I cheated a little, changing “Nuclear” to the popular phonetic version. Go try it!

This isn’t all bad. It’s good to experience new people, new things; you can’t always be in a comfort zone. One part is bad, however. In fact, when I actually put words to why I was feeling a little out of place, it wasn’t just bad, it was eye-openingly awful. A shiver ran down my body, my spine twisted and contorted when I thought: Everyone here is so young.

What. The. Fuck. I’m young. 28 is still young isn’t it? Sure, I wasn’t 10 when the Spice Girls first toured like the girl who sits two spots away. I didn’t graduate college in 2006 like some members of my team(or in 1993, like some others…so there’s still time). I mean, it’s not like I’m wearing a Mission Of Burma or Ramones t-shirt that I actually bought at a Ramones or Burma concert. Now that guy is…older.

And there are plenty of other people older than me, too, but now I’m closer to the middle range than the younger range. I’ve always, always, been the youngest person at work, excluding my first job at a Loews Theater. Now for the first time, I’m not. And that’s just really, really fucking weird.

The other part is how, well, rich everyone else is. Or at least their background is rich. I think the best word is “international”. Globe trotters, they went to private or boarding schools, have friends in Australia, France, England, and California. They have “taste”. They follow – but also start – “trends”. In fact, everything about them should be in quotes, because it always seems so strange to me that it needs to be held up and examined at arms length. Like a strange artifact or a crying, crapping newborn.

Of course, not everyone is like this. Just enough to let me know I’m not the norm anymore. In DC/Maryland, no one was like this.

I’m not sure if the next part comes with the rich part, but everyone here is very, very used to success. High profile clients, huge projects, big names; all the norm. Apparently, I just lucked out getting this job – whereas I was just pulled out of a random resume pile from Monster, everyone else I’ve talked to had to get a recommendation. Was a mistake made? Do I really, seriously belong here? I wonder.

It’ll all work out though. I keep this line close these days:

“This is New York City/If you can make it here you can make it anywhere” – NY Weather Report, Talib Kweli - Ear Drum

So will I be returning to regular blogging? Maybe. Or, more accurately, yes and no. I’ll be posting more regularly, that’s for sure, but I’ll also be taking time to work on the site that will eventually replace this one. It will be my own creation, and should go live in early 2008. It will be part blog, part music writing, part photos, part resume, etc.

In the mean time, though, it’s good to be back.

“Look at that! White boy hit the jackpot! You know what..we don’t want you! We don’t want you!”

and:

“Aww, look at this integration shit…she’s thinking that all white boys ain’t bad, some are good…but the Devil is the Devil!”

In all seriousness, this is not a real issue; there are always idiots. 99% of people in Harlem give less than a shit that I live here, or whom I’m dating. It’s more amusing than anything else. Still…I can’t helped but be bothered a little. After all, I am going to be living here for at least a year…of course, it’s also understandable; it’s not like white people have a great reputation to bank on when it comes to moving to new places.

After my religious falling out, I wanted to be a video game counselor. It seemed reasonable: I loved video games, I was good at video games, and according to The Wizard¹, you could sit in a cubicle and assist autistic kids over the phone. What kid doesn’t want to do that? Then, I wanted to be a comic book artist. Then a lawyer. Environmental Lawyer. Movie Critic. Journalist. Screenwriter. Sports Journalist. Then when I realized I would need money(and what was wrong with having lots of it), corporate lawyer.

As it turns out, I am none of those things; I am a web monkey. Which isn’t a bad thing, really. Do video game counselors even exist anymore? Did they ever? Not that it wouldn’t be cool to be a comic book artist, movie critic or ESPN talking head. Or a professional basketball player. But I strayed. What I should have done was get the lead in a romantic comedy or sitcom. I should have been an actor. Then I could be anything I wanted.

I keep seeing previews for The Bill Engvall Show, where Engvall gets to be a therapist. Alan Thicke played a psychiatrist, Bill Cosby an MD(he did serve at a Navy Hospital, though); in fact, doctor seems to be a very popular fake career. Lawyer is well represented, though it’s hard to find too many that look like Calista Flockhart or Laura Flynn Boyle. Or Dylan McDermott, for that matter. Sarah Jessica Parker was a journalist. Cirroc Lofton(Jake Sisko) was a basketball player.

It must be awesome to pretend to be something really cool. In his movie career, Adam Sandler has been a singer, professional golfer, college football player, legal genius, a marine veterinarian, pizzeria owner, professional football player, architect, and a firefighter. What will he be next? What else did he want to be when he was a boy?

John Cusack has been an amateur kick boxer (he actively trains to this day), professional baseball player (a role he somehow managed to play before being a high school kid in Say Anything), a physicist working on the Manhattan Project, a professional hitman, a US Marshall, an air traffic controlle r(eh?), a record store owner, and even a freaking cowboy.

Why, why didn’t I study drama?

OK, I’m a little pissed. I had another late night at work. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m moving in with my girlfriend, I’d never see her. Or anyone, for that matter. My sole human interaction would be with my co-workers, fellow commuters, and my good friends at TBS and Adult Swim(basic cable only).

In some ways, working late feels like part of the NYC initiation. You walk faster, get a tiny apartment, eat a lot of Chinese take out, and you work until your fingers bleed.

In other ways, it makes me want to break my keyboard over my knee and shove the head of the annoying woman who sits behind me through my monitor. She has this voice, this annoying, spine-stiffening, gravelly white-bread voice and she speaks with almost no inflection, just a mild, rising tone throughout every asinine utterance.

Sigh, again, late night.

So, yeah, we have an apartment. That’s good news. The bad news is I still get mail with my ex-wife’s name on it. My girlfriend can be very understanding, but getting a routine reminder of my ex is not something that I think she will tolerate. Thing is, the ex-wife’s name still appears on some mail that comes from my bank. Hopefully, after some paperwork I’ve filled out and mailed, it will end before the end of the month.

In less personal news, it’s been a good year for music. I’ve been listening to the new Spoon, Ryan Adams, Silverchair (seriously), Battles, Common, Art Brut, Stars, and Paul McCartney albums. I’ll be writing in more detail about some of these later, but I recommend all of them. The Live From The Paradiso EP from the Cold War Kids is also worth picking up and includes a great cover of Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come”.

Well, I’d better get to bed. Another long day(probably) awaits.

Google has offices on the fourth floor, and they are hard to miss. The elevator doors open and you’re bathed in a warm, soft light, a choir of beautiful blond angels sing the Hamster song, and you see the only page with info on your ex is some stupid college alumni page. Oh, and there’s a huge Google logo over the desk. There’s an abacus near the receptionist for some reason. One of those multi-colored expanding plastic balls sits on the floor, as if to say, hey bitches, we’re Google and we have so much money nothing has to make sense.

Beyond that, I have no idea what it’s like. Only the lucky people who work for Google do. They all look pretty happy. They all have iPhones. I’ll bet they have unicorns, ambrosia, and free snacks, too. Must be nice.

Worse, if you can fool people well enough, it’s a crutch. Why bother digging deeper and learning if you can convince people you are a knowledgeable, well-informed person anyway? Besides, if your really good at faking it, you get to have sex¹. But, props only hold for so long; eventually, someone will know you’re just reading the Times to them. Worst of all, they won’t call you out for it — rather, they’ll just file you away in a folder marked “Uninteresting, Unoriginal, But Still Attractive Individuals”.

To wrap this up in the most unoriginal way possible, here is a video that clearly state my point:

¹It should be noted, that after talking to my girlfriend and learning the actual reasons I and other men get to have sex, I feel like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

I tried buses. I tried other Subway lines. I considered taking a cab, then remembered that they would all be taken and it would take forever to get downtown. So I walked to work. About 30 city streets/blocks, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I had some good tunes from the iPod(“Free Bird” is great walking music), and New York is always scenic. Sometimes the scenery smells, curses, elbows or runs you over, but it’s scenic nonetheless.

The rest of the week wasn’t nearly as entertaining. I did have to work Saturday, but at least it was quiet.

This week, however, should be very, very interesting. My girlfriend and I have to find an apartment. I have deadlines piling up. I’m already planning on buying some comfort booze for when I slip into my apartment, concluding each grueling, stressful day. This is the worst time of the year to look for an apartment.