over 500,000 copies and be certified as a Gold Record, the industry standard for success.
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I'm satisfied if my circle of musician friends dig a song I bring to them. I'm ecstatic if someone at my performances purchases my song(s). I'd love if an existing artist placed one of my songs on their certified Gold cd.
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Such is art
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Robert Mapplethorpe's visual art was breathtaking, whether it disgusted or enlightened, it was truly original in that it elicited a reaction.
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Legions of loyalists purchase anything Bruce Springsteen creates and while he is a great American wordsmith, his music hasn't been relative art since his great "E Street Shuffle " album. His sound has been simplified and dumbed down to find the widest audience possible. One or two chords struck repeatedly while his raspy blather pines and scolds.
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Nashville strokes out song after song with the same 6 studio musicians playing the same 4 chords with the same subject matter repeatedly to widespread success. With different “Flavor of the Day” singers
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And to a satisfying degree, Donald Fagen can only be Donald Fagen. His new cd "Sunken Condos" describes more of his early life in an age when commies, gangsters, Cold War nuclear fear and misogyny were a fact of life. So much so that in the present day he envisions strangers telling him to “hold on to that slinky thing”, a statement that may enrage PC types or maybe get you a sucker punch, but in his day the ultimate compliment.
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His blues curve off into statements like “they can fix the weather in the world just like Mr Gore said But tell me what's to be done Lord - 'bout the weather in my head “
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The trippiest song, The Good Stuff” is about gangsters pulling off a job “squirting metal all over the place” Catching his girl cheating, our hero says , “I find my twist with that punk, Johnny Rome. So I popped the both, and I ankled downtown.
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Fagen’s brilliance is in his consistent matter of fact wacky story telling while backed by impossible chords played by the greatest studio talent money can by. His lyrics require many double takes and deciphering especially on “Memorabilia” as he discusses early nuclear age bombs calling them by their code names Ivy King and Castle Bravo , finding photos of them in the back of a man’s back room.
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My only beef is with the drumming.
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It’s a petty beef born of snooty appreciation and acceptance of Fagen and Steely Dan’s use of the monsters of all time, Steve Gadd, Jeff Porcaro, Hal Blaine, Bernard Purdue to name a few legends . More recently having used and been treated to the machine like beauty/precision of Keith Carlock it is disappointing to note that the album’s producer and multi-instrumentalist Michael Leonhart and Fagen left in Leonharts scratch track drums, using the in joke name , Earl Cook Jr.
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The drums are a pitter patter with no soul nor feel. Carlock was the way to go. There are virtually no fills and there is almost no dynamic changes from song to song. It’s not a deal breaker but it is a tremendous distraction once noticed and I noticed it early on
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This ablum is amazing as expected. Fagen’s music requires many listens to get what he’s up to and this was no different. After fighting the urge to go to the lyric book I gave in a followed along with a knowing grin.
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Good stuff. And BTW, certified Platinum sales
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Worst World Series, ever. Ever.

The Yankees have managed to do something even they never thought possible. They managed to assembled a team of the most hateable, despicable , villianous , hard to like group of ball players that not only rival the Reggie Jackson teams of the 70'-80's that included assholes with hitherto thought to have no equals like Lou Pinella, Ron Guidry and Bucky Fucking Dent and the Cuntrag Paul O'Neill, Scott Brossius, Roger Clemens teams of the 90's.

Seriously, I would hate to have to root for A-Rod and Texiera on my team, they are such douchebags. There isn't an interesting guy on that team, unless you include the hilarious hijinx of Jaba Chamberlain's meth dealing crack ho' mother.

Gimme the swashbuckle of the '05 ChiSox and their heart and soul AJ Pierzinski or even the dull, shark-like efficiency of the Albert Pujols Cards.

Let's see Youkilis battle a pitcher into a frustrating 14 pitch at bat that ends with a solid bases clearing double to the gap.

Even the Marlins, under dogs. Tampa Bay, a mohawking, bean balling band of hustlers.

Anything but a team of corporate ballplayers with the personality of fish. Gefilte fish. Floating in that bottle of gelatinous formaldahyde or whatever the fuck that shit is they float around in.

No, not even the MVP season by an admittedly classy Jeter is worthwhile. Fuck this contemptible, vile, ugly team . Up the ass. With an acid dipped 5-iron. Every sphincter on every player

No congrats from me . We'll get you next year you goat blowing, nomadic materialistic mercenary pikers.

Worst World Series, ever.

Don't get me started on the FOX Network.