Country Bumpkin Ding-Dang-Diddlies his Way to the Big City

So, this here yokel is damn near to deciding that he's going to move to New York City. Now, this doesn't imply that I've really given it much thought, cuz I haven't.

I've just decided.

Or, almost, kinda-sorta-maybe decided.

Now is the time in some blogs when the writer might ask for advice. But tell you what, I'm not going to do that, because honestly, I wouldn't listen. What the hell have you people done for me lately anyway, huh? (please, send money)

Not once in my life have I done something that really scared me, and in most cases I don't take chances. I played the lotto once, lost, it broke my heart, and I haven't been able to put myself out there like that again because I'm afraid of getting hurt. True story.


My current life in Alpine, Texas has not been bad, but that whole thing about not being able to go home again, well, I suppose I'm living the cliche. Things are strange and alien here, and in fear of keeping the cliches going, I feel like I'm losing myself. I don't even feel comfortable around old friends, ones I was sure with whom I could easily fall back into some sort of rhythm. But being back has me also questioning my own mind, who I am, and my abilities. An overall questionable mental health prevails. Paranoia, I fear, might have forced me into seclusion with my cats.

In their defense, they are pretty cool cats.

But this is not about the present. This is more about a radical future. Shit, for that matter, any future. Right now it's septic tanks, thousands of gallons of human waste week in and week out, sweat falling off me as this mama's boy struggles to maximize his shovel's efficiency.

On a side note, did you know you shouldn't flush condoms down the toilet? You should know that. Especially if you have a septic tank. Man, you'd be amazed what we find in the old ones we have to replace. (my boss told me about a lady who learned about her teenage daughter's sexual debauchery when she was able to see for herself the large amount of prophylactics in their septic tank. people are fucking stupid man)

But I wonder, are there gigs in New York City where i can participate in paid laboratory tests that are trying to get to the bottom of self-loathing, potentially using it as an alternative fuel source? I can power at least two boroughs. You know, if the science is available.


An old friend of mine lives there and his wife works for martha stewart. I'm thinking that's my in. That way I can seduce Martha and get her money. Plus, she can bake me a cake to get the awful taste of lost dignity out of my mouth, after doing the things (anything) I'm willing to do for that hot, sexy cash. And besides, she's not a bad lookin' lady. I'm sure she wouldn't say no to a young love slave of some sort.


Another point of concern: Are handlebar mustaches allowed in New York? Or did Guliani ban those as a part of his aggressive enforcement-deterrent strategy to crack down on crime?

That's a big concern for me, and a possible dealbreaker. (more on my mustache later. it's deserving of it's own blog post. maybe even it's own blog.)


If New York is indeed a decision I make, I figure I should have some sort of plan. You know, something to fall back on if Martha Stewart somehow manages to resist my advances, however dashing and gallant they would certainly be.


Already on my list of options is a well-paying freelance writing gig, as related to me by the same chap with the martha stewart-connected wife.

And how New York is this - it involves writing synopses of porno movies. It's funny because another friend, one who has rather philanthropically offered me futon rights in his apartment, had a similar first job, where he wrote product descriptions of sex toys to be sold online. Now, I'm not sure how resume-building such employment would be, but the pay is allegedly good. Plus I'm sure momma would be proud, along with every writing teacher who ever praised me.

It would certainly be a challenge. I mean, there are so many new writerly questions and obstacles. Do the back of porno movie DVDs follow AP style? Or the MLA format? I better get to researching these things, lest I embarrass myself while talking to a possible employer.

Mostly I fear that I would run out of synonyms for 'explosive cumshot.' (concussive orgasm? artilleryesque...umm...Pollock-esque.......I'll stop there.) But perhaps I'm projecting far too grammatical and literary eyes onto the fans of such entertainment. (Ha, I can see myself fretting over whether people were actually reading my work. Like: "But...but, do they understand me? Did they pick up on that Hemingway allusion in the last paragraph?")

All in all, I couldn't turn down a job that offered me the opportunity to, frustratingly stooped over a laptop trying to compose copy, yell to a roommate, "Quiet, dammit! I'm trying to work here!" over the background ambience moans of Gluteus to the Maximus.