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?

"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."

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 sales...