I Remain Below the Radar

I have a theory.

I read a new report on the top 50 video influencers in real estate today. Let me back up. I subscribed to various YouTube channels that are in the real estate space to acquire knowledge and grow my personal brand. Both in the space of selling residential real estate and in learning to hone my craft as a YouTube creator. The latter is a hobby.

Today one of my most cringe worthy content creators, name withheld because I don’t care to emphasize my jealousy over another person’s success in a space I plan to dominate. I almost went there.

Anyhow, I was watching the channel, which my I add is the last time I will do this, and saw there was another new top list. You know those lists that are comprised of one persons opinion of who is who in the space of x?

When I saw this list I knew the regulars who would be on the list. They are earned. But there were a few individuals who were there and a few who were not. Namely me.

Even as I write this I fell like a total crybaby pussy fart.

I can’t help it. I work so fucking hard at this and yet I remain unrecognized. Rejected. Overlooked.

Many years ago I was on a softball team for men. It was more like a one-off pickup game but it meant something. There were even custom shirts. the shirt was a high quality jersey that cost me $50 buck. It was hideous and I gave it away to someone who looked better in it than me.

There was the moment where we were being picked in the roster for going up to bat and the whole selection process had begun. I was last. What the fuck? Sure I was fat and over 30, but why the hell was I last? I run marathons for fuck’s sake! Can you tell I am still butt-hurt?

In the middle of the game after I was benched I began to make an observation. This was a popularity contest. A god damn high school, teen-aged bullshit click that I had once again lived to suffer through as an adult. My god, how?

In high school I will admit I was an outcast. It said strange things and stared off into space a lot. It was not that I was awkward or carry it was that most conversations bore me and looking at humanity without being cynical about their flaws against mankind made me very uncomfortable. OK maybe I was odd. I suppose that insisting that I sit at the table with the short bus crowd did not help. But hey, they were more like me than the cool kids.

So there I was thirty something benched and rejected once again. I got up and asked to take the field on one than more inning and kept getting passed by. That did not bother me so much as the demographic that I was being passed up by. Some of these guys looked like a health hazard. Seriously, there was a composite of what can only be described as a parade of middle, over the middle-aged men who’s cholesterol laden arteries were actively being washed by the 7 cooler of beer in the dugout.

Don’t get me wrong I was probably at my heaviest but I was still fast and full of energy. Did I mention I ran a marathon that year. Ok, ran is not the operative word but I did finish. That has to count for something.

I had to get in the game. If not to play it was to not like a total fucking reject. I was seriously the only one on the bench. The epitome of a bench-warmer and the culmination of my entire life being displayed for the universe to witness. The gods of cool were once again having a Louth at how much I can withstand in this ocean of popular fish while this random sea weed remains planted for them as a backdrop for their cool stories. Like a movie extra who looks at the camera and the director overlooks it only to be on the cutting room floor before the premier.

I approached the captain of the team.

“Hey, Can I get in?”

“Not Right now”

“Dude, I am not sure why I am the bench. I am faster that half the team and although I can’t really hit that great, I do run marathons you know”

“To be honest this is not a marathon. Your just not in my top ten”

I sat down.

Top ten? Top ten?! Holy shit. Are you kidding me? Top ten?!!!

Asshole.

I find it funny that over ten years later that top ten joke remain a part of my mental playlist.

Now you know why this list I have to suffer through became so painful this morning. It was like someone up there wants to see me remain a number 11.

The gods of coolness and clicks has had another chuckle at my expense.

So I remain below the radar. This is my theory.

I have a theory that James Festini must remain below the radar of popularity because it is not my time. THat somehow the gods have a plan for me. That somehow no matter how much energy I pump into the sky there cannot be rain. That once my time comes there will be a great flood and the world will come two by two and join me on my arc of oddities and outcasts to dance in the glory of our triumphant journey through the field of socially acceptable assholes and rise above them.

We will crowd surf through the ocean of those who once overlooked my art and now the want nothing more than to wonder how it was that I came out of nowhere as an overnight sensation.

It’s not like I am a superstar athlete or a musician with a talent. I am just an artist and a businessman. I am trying to create a sub genre of individuals who work hard and play hard. I suppose there is nothing sexy or popular to what it is I do. I suppose there is a reason that I remain below the radar.

It may be because I suck.

I may actually have created an art form or business niche that is either ahead of its time or too late for acceptance. SO I remain steadfast in my effort to document my effort in the field of sales and create content around my whims and spew my recycled wisdom in the form of audio, text and video until one person at a time hears me. and when they do hear me they listen and they become members of a family.

Remember that Blind Melon video for their this song rain? It was about a little girl who was dressed as a bee who tap dances. She wander around the city dancing for people who just don’t get her. Towards the end of the video you can see her number 11 status grow into a pitiful sadness. Until she stumbles upon a field of tap dancing bees.

I just cannot believe it is so hard to find my tribe of tap dancing bees.

This is my theory.

I have a deep-rooted belief that individuals like Anthony Robbins, Deepak Chopra, Oprah Winfrey, Eckhart Tolle, Casey Neistat, James Ray, Jason Silva, Casey Neistat, Benicio Del Toro, Gary Vaynerchuck and even Grant Cardone are not my gurus or even my idols but that I belong in their company. Like an artist colony were Picasso, Van Gogh, Dali and Frida Kahlo sit on a sand short and paint landscapes and drink wine for months. I truly believe that in my heart I may have to be dead to be “discovered” as one of the originals.

I don’t want to be the king. I just wasn’t to sit in the court of the king. Even if I am the jester.

That being said. Fuck that top 50 real estate influencers list. Fuck that top ten coach, fuck that top 5 real estate podcast list and fuck the naysayers. Even if I am the only one who gives a shit.

I will continue to fly below the radar.

I will continue to provide my unique perspective on business and pleasure in a renegade documentary format commonly called vlog. I will continue to creat art and mount it to the wall of my digital museum for those to walk by and ignore. I will wait and watch for those few who get off of the short bus and engage them in intellectual conversation.

We will laugh and enjoy tap dancing in our bee costumes and make our own top fifty list of those who passed over us while we stayed diligent in our madness. That we were unwavering in our originality at the cost of losing popularity. Those who love us are offered a glass of wine and a paint brush. Those who disrespected us will sit on the bench and watch us play.

This is my theory.

Twenty-four From Now

What will I do tomorrow when I’m finished with today
Will the day be soaked in boredom or may I go out and play
On the inside I’m wet
On the inside I can’t forget
On the outside I cry
On the outside I wonder why
A bird with a broken wing has his reason not to sing
Many trees an open field but only one had fruit to yield

Main Street Kiss

Paper thin skin how can I win and within I sin
Perhaps this is the life and the loss of my wife gives me greif to derive
And the time that was lost would leave me
and the ones that sit beside me does find the need to hide me
and has no needs abide me and lay their eyes beside me
oh the supermodel mood and the whole attitude makes me feel nude
this whole bar scene and the afro sheen is not funny its mean
those gals I suppose I hesitate to propose, who knows
and a change and a chance to bring rage and romance we look at it
the bouncer at the bar says that life is in the stars
and the bitches are the way to the end
the chairs are all stacked and the gals have gone
I would not charge for the beauty at large who would?
the beautiful noven vixen blows or should I say sucks my cheek
and makes me weak
from the shores of Belmont what could she want now that feeling was gaunt
If I ask her to pose what do I suppose what would she sell?
one rose?
that kiss by Jennifer and the gal of choice what a wonderful voice
I win you lose you look I lose
I live a block from the shore
are you a whore?
then I want more
you know the MO and where I wish to go
I Will go slow
you are so slow
hell I don’t know
I wish to stare at the one I adore, what of the door
If you’re not too busy and I say who is he on the sands of Redondo
I fell of the shore and I fell for much more