“Whole Lotta Rosie” AC/DC
I am sitting at my desk right now (Friday afternoon, 3:52pm) listening to this song and I’m fairly certain that something, somewhere nearby, is going to explode. As I write this, I have testicles; this may change any moment, however, as they are in the process of being rocked the fuck off. Hearing this, I wish – desperately, well beyond the realm of patheticness and “quit your whining, already!” – that I was going back to my apartment on a fall or winter evening, to rip (and I mean, rip) through a half-dozen vodka crans, enjoying the company of two or three or four of my shittiest, drinkingest friends, before hitting any of the 400 bars within a $10 cab ride of my place, then talking to no one but each other, then leaving the shit bar at 4am to get pizza, maybe send a text message or two, and definitely wake up the next day at 1pm with a hangover and a willingness to do it all again in a few hours.

Instead, I’m going to Target after work to get paper towels and new bedsheets. Then I might make some burgers and have a few cans of Bud Light. I will be in bed by 12am – if I’m feeling dangerous – and awake, on my own volition, before 9am. Tomorrow, if I’m feeling up to it, I’m going to get my car washed.

******

So to answer your question, dear readers, yes, I am alive. But barely. Los Angeles is killing me in a way that I never thought it would. I always thought I’d rage against the dying of the light (literally, and specifically in a hotel fire somewhere in South America, one of the shittier countries like Uruguay or French Guiana). Instead, I’m casually strolling into it, with a bag from Target in one hand and my third-best Los Angeles friend, my iPod, in the other.

New York City, you are officially on notice. Vengeance, thy name is September 25 through October 6.

[Have a good weekend.]