MONTH TWO--wherein Viva realizes
one must WORK for money
Yeah, yeah, New York's great and
all, but it's expensive! Everyone says so, and they're
right. It's not just the steep rents and pricey
groceries, it's the goin' out and doin' the town
every friggin' night. Drinks, dinner, shows, Statue
of Liberty, Yankees games...plus admissions to the
Met, the MOMA, the ballet, your friend's play...it
adds up! It can come cheap, and I'm learning how,
but ya gotta WORK. And everyone in New York does.
Most of 'em a minimum of 9-5, M-F. How weird, huh,
Portland? I still haven't wrapped my mind around
it. But here's the rub: I got no friends 'til 6
or 7pm. What to do? Get a job?
princess soul smarts, surely, but a girl of your
whimsical philosophies needs
to stick a pinky toe in the lion's den now and then
to remember the true leaden
definition of WHORE and how it feels."
So today I'm tryin' it. Got here
at 9:30 AM. Watchin' the clock 'til it says 5:30.
Ugh! I feel suicidal! But the fact is I'm getting
paid to do nothing. NOTHING! I'm still trapped,
so that sucks, but I got this great view of the
New York Public Library, where all the lucky people
who still have their freedom are sunning themselves
on the steps, flanked by the two stone lions named
Patience and Virtue. But what the hell am I doing
here? I could be Woody Allen! Should be Woody Guthrie!
Wherefore the guitar and the dream? Oh yeah, I'm
getting paid to do nothing. NOTHING! 'Cept write
this column on someone else's legal pad. But I remain
trapped. By whose definition? I need this check.
I am doing exactly what I've always
railed against. I am a sellout. Who else sold out?
Lotsa writers. Tons o' musicians. It's temporary.
It's grist for the mill. What am I drinkin'?!? Office
coffee?! Outta a paper cup? Who am I? WHO AM I?
Will familiarizing myself with the fine art of the
con improve my expositions on the fine art of the
truth? One can only pray. And soon, soon there'll
come a day when I'm back in the driver's seat ridin'
roughshod, tellin' it like it is. That Moby sucks
and no rock critic ever really listens to music.
But for now I'm jugglin'. The fine
art of the juggle. I'm good at it. Just so happens
one or more of my lemons is rotten. There is NO
money worth this. I feel a more noble alternative
would be jail, where you are punished for (writing)
this sentence. To choose it is unforgivable. Cuz
these lemons lead right to the rotten state of Denmark
and I'll be Hamlet in no time if I keep this up.
Or maybe I'll finally learn the true meaning of
the martini, but not of Patience and Virtue. Oh,
you lions, free me from this prison!
Hey Viva it's only a one-day stand.
Your princess soul smarts, surely, but a girl of
your whimsical philosophies needs to stick a pinky
toe in the lion's den now and then to remember the
true leaden definition of WHORE and how it feels.
You'll not be beguiled. NO!
"Feel the salty sea breeze of
his tiny beats on your face, and the warm squishy
sand of his soulless stolen melodies between your
toes. Yessir, this Moby guy is really something!"
They always said I'd be great at