Sunday, July 04, 2004

I Got 99 Problems, But Writing 1000 Words Ain't One

I've been debating whether or not to post this, but why not. Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in the content I've provided this week, especially what I wrote after getting back to New York from the charming hamlet of Chicago. A variety of forces kept me from feeling very bloggy, and when I did have stuff to write, I certainly could have done better. I mean, look at my Streets review: there is nothing clever about it, and I didn't even work in that that evening I ate my first lox and cream cheese bagel or that I found a possible perfect apartment. Anyway, in an effort to strengthen my imaginary bond with you, the reader, I'm going to lay on you some of the stuff that's been keeping me down, despite the risk of it making me sound like a big wimp or the fact that this is the internet and my words could come back to get me.

The key problem has been a lack of sleep. But lacks of sleep don't just cause themselves. I woke up Wednesday morning around 4:30 to catch my flight to New York, and just as I was about to try to get my nap on proper, I heard the sound of 5 Canadian Fratboys entering my kitchen. "New York CitEE! YeAH!" "Aw dude, $10 says Dony is passed out in this bathtub by tomorrow morning." "New YoRk CitEE, Brah!" After a quick firing of neurons I remembered, weeks ago, when my roommate, the original Canadian Fratboy, asked if it would be all right if he had some buddies over for the 4th of July. I suppose sometimes the 4th of July starts on June 30th. So, yeah, no nap that afternoon, caught the big show that night, the show got me worked up enough to have a pretty hard time falling asleep until the Canadian Fratboys came in at who knows what AM, causing another bump in my sleep schedule.

Thursday morning I learned it’s traditional to celebrate Canada Day by leaving non-Canadians a surprise in the toilet. Then it was off to start my first day of my new job as a legal intern for a record company down the street from me. I worked the 1 to 9 shift, I filed like a mofo with the reckless energy of an intern who is trying to say “Hey, look at me filing like nuts all alone in this room far away from everyone else!” Whatever plans I had of meeting up with anyone that night were instantly nixed when the whistle blew at nueve and I headed home to fall asleep as soon as possible. Of course, that night the Canadian Fratboys had a wrestling contest to hold at 11. And 2. And 4:30. Also, they really needed to blast “New York, New York” over and over again to sing along and get even more excited to be drinking in New York.

Friday, on what little I had, it was off to put in another day’s work at the record company. This time I got to file in the main office space, whistling along with a great variety of crunk compilation CDs. Let me tell you, nothing puts you in the mood to file like some classic New South Crunk. YeAHH! During lunch I discovered that the landlady of my potential perfect apartment was quite hesitant to rent to me because I’m from Chicago, this taste of midwesticism sat quite poorly with me all day, oh, wait, it still sits poorly with me. I can only hope for the best when I speak with her on Tuesday. A full days work (even if they did let us out two hours early for the weekend) left me with just barely enough energy to try my hand at fashion consultation in Soho and then eat a bunch of watermelon. By the middle of a visit to the “Wall Street Rocks” festival at the South Street Seaport my tank was empty and I couldn’t even muster the energy to conversate by the river or on the way back uptown (in an actual car), so I skipped out on what was probably a great dinner to go honor a previous commitment with Mr. Mike Lemmon, and by honor, I mean show up after the band I was supposed to see had already played and leave before the next band started. Arriving at home, I found an enormous purple puddle on the floor outside my elevator and the entire kitchen floor was sticky. My kitchen table resembled the remains of a ransacked full bar, and there were mugs filled with who knows what in the bathroom. To bed I went, of course, and, as the Canadian Fratboys didn’t get in until sometime between 7 and 10, I had a fairly decent night’s sleep.

Saturday proved to go well enough. An angel offered me her apartment as a weekend escape, although I eventually decided to risk it with the Fratboys instead of trying to sleep above the beat of a Christopher Street gay bar. Fine Mexican was enjoyed at 4C, and, as the combination of refried beans cooked in the remains of a goose confit and a wearying week doesn't leave anyone in the mood to get down to the laptop sounds of Kid 606 at the Knitting Factory, I topped the night off with a little Spider-Man 2. Considering that the 4th of July weekend couldn’t possibly run any longer than July 6, I think I might make it out okay—yet now I must tackle the question: Which is more offensive to my sense of realism: An elevated train running through New York City (along with numerous Chicago landmarks) or miniature suns which produce no heat? (Or, I suppose, a man with the powers of a spider?)

Of course, I do myself no favors by staying up until 2:30 in the morning writing this stuff.

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