i know life isn't working out the way you had planned. you moved to brooklyn with dreams of being a more "plugged in" basquiat, or the next david sedaris, or maybe your big brother told you that warriors was a cool movie while you were young and the impression just stuck. your dreams have not come true yet; instead, some bartender (sympathetic from having once suffered through the same delusions) gave you a regular paying gig doing sound.
in brooklyn, no one complains if something is inaudible. no one complains if there are ungodly levels of reverb. your only responsibility is to avoid feedback.
it may not be something you write about on facebook, it probably wouldn't make for a thrilling reality show, and your big brother still thinks you're a nerd.
but guess what? it's your fucking job. it pays for your pbr's, without which you would be generally less surly which would in turn force you to adjust your entire persona. your arrogant grumpiness is a lifestyle which you could not afford without this gig.
when the band ten feet in front of your face starts feeding back wildly: 1) it's because you fucked up; 2) you make more money than the performers on any given night, so; 3) pull your face away from the fucking iphone and do your fucking job.