you writing for?
The late, great Texan comedian Bill Hicks tells of a waffle
waitress who came up to him while he was reading a book in a diner and
asks, "What are you reading for?"
Hicks thinks about it a minute and says, "Well, I read for a lot of
different reasons, but I guess one reason I read is so that I don't
wind up a fuckin' waffle waitress."
See, that's the difference between writers and readers--I'd take the
waffle waitress job. Any openings?
At a dinner party during New Year's Eve, I was asked what I did for a
living and gave my standard reply. "God, I wish I knew." I'm
thinking of changing that reply to, "What do I do? The same thing I've
done since the age of 17. Lick pussy. Any openings?"
Of course, the other night my lawyer asked me the same thing, and I
gave my real reply--I'm a writer and a musician. (That's what it says
on my tax return.)
"What kind of musician doesn't have any gigs?" she snarked. I wasn't
quick enough on my feet to ask this corporate lawyer, "I don't know.
What kind of lawyer never appears in court?"
It's true. I haven't done a club gig or even an open mic in a while,
and my last three performances were unpaid stints at Christmas,
birthday and New Year's Eve parties last December. But I still put my
music background to work, and lately II've been producing a Kevin Gant
EP, albeit slowly. After that, I'll probably produce my own album.
Like nearly every other musician I know, I've sold a few things on eBay
to get by as well. Not a lot, but a few things here and there--an extra
$1500 during the holidays isn't all that bad.
But this column isn't about my music career (because if it was, I'd
you to point your browser at myspace.com/jaspersongs and check out "Ten
Years From Now"). No, this column is specifically about my writing
As I said earlier, I was quizzed about my job status last New Year's
Eve, but when my standard reply didn't appease my interlocutor (told
you I was a writer), she pressed me further.
"But what are you putting out to the universe?" she implored. Hmm.
Well, right now I'm hoping you develop fins and gills so I can throw
you back into the lake and avoid any more questions, but since it looks
like the universe refuses to cooperate, I guess I need to come up with
a real answer.
Here's something I'll put out to the universe. I'm hoping Mark Cuban
reads this fuckin' column. You know Cuban, the billionaire who owns the
Dallas Mavericks. The billionaire who's hip enough to appear on
several episodes of HBO's series "Entourage". The billionaire who's
smart enough, good looking enough, and hung enough to read my writing.
That Cuban. That billionaire. His universe.
Yeah, that's exactly what I'm writing for. I'm hoping this billionaire
Cuban looks at my weekly rants and thinks to himself, "You know, I can
hire the greatest players in the world and pay them big bucks, but I
still haven't been able to win a damn NBA championship. But I bet if I
give this Jasper guy a five million dollar contract for the next five
years along with a million dollar signing bonus, the motherfucker will
at least hit deadline 50 times per year. Nowitzki can't even stay
uninjured an entire season."
So that's what I'm writing for. I'm writing for Mark Cuban and a six
million-doillar deal. No, make it seven million (it's a better number).
This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it,
you're on your own.
is a writer and musician living in Austin, Texas.
from the San Francisco Bay Area, he claims strong ties to Seattle, St.
Petersburg, Florida and North Platte, Nebraska.