Tuesday, March 18, 2008


I instilled in myself a sense of false security by typing up some preliminary notes for the article I have due tomorrow so I could enjoy tonight's Vines concert/St. Patrick's Day with a clear conscience. But the hangover is settling in and I only have 900 out of 1800 words written.

Pain pain pain.

I should have just finished it all last night like I had planned, but I can't seem to get things done unless the pressure is bearing down on me. I'm a masochist. What can I say?


Saturday, March 15, 2008

L's Greatest Hits

Got a voicemail from my editor yesterday:

Hi, it's K from ABC. I had a few things I wanted to discuss with you. Give me a call when you get the chance.

Something clicks in my head and I listen to it again, more carefully this time.

Yes, I have been pronouncing his name wrong for the past three months.


Thursday, March 13, 2008


My job is turning me into a consumerist whore.

Most people would agree that if they had the means to acquire whatever they want whenever they want it, they'd exercise that liberty with reckless abandon. I know I would. There are a lot of things that I see and wish I could have but I'm usually very good about not spending. Certain, or almost all, really, purchases just can't be reconciled when you're a "starving artist." So I see, I pine, I walk away.

But when you're sitting on your ass writing product features and reviews all fucking day, it starts to get to you. A part of me needs to convince myself that something is worth it so I can write about why it's worth it for other people, and now, I'm sure that I'll drop dead on the spot if I don't own a Patek Philippe watch or a Canon Rebel digital SLR. I'm quite certain that the Playstation 3 will soon add "cures cancer" to its product specs and a pair of Air Jordans will enable me to take flight while upping my "street cred."

I've been easing myself in. Last week, I ordered a hooded Zoo York sweatshirt while hunting for hoodies. "They're versatile," the voice in my head chimed, "and it's on sale!" What...the...fuck? I don't even wear hoodies...but I guess I'll start now?

This week it was Crest Advanced Whitestrips while researching grooming products. "All that coffee is taking its toll," I rationalized, "and look, it's almost 50% off on Amazon!" This one was something I actually needed, I guess. But I'm sure there are other things I need a lot more, like say, money?

I've been kind of good so far. No obscene purchases but that new Canon PowerShot is looking pretty sweet.

I'm doing iPod accessories next week and I'm afraid. I've been itching for a good pair of over ear headphones...



Every now and then, when I get bored with the state of my life, I get something pierced.

C was getting out of work early, so she called and asked me if I wanted to go talk to my tattoo artist about the ink I’m getting next month, and I said,

“Sure. Sounds good.”

I called before I left, “Hey, uh, I have an appointment with S next month and, uh, I was wondering if she was gonna be around today to talk about the design I want and if, like, she wouldn’t be too busy.”

“Oh, well, she’s always busy when she’s here, but come by. She can talk to you while she’s working.”

“Okay, cool.”

I had had a pretty bad experience with a guy at another tattoo place that almost put me off the idea completely but I did some research and found a place that came highly recommended. After browsing their artists’ portfolios, I found S—exactly what I was looking for. And as an added bonus, she was a woman—I had always wanted my first one done by a chick! Her wait was four months though, but I figured four months was nothing when it came down to something that was going to last for the rest of my life. And I dropped my $80 deposit and sealed myself in.

So I went in today for a preliminary chat. I waved around designs while she worked on a guy’s sleeve and I kept it short because I wouldn’t want my artist distracted while she was carving a permanent stain into my skin.

“So?” C says.

“Oh my God, I love her already.”


“Yeah, she was so cool. And she has blue hair!”

But itching for something to change right now, I got my tragus pierced on a whim. The guy had a Mets cap on. It was meant to be and after signing a contract and swearing that I am over 18, I’m lying there on something that looks like a massage table while he snaps latex gloves on and tells me what he’s going to do.

“It’s going to be two parts. First I’m going to to…which isn’t that bad, but then…that part usually hurts more…then…”

It hurt more than the other piercings I’ve gotten but there’s something about pain. It feels liberating, almost.

“How was that?” he asks me, a huge needle stuck into the side of my face.

“It was…nice, actually.”


Tuesday, March 11, 2008


Blogging is dead. Long live.......living.

That's what I've been doing lately. Sort of. I've mostly been tricking people into paying me to write, which seems nice. I wake up when I want, sleep when I want and fill the time in between researching, writing and drinking copious amounts of coffee (on the weekends, alcohol). But now I know why writers are all insane. Disconnecting yourself from society for such extended periods of time gets a little...disorienting. I'm beginning to miss waking up every morning, commuting into the city and doing a job where only 45% of my brain needs to be present. I'm a lot more productive now, but not seeing the sun for days on end, communicating with people solely through the phone and email makes it feel like I do nothing. I jump at any and every opportunity to move and be amongst the living.

I think there's a sense of false security that comes with imposed routine. Steady paycheck, health, dental, 401k, lunch at one o'clock, answer the phone, make phone calls, expensive sandwiches, overweight boss, blah-fucking-blah. I'm making more money now than I was at my last job (that's not really saying much though because I was getting slave wages), but then I was getting the same amount at the same time. Now it's two articles one week, five another, more money, less money, no insurance, what if one of my editors decides that I suck? I'm treading water.

I'm also pretty tapped out.

Now, I have a deadline tomorrow, so if you'll excuse me...