I'm trying to decide whether or not to go to NYC next week, ostensibly for some work party thing, but mostly in the spirit of being anywhere but here. Also, on account of it's New York.
I got some very interesting responses to my post the other day on Philadelphia. I got some wonderfully detailed notes about the who's and the how's of the city, but I also got a great many emails from people who saw that post as an invitation from me to them to tell me where to live, something I would have beforehand anticipated as totally irritating, but which was, in fact, pretty hilarious and sort of fascinating, at least in part because it reminds you that all you need to do to live somewhere else is decide. Suggestions ranged from Seattle to Brazil, Vermont to Vancouver, Lexington to New Mexico. You people are crazy. But it was sort of sweet. So, thanks. Now, stop.
Sometimes, I wake up in the morning, and I think, what the fuck? And I wonder if all this "I can't decide where to live" shit is really just me hemming and hawing and beating around the bush because what I really want to do is move to New York, which, as I have stated previously, has been my dream since I was small, or, well, at least young, because my father was from Brooklyn, and used to tell us stories about some kid gang that he was in which I don't think was really a gang at all, because that's not how my father rolled, more like a pack of kids playing, and they called themselves Pigtown. So, this is the stuff of dreams, right? And you're supposed to live the dream, right? Upon waking. My father also drank Zombies, when he was a young man, but that's another story altogether. In any case, I should probably make up my mind, and maybe next month I'll take the plunge. After all, my birthday is coming, and what better time to be reborn than that?
Last night, I was watching "Sex Rehab," because there is nothing like a special on addiction to move your soul, or rot your brain, and Kari Ann Peniche, soothsayer of our times, was like, basically, you really don't need to be dwelling in the house where your dysfunction lives. Which is sort of how I feel about where I am now. Extraction seems necessary.
[Image via This Isn't Happiness]