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Four Days This is harder than I'd expected it would be. I've been here four days, and I've not seen a friendly face, apart from Ariel, who's doubtless getting sick of having me in her face, in her space, and Andrew, who's running spotlights on the Joe's Pub Concert Series in the Park. I went last night to see Ute Lemper, who was as weird as I'd expected, and fantastic, but rather a bit more self-indulgent than I'd thought she'd be. Electrifying, nonetheless. The fellow who opened for her is this Stew person, some of whose rhymes are clever, but whom I am decidedly much better than. Day One I mostly slept. Day Two, I mostly freaked out about the fact I'd slept for most of Day One and worked on my resume a bit. Day Three, I bought some groceries, sent a zillion e-mails and cover letters and resumes and went to the concert, and freaked out about what I'm doing to and with my life. Day Four (Today), I actually got a face-to-face interview in a temp agency and had a few people take or return my phone calls, which was rather gratifying, particularly as the folks at the temp agency were impressed with my credentials and with the fact that when I took their tests, the results all seemed to add up to me actually being as impressive as I purport to be. That's not to say they've got work for me yet, 'cause they haven't, though I'm to call them again in the morning. I have no second form of ID to prove that I can legally work in this country. Though I've recently (packing, perhaps?) seen both my Social Security Card and a copy of my Birth Certificate, not to mention my frightful and recently-expired passport, but I cannot currently locate any of the three. Every other moment I find myself either thinking, "Dear God, please help me," or "It's got to be the right mistake," and I'm not sure if the right mistake was abandoning my ever-so-very-comfortable-thank-you-very-much-if-a-little-stressful-and-over-full life for this madness, or if the right mistake is what Shiv's song seems to be saying to me right now, which is, "Go home, silly Country-Boy. Go back to Mommy and/or Daddy somewhere in Southeastern Virginia, and choose a nice, responsible, respectable career, and forget every dream you ever had." I guess that about covers it. I'm writing this in the Mac Store on Prince St., so I really should stop and just buy a fucking machine ('cause if I'm going to plunge myself into debt, I really ought to plunge myself), so that I can get free wireless internet access down the block and 'round the corner from Rel's at Big Cup when I buy my morning coffee (which I really shouldn't afford) there, rather than paying $18 an hour for a machine in Kinko's, which I REALLY can't afford. I may go to Maine for the weekend to get some air, to get out of Rel's hair, and to return my car, which I'm tired of parking and re-parking and driving around searching desperately for a parking space, to Connectifuck. I have to be there on Monday for a follow-up to that surgery last week, anyway. And I haven't gotten laid since I left Connecticut. I haven't even gotten off since the last time I got laid. This is becoming landmark. And no less terrifying for that, oh, no. All I can do is keep walking and pray... r
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