They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab

That's not true. No one has ever tried that. But, I was just thinking. The thing about drunk dialing is that it's a lot more interesting than sober dialing. A lot more. I've sort of been bored ever since I stopped.


No, bored isn't the right word. I've been less free. There's something about the thrill of waking up the next day realizing that you said something unbelievably inappropriate. And there's something more about the thrill of wondering if you'll get a response.


Don't bother asking about the picture; it's an accident. I don't even know how it happened but it's called Jetpack Joyride and I cannot stop playing it .

Ahh New York...

I drove in two days ago from Ann Arbor, through pouring rain, with a girlfriend of mine. We arrived at my apartment at 9 pm. She (Sarah) Left to go stay with a friend. And then, the adventure began. There are four bedrooms in the apartment. One international roommate, from Europe, enjoys allowing his international friends to use our couch as if it were his personal New York City Youth Hostel. 


I have to say that during my time in the apartment, I was always a huge advocate for welcoming friends and family to stay. However, until last year there was never a roommate who abused the privilege. At any rate, I enjoyed talking to and seeing the old roommates. Though, I didn't enjoy sharing the living room with a stranger, I got the couch I wanted.


The next morning (buh buh buh): One (shitty) bathroom, six people. I woke up at 8, but didn't pee until about 9:30. Ornery? Yes. The person who's staying in my old room, a very nice young man by the name of Colin, wasn't leaving. He woke up at 8 (impressive), but seemed to have a 10 am start time. I didn't care when he left, except I needed to get into the room he now occupied, to move out the rest of my things. He FINALLY left. All morning I'd been fantasizing about getting breakfast. But, realize two things at the last minute. I can't leave b/c I don't have keys to get back in the apartment, and I can't order in because every breakfast place only accepts cash and I have none. Of course leaving to get cash is out of the question, for obvious reasons. Welcome to New York.


I called my friend Sarah and rant about the situation. She was in the city and I was supposed to meet her later. I decided the best course of action is to start packing up my stuff, hold off on the empty stomach until I get into Manhattan. This actually isn't anything new, these sorts of compromises for the place. I was hungry about 85% of the time I lived there either b/c of a lack of money, time or convenience in feeding myself. I'm pretty frustrated at this point.


I started packing. Get a surprising amount of work done in a short period of time. Shower, outfit, call Sarah. Take the B from 7th into SOHO. Ah, the city. SOHO, one of my favorite places on earth. But, noticed that it's ruined by so many "too cool for school", unfriendly faces stalking the sidewalks. And tourists. There seemed to be an especially high level of models walking around with their books, smokers and people in cliched downtown "cool" outfits. A little bit hipster, a little bit upscale, all black. I should have realized at the time, but didn't, that it was the day before fashion week. So the place sort of looks like the sartorialist vomitted.


Meet Sarah, look for a place to eat. Poor thing, she was trying to suggest places to go, talking about this place has good, soup, salad, Mercer Kitchen. I look over at Mercer. "I need. food. Not faggy up-the-ass soup and salad from Mercer Kitchen." We went into a dive across the street that has BLTs. And soups. And salads. I was pissed off. Hungry as hell, hating every single person I saw. This is why New Yokers are assholes.


She and I eat, have a glass of wine. Feel Better. Shop. MoMa. Everything is lovely. Miss New York. Talked about moving back someday when I make more money. On the high-line, definitely want to move back. After MomA, Pass by Alec Baldwin on the street. And then, the rain. Slowly at first until there were huge drops coming hard and fast. 5th Ave, cabs, cabs everywhere, but not a single one that's empty or on-duty. Soaked. Defeated. Hungry (again). Sit on the stone steps of a church that are only dry b/c of scaffolding above. I say, "Only in New York can you be surrounded by endless modes of transportation and be deserted." Sarah's Response, between puffs of a cigarette (though she successfully quit months ago): Stranded as Fuck. Hate New York. Can't wait to leave. Fuck this place.


Again, struggle to find a place to eat b/c of the debilitating, overwhelming, number of choices. Yelp app not working, too much fog in midtown. Hungry. Midtown expensive, can't get anywhere else. Trains blocks away, no cabs, not enough cash for a snipe cab and no ATMs or banks in sight. Finally settle into an Italian place and a meal that costs $72 per person.


Hour long train ride home. Miss light, unconditional love and my Mom's dog. Settle into my couch at around midnight to pass out. Foreign exchange friend still up. Lights on, computer on. Asks if I want lights off. No, it's fine. Assume she'll be in bed soon anyways. Pass out. Wake up at 2, she's still up. Fuck me. Lights now hindrance to falling back asleep. Finally get up and turn one off. 30 minutes later, she's in bed. And it's dark. 


This morning had to wake up at 8 to move the car for street cleaning. Come back at 8:30. She's not awake yet. Turn on the lights. She tries to stay asleep through it, but stirs occasionally and finally sits up at 9:15. Do I feel badly? Well, I've been in NYC for 24 hours. So, no. Sorry Sweetheart, this isn't a hotel. 


How can a place so great, be unbelievably terrible at the same time? I don't have a clue.
Though before I went to sleep I realized that I missed New York, but only in the way a kid must miss his favorite toy that's been taken away. Why would someone take a kid's favorite toy away? Because he played with it too much, it prevented him from growing up and didn't add any real value to his life.

From One Blog To Another

A friend of mine sent me a cool note from the blogosphere that I feel compelled to quote and share a link to. I have no idea who wrote it originally, or else I would sing his praises. For now it'll have to be sufficient to say that I did not write it. And I hope you enjoy.

Here's my favorite part: Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

And this is the whole thing.

The Truth Is Freeing

I actually don't know how to start this. I was going to wait until I was gone or on some beach in some tropical location to write this post. After all, it's a lot easier to write about your next move when the success of which has already come to fruition. But today is as good a day as any.


I started this blog on the insistence of a friend of mine three years ago. The suggestion planted the seed. And then another friend started his own travel blog and I saw how easy it really was. This friend of mine had lived in New York for about a year and then decided to take some of the bundles of money he made working in finance on the road. He was going to travel for a year. When he left he said that he'd come back to live in NYC--he never did. We actually had a bit of a falling out before he left. I accused him of leaving because NYC just wasn't for him (he's from LA), which he denied. "It's okay," I said, "You can admit it if you don't like it." He wouldn't. And of course he was reacting to my haughty attitude just underneath the surface of my accusations. "It's not for you...but it's for ME! hahahaha." 


The first post I ever intended to write was going to be called "Not Flaking Out" in direct response to his leaving. That wasn't the first post I wrote. The first was a sort of literary ode to NYC that is now buried under 150 other posts. Five years later...my goodness...I'm going to go ahead and say that New York is not for me anymore. And what's sort of ironic is that on my way out, I'm not sure it ever was, which is probably why I was so quick to accuse my friend of the thing I might have been in denial of about myself.


I've written some posts trying to explain what New York is like for the uninitiated and they're usually in favor of the place. Rationalization...is a useful thing. Of course my first instinct upon leaving is to write something about how much this place sucks and why it sucks and blah blah blah ad nauseum. I'm not going to do that.


What I am going to say is that I've learned more about myself than I would have if I'd just stayed in my home town wondering what it was like here. And I have every asshole I met along the way to thank for that. Every corrupted, hard, selfish, sad person.  (not saying everyone is this way, but most who crossed my path were) The people I met...well maybe they weren't for me either. I wondered often at those who seemed happy here and kept on thinking it was going to get better. That one day, any day now, I'd wake up and feel like things had fallen into place and feel content and happy. That day did not come. I never stopped missing my friends from home and I never stopped wishing the people I'd met here were more like them. I never got used to how much time commuting eats up here. Once I figured out that it's the fundamental problem in this city...I never got over it. I even tried to buy a bike, but let me tell you, I am not a biker. If you visit you'll see people riding in Brooklyn looking as serene as a monk in a monastery.  But, it's work and in the summer it's hot and an inefficient way to exercise on top of that. I guess for those people, New York suits them.


If you have tons of energy, New York will suit you. If you're willing to put in a great effort to build your career and don't mind searching every nook and cranny for friends (if yours aren't already living here) even after the first 1,000 people you met didn't really fit, New York will suit you. As it will if you don't need people to fit. If you have a shit ton of money, New York will suit you. If you come from a place where minds are small and conservative, New York might suit you. Though they might be militant and pretentious about their liberal ideals, you'll find people here who are more accepting of alternative lifestyles, as long as your alternative matches theirs. If you have a job that affords you the opportunity to have time and money to join clubs and classes and have real hobbies, New York will suit you. If you enjoy being the center of attention or trying to make yourself the center of attention, you have a limitless stage to perform on. If you like smoke and mirrors, or don't mind people coming in and out of your life randomly according to their want, will, or too busy schedule, you're good to go.


The truth is I was in none of those circumstances, nor am I that type of person. I'm a homebody. I like to read a book and be cozy. Sure, I like to go out, but I'm not 22 anymore. Getting "wasted" just kind of ceased to be a weekend goal like it is here for a lot of wayward souls (regardless of age). Yes, I want to be healthy and exercise, but Lord I don't want to sweat through a 20 minute walk to get to the gym. Let me drive there in AC, before spin class kills me.  Yes, I like to try new recipes and dabble in the kitchen, but not when the oven was born before my parents were. Not when I have to sweep off mouse droppings from the counter before I begin. Yeah, I like having a beer in a good spot, but not when my only choices are places filled with anti-social cliques or full-on meat markets. I could make this paragraph its own post, but I'll refrain.


I am very lucky. Very very blessed. Because for every person here who thought I was a permanent fixture (an impression I take full responsibility for giving) and put me in the background of their life, there is someone in an awesome place who wants me in the foreground. I'm extremely lucky that I started a freelance writing career here that gives me freedom and mobility in my choice of location. I am very lucky the connections and experience I got here are enough to continue on in another place, while still keeping professional ties here open. 


I guess I'm just damned lucky. And if it took five years of struggle to get to that conclusion, well then, it was worth it. 


What will I do now? Well, I was thinking about traveling for a year. : ) And you know, living the dream.

You Might Want To Get Used To This

"In June, virtually all the job growth came from private companies, which added 57,000 jobs, a striking retrenchment from the average of more than 200,000 jobs a month between February and April. The largest gains came from health care and leisure and hospitality, while manufacturing, which lost jobs in May, was able to add just 6,000 slots in June."  -- New York Times


I should be doing my job right now. But, this subject is more fun. Fun, you say? How can it be fun to discuss job loss, America's tanking economy and the dissolution of the middle class? To be totally frank, I'm not out of work. Nor am I Mr. Obama. To me, these statistics are abstract, and there's no reason why they shouldn't be for you too. 


Life is a game of opportunity mixed with preparedness. Or what some like to call "luck." Your luck is dependent on your work ethic, your planning and the pursuit of your life, each and every day. When we sink into the couch and assume our lot is safe, we set ourselves up for unpreparedness. And opportunities pass us by without us knowing. And we have no luck. 


Just the highlighted quote above can help you prepare for the future. You know the tides are changing, have been changing for some time. Do you know why hospitality is on the rise and manufacturing is on the decline? This isn't a temporary situation brought on by the after effects of a recession. This is a direct result, in my opinion, of a change in technology, a change from the age of industry to the age of information. 


So, little babies, do not expect that one day manufacturing jobs will come back. Or that the one you have now is safe. Get richer, get educated, invest your time and money and thought into your future and your goals. Don't be afraid to move to a new place. Don't be scared to change careers. Just keep pursuing your life, day after day. And for God Sakes, diversify.

 Once upon a time, an 8-month-old baby girl was born. She was 7lbs, bald and had a bright red dot in the middle of her forehead. Years later, she would be told by her father the mark was from the Doctor's thumb during delivery. And as a seventh-grader she would be told that had she been born an Aztec, such an obvious birthmark would have been worshiped by her people and then sacrificed to the Gods after about 15 years. She would have been sacrificed; not the birthmark. Or rather, they would have gone into oblivion together, you know what I meant to say.  


At some young age, knowing it would be there for life she decided neither to embrace nor ignore it and--wait--this isn't a story about a birthmark, dammit. Already I'm deviating off course. If you want know how it turned out for the red dot, I'll tell you. Just fine. It was a lot less obvious once the girl grew to regular adult size and most people thought it was left over from falling asleep with her head down on her forearms. Or didn't notice it until months after they met her, by which time she'd won them over with her sparkling personality making the mark of very little consequence.

Moving on, she cried. A lot. She may have been the most cryingist baby of all time. She was up all night long and asleep during the day. Her circadian rhythm was off from the rest of the world, much to the chagrin of her parents. She didn't like to be rocked to sleep either. She would cry and cry if you sat down with her. She must be walked. She was a god damned self-aggrandizing princess if there ever was one. Even at a mere 10 or 11 months (from conception).

Sitting on a park bench with her mother when she was 13, she heard the story of how she came to be: Her Dad came home from a business trip and wanted to have sex. Her mom didn't want to. He begged and begged. The problem was, her mother had a yeast infection and they were using this birth control method called foam. The foam would have irritated the infection and sex would have been risky. Eventually her mother gave in to her father and on their sofa they consummated their love. One night without birth control and mom was pregnant. It was probably the “What The Fuck!?!” heard round the world. The girl wouldn't know, for at the time she was a zygote.  

I Submit To You Exhibit A

I couldn't insert the chart (bummer), but here's a link to a nifty little article about compound interest on the Motley Fool. (Click on the pic, yo)