Just Checking In, or Still Fucked, But Less So
At least I didn’t show him the picture.
I didn’t make a decision to stop posting back in February, or even to take a break. Time just got away from me, as it tends to do, and instead of posting, I watched a lot of SVU. But I moved three weeks ago, and I now live in a neighborhood where people introduce themselves and immediately follow up with the most important question one can ask a new acquaintance in Los Angeles. They ask what I do. “I’m a writer,” I answer, which, considering my output of late, is only slightly more true than saying I’m a detective on the New York City Sexual Victims Unit.
I met another neighbor this morning and told him I was a writer; when he asked what I wrote, I said I had a drop dead deadline and split as fast as I could. I can’t even say I’m working an a book. I told my agent that I’d given up on the idea because writing was too hard, and he offered nary a word in protest. He said, simply, “I can relate,” and signed off quickly with all the best.
So I’ve decided. If I’m going to say I’m a writer, I will write, and while it doesn’t require the talent or dedication of composing an actual book, blogging counts. There are no revelations forthcoming, though, and there’s no big news to report. I’m just posting in an attempt to be retroactively honest. It’s my usual self-absorbed nonsense. I’m just checking in.
Life has gotten progressively better since I wrote about my chubby, brokeass and loveless life on the skids. My teeth have been fixed, I’ve got a three figure bank account, I’ve lost 35 pounds and I’ve traveled enough to credibly hate Southwest, United, and American Airlines. I still haven’t fully recovered from my most recent heartbreak, but blah blah blah: it didn’t kill me, so I’m stronger. I actually considered it when I was invited to run away with a felon on the lam – a man from my deep dark past — and I’ve gone on a slew of dates.
On Monday, I had dinner with a guy I’ve known for thirty years. Back when we met, the playing field was sort of level, although his talents were far more substantial than mine — mine were based on my ability to mix and match Jack Daniels, stimulants and opiates and remain vertical, and his emanated from an ungodly facility with beats, melody, and a noble commitment to working hard. In the years since first we met, he’s become wildly successful, complete with a body of influential work and a boatload of prestigious awards. I’m proud of my credit for the Pamela Anderson episode of The True Hollywood Story and my Klout Score, but my biggest achievement to date is still that I once won $15,000 on a 50 cent slot.
I had the BEST TIME with him, but sadly, it doesn’t give my evolution towards romantic openness any additional weight. I knew even before we went out that it was a non-starter. He’s a stunner, but, for one thing, he doesn’t live here, and, for another, he can do much better. (The only thing about me that qualifies as extraordinary these days is that I can do complicated arm balances and unassisted pull ups. Which I actually pointed out during dinner.)
