welcome to the working week

One of the things I hate about web-blogs is the first line of the first post after a prolonged period of bloglessness. It's invariably something along the lines of "Hey guys, sorry it's been a while since I've written anything, but blah blah blah." And, as with a great many other things I've always hated about blogs -- monumental self-importance, coupled with a lack of structure and breathless, pathological fascination with the marginally interesting minutiae of one's own life -- I find myself wringing my hands as I search for a way to believe that what I'm doing is somehow fundamentally different.

There are two main reasons I hate posts like this one. First, and most aggressively obnoxious, is that it presumes the existence of a substantial readership and presumes that said readership is so ravenously dedicated that the three weeks you spent not blogging about the cute-slash-crazy things your cat does have not only been noticed, but have furthermore been a source of some anxiety in their lives. The second reason, and one that springs hydra-like from the bloody neck of the first, is that so much amazing shit has been going on happened that I don't know where to start! And so, the dilemma: Which funny/interesting/unsettling events and/or observations from the last month do I bother recounting?

Do I tell you about the heavily tattooed, sporadically toothed woman I met at Amoeba Records who was carrying her baby wrapped up in a sling over her stomach? Or how she saw me looking at Jackson 5 cds and told me how she didn't normally come into the Soul section but had started once her daughter had been born because she didn't think she should grow up listening to death metal? Or how, when I asked to see the baby, she said that her baby was at home with her husband, but that she carries a bundle of rags in swaddling clothes with her because when her baby is far away she has panic attacks?

Or do I tell the story about looking for the keys to my motorcycle that, y'know, isn't really about the motorcycle at all but is, like, a metaphor or some shit? Or do I tell you about the amusing subcultural/generational disconnect inherent in going out with a 22 year old straight-edge vegan? Or about the series of seriocomic near-disasters that constituted Christmas?

Each of these things is, depending on how far you lower your standards, blog-worthy. And, under different circumstances, each may well have led to a funny/interesting/unsettling entry of its own. But three officially heartwarming but secretly frustrating weeks with my family have left me criminally unmotivated, and so these things fall down the memory hole, however half-heartedly cliff-noted.

Lucky then, dear readers, that New York is so quick to offer up a bevy of bat-shit lunacy, for not two days have gone by and I'm already playing catch-up. From realizing half-way through our conversation that the oddly familiar woman next to me on the plane is a porn star, to seeing a lady blowing a guy in a car parked in front of the police station across from my apartment, to watching a drunk on the subway stand up and announce that he'd show everybody a trick, then puke into his hands.

Perhaps the best news, however -- beside the comforting knowledge that New York is still, as ever, awash in a sea of sex and vomit -- is that I have finally found a real live paying job. As of yesterday I am a production assistant for a show on the Food Network, and while I have yet to meet the hostess, almost every single person I spoke to on set described her using some combination of the words "crazy" and "bitch." The non-disclosure agreement I signed yesterday keeps me from mentioning her or the show by name, but I can almost guarantee that this job will not only line my pockets with sleazy green, but more importantly, provide me with access to a well of crazy so vast and deep that it promises to power this blog for months to come. Seems Every Major Indicator Has Offered Me Evidence My Argument Doesn't Err -- While I Truly Hope She Acts Nuts Despite Real Appeal, Let's Expect Embarrassment.

So. That.