Multiple choice time. I’ve been neglecting this blog because: a) I’ve been rethinking the whole thing; b) I’ve been busy changing jobs and crunching deadlines; c) I’ve been in a clinical funk; d) I’ve been on that damn Twitter; e) all of the above. E, it is. To each point I’ll say this: a) I’m so deep in this wireless 2.0 shit that I’ve forgotten how to actually socialize; b) I was chasing my 6-figure slice of the mobile pie and my name in ink; c) my manic-depressive cycles have become more exhausting, rendering me a fat, cranky, isolated slob; d) I was on a Twitter binge.
For most of April, since I got back from Miami actually, I’ve been restless, then listless, then unable to focus, and ultimately too fragile to do much publicly, choosing to self-medicate, curl up in a shaky, brown ball, and zone out channel-surfing until my eyes burnt shut. The voices, they are winning.
I’ve caught myself shuffling around the house in the middle of the night, muttering to myself. I’ve tried to pin it on my bipolar condition, on my allergies, on being lonely, on being bored, on my viral load (“undetectable”), on my cell count (“high”), and of course – on freaking out about turning 39 tomorrow. I tried thinking my way out of it, popping Xanax, working non-stop, even condo-shopping with Terre. And only now, almost a month later, after submitting three classically under-the-wire style interviews with Jamie Lidell, Dimitri from Paris and Quiet Village to Earplug, Resident Advisor and BPM; after meeting with realty lawyers and mortgage bankers and coming to terms with my precise financial status; after finally quitting my job and getting out of the text-chat racket – if only to get into the mobile marketing racket; after pushing myself into debt to join my mom while she’s in LA over Memorial Day…only now do I feel like I’m snapping out of it. Who knows – I might even be fun again. It’s been known to happen.
Things started looking up on May 1, May Day – the pagan start of summer and international workers’ day – with a Dolly Parton concert at Radio City with Terre and Joanne. From the moment she emerged, her curves covered in white sequins, her instruments blinged out with white rhinestones, her high pitched voice warbling “Jolene”, “Here You Come Again”, and “I Will Always Love You” through all her Hee-Haw jokes about her boobs, and weepy ditties about growing up a “backwoods Barbie”, I was laughing and sighing all at once. Here I was, in the middle of New York City dragging two of my dearest friends to yet another show, surrounded by a righteous mix of fags, hags and urban hillbillies – feeling…empty, alone?
Earlier in the day, when I finalized the job offer, I had felt a speedball buzz of optimism and anxiety. Then, just as quickly, the hum was gone. How many times had I thought “this will change everything”, only to realize yet again that it never does? I should have been, and in my own way I really think I was, quietly celebrating. The quitting and hiring process was not easy. It took over a month of negotiating and procrastinating, of coming to terms with the surrender, of me turning it down, then being directed there a third time and – yes, after much hand-wringing, passing the background/security check, disclosing a certain incident the process, and hearing that they thought I was “too creative and might be bored” – all in return for something that had nothing to do with either music or writing. I looked at my middle-aged life, my random gray-white hair, and I panicked. I went for the money, I did it for the kick in the pants.
On Monday, the 19th, I was in the kitchen of the new office, loading up on coffee and candy bars. I turned to say Hi to one of my new coworkers. It turned out to be Michael, one of my oldest friends from junior high in L.A. I had seen his name on a seating chart, and thought – there must be a million people in New York with that name. So, maybe my hunch was right and things are going to be OK for a bit.
And if you think reading this is cheesy – try living it.
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