The Dog Days of Summer

I'm in a bit of denial that it's already August. Because if I acknowledge that, I have to accept that I've let most of my summer (and year) blow right past me. Not to say I haven't been busy. The so-called slow summer season at work has been anything but and I'm still half living out of bags and boxes in the new place. But, I definitely feel that lack of good old fashioned fun and abandon this year. I need a vacation.

I'm definitely feeling a drag to my year because of the lack of a WMC trip. Going to Miami in March is generally a good kick in the ass for my year, the first blast of warmth and a chance to get some ideas for the year's new soundtrack. I've been feeling burned out for 90% of 2008 and I need a recharge desperately. I'm kicking around the idea of going to Europe or finding some Caribbean island that won't get trampled during hurricane season. I need some blackberry and cell phone free time to stare off into space and love every second of it.

Everything seems to be in flux this year. Among my friends, there's breakups, job losses, existential crises, and general feeling of failing as an adult. Then again, what else is new?

Passing The Time

Pack Light

Not so long ago, I was known as a pack rat. (And a slob.) It was one of those things that developed gradually over time. Cleaning in my room was always the chore I hated the most. I never had the attention span to sift through things I liked and weed out what was less worthy of being at a visible place to grab when the mood hit me...whenever that might be. In some dark days of my youth, the maelstrom look of my room was a secret organization method for me to see immediately what had changed when I had my back turned. Back then, things had the habit of mysteriously disappearing and it gave me a little piece of mind to be able to visually confirm what I still had or had to chalk up to my "faulty recollection" of having it in the first place.

In adulthood, the mess became attributed to sheer lack of time and attention. In the past few years, home is probably the place I spend the least amount of time. My desk isn't so neat, but it's contained in a way that my bedroom floor never could be said to be. It's easy to forget dishes in the sink or laundry on the floor when you only see it for a few hours between sleep and leaving. As this year has unfolded jaggedly, the mess has gotten worse. But finally, I found an interesting solution to the clutter problem: moving.

I've been working up my way to this for a long time. For many of the past six months, I've been stuck with my head in the sand as shit got insane around me. I've been the queen of bad decisions. (Or maybe it was perfectly logical to let a barely working ex-dealer and felon move in with me and coast for a month or two before I woke the fuck up? Yeah, I didn't so either.) After spending 3 and half years here, this apartment means a lot more to me than just a place I've kept all my shit. It's the longest place I've lived straight since I was 14. And it's also filled with a colossal amount of garbage. My M3 conference pass from '05? Trash. The piles and piles of magazines I've gotten in the mail and never read? On the curb. Random dinner receipts and old flyers to shows I didn't even attend? Out of here.

What surprises me the most is how good it feels to reduce the clutter so much. Not to say that largely moving myself doesn't have a bunch to do with it, but where in the past I would've held on to everything "just in case," I have to curb my instinct to pick up everything and toss it. The new place is a lot smaller and most of the garbage I've been spreading around 5 rooms just doesn't need to go there. And that is a very good thing. Streamlining FTW.

The Stars Should Lie Upon My Face

While I've been off bullshitting, I've been getting older. Starting my Saturn return and all that. 27 in itself doesn't really feel like much, even though I thought of it as this semi-magical age when I was younger. The age when you become a real adult. In reality, it's kinda...eh. I suspect it's because 26 was so fucking hectic. I'm all about closing the book on all that. A fun fact is that when I used to run around with Farmer and The Boy (separately, natch), they were 27 and I think that's when it first became crystal clear that it was just a number, not a particular badge of maturity. They're both over 30 now and Farmer's a daddy, which is scary and awesome at the same time. The Boy, on the other hand, is still running around like a jerkface. I had a hilarious and random encounter with him and his BMX near the Navy Yard a while ago. Time really does fly.

This year, I decided to sit out Miami and my annual tradition of going into debt to pay for that trip. Though the cosmos is toying with me: Robert Owens is doing a show here Sunday night and he was my highlight last year, but Erykah Badu is playing a free show down there Thursday. My plan for this year is go to Sonar and spend some time visiting P. Diddy and Alex. I've never been to Europe before and the best airfare I'm finding is about $800 (not to mention the dollar vs. the euro is pathetic at the moment), so I need to save my pennies. That might be easier to do if I ever got around to finding a roommate... Baby steps.

Lately, I've been struggling trying to get this Life vs. Work equilibrium thing right. I've spent a big chunk of the past five years being a party girl and it's an adjustment to realize now that I'm actually building a career (I sure wouldn't have said that this time last year), staying out all night most nights can't really mesh with that. I've been experimenting with ways to build up some self-control and still have fun. It still needs adjustment time for sure. Let's not even mention that whatever balance I build can potentially come tumbling down if I introduce a new boy into the mix. Then again, I'm so far out of that mode. I don't even remember what it's like to date at this point.

I was kicking around the idea of resolutions for this year, but what I want is pretty simple: staying healthy, even greater career success, traveling more, having fun and keeping good people around. And I guess blogging more, but I always say that whether I mean it or not.

Let Me Ride

Breathing Fire Doesn't Look Good On A Resume

Willie Williams - Armagideon Time

The decision for me not to move was actually an annoying one. I had been racing around scouring listings and checking out places for a good month and a half leading up to the end of the year. I'd only ended up with a handful of places I really liked and the one I got as far as picturing my stuff there and calling up my future takeout places was snatched away in the time it took me to fax fourteen pages of information to a stranger. The real estate market is a bummer. I'd designated my holiday off time between the 21st and the 2nd as do-or-die hardcore moving time and it was going pretty shitty.

And then there I was the day after Christmas, coming home from a long night out at the local. I got as far as the inside stairs (because the front door isn't always quite locked. A highlight of slumlord living!) before I looked in my bag to find no keys. And I had a crystal clear picture of putting my keys on the couch earlier and perhaps neglecting to put them in. I put out a 2am call to my mom (she was super thrilled with that, let me tell you) for the emergency spare set and surprise, she had neglected to keep them in a safe place because I hadn't bothered asking for them in the three years I'd lived there. Sonofabitch... I crashed at her place (thankful she'd moved back to Brooklyn, but not so much that she'd defeated the whole purpose of the spare set), went to look at another shitty apartment the next morning before trying the super (didn't have a pair) and Ant (who was in France unbeknownst to me) without luck.

The last resort was a local locksmith and I got quoted a $75 price (before tax) that I had to grin and bear. And natch, it wasn't quite as easy all that. The one lock was always a pain in the ass and it turned out to give the locksmith a load of trouble. So over the course of the next three hours when I got a new knob, lock, and faceplate for my door and was out $165, a thought bubbled up: fuck it, I'm not moving. And I weighed the pros and cons. The temporary poverty was about the same for either option, likewise for the aggravation. But instead of handing over an arm and a leg to someone new and still having to figure out a way to move all my shit, I'd deal with the slumlords and area I knew and could get a chance to live alone for a bit while I redecorated and all that. So I called the management company and got a new lease sent over and here I am. Broke as shit, but sorta happy, if unsure how to motivate myself to start over. I'm super lazy and poor, but moreso lazy, and riding the slumlords to get all those things we ignored too long fixed is a full time job. Also finding a new roommate is gonna be a bit of an adventure. Ah well, we'll see what happens.