Five, Five & 6

Obliteration. It's a word that's been popping up alot lately. For various reasons.
Last week was a milestone marker for many things, and me being the memory whore that I am, noted the irony of several different 'anniversaries' all coming to pass in the same godforsaken seven day period.

Consistency, according to Emerson, is the hobgoblin of little minds. I am hoping he wasn't referring to the San Antonio Spurs when he wrote that. Nevertheless, it's hard to believe it's been FIVE FREAKING YEARS since I started working at the museum.
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! I just found out if I'm here one more year, I will get A PENSION. I'm not even thirty, and already I'm almost eligible for a pension. I guess in some ways this is a good thing, right? We probably won't have social security by the time I'm 65, so that extra 80 bucks is going to really come in handy.
I've been lucky to have a regular monkey job, focus solely on the art, not had to take the work home, just been left free to 'live' my New York life. Why the hell do I feel so lame then? I never envisioned staying in one place so long. I've been here longer than I went to college, longer than any relationship I've had, and only seven months shorter than the entire time I've been in NY. Am I of little mind?

Don't get me wrong, it's been good to me at times, for sure, and I have come to know a rogue's gallery of sychophants and playas who I hold near and dear to me. I could tell stories that would make your skin crawl and your liver harden, and some of you have heard said stories. One person in particular, begged me to quit talking about work because it made me upset, which in turn made them upset.

The other thing about my job is that I feel a slow atrophying of hope. Again, obliteration. I don't know how I managed to pull myself out of this a few months ago, but some days it feels incredibly difficult to get out of bed and go deal with the general public. I'm not complaining and I'm not looking for reassurances, I'm just saying. The consistent dull ache of the museum has invaded every cell of my soul. And yet I keep on. Why? Is it because it's the only job I know of where I can speak to people in a variety of accents and guises without fear of getting in trouble? Is it because I have priceless works of art in back and front and side to side of me? Is it because I can go hide in the storage closet and read or run lines or even sleep if I want to? Is it because of people like The Baron and Little Robbie and Rev. Erection and Doctor Feelwood? Is it because most of my friends here can apply the dialogue from The Big Lebowski to almost any situatuion? Or is it because, as The Baron has stated several times, we in visitor services are like the Island of Misfit Toys from Rudolph the Rednose Reindeer. We just aren't fit for the real world. It's an almagamation of all of the above I'm sure. At heart I know I'm one sentimental bastard, and sometimes it feels like all my miscreant pals at work are all I have. I know that that isn't true, but feelings are harder than facts somedays.
I also know, deep down, that I'm damn lucky to have this job because my supervisors truly want me to make it out of here. And what other soul sucking dead end job can you say that about?



On to the second five of my obliteration themed entry. So fellow music listeners of the world, as I have all but given up hope on anyone entering my contest, I take you now to the most recent root of my bile. My iPod broke. Again. This is number four now to have either been a lemon from the word go, stolen, or fallen apart after just a few months. What happens is that the earphone jack shorts out, and so I can only get sound out of one earphone. So me and Apple play this game where I describe the problem and they try to get me to fix it and then they send a empty box to the museum and I send them my iPod and they send me a new one. I'm not sure who made up this game, and it's not actually all that fun to play, for anyone, I'm sure, and it seems to me that there are no clear cut winners or losers, so really, what's the point?

I just got my new one (which makes FIVE)and am cautiously loading tunes onto it. You can take away my booze, my cigarettes, my coffee, my woman (and you most certainly have) but please just leave my music. I go crazy without music. I need it. It's my favorite thing in this whole godforsaken thing called life. I draw so much more inspiration from music than I do theatre or movies or paintings. It helps me find characters, clear my head, form ideas and generally stay saner than I want to. I'm someone that tends to apply meaning to almost everything, look for the inherent symbolism and interconnectedness of it all (a byproduct of my Catholic upbringing, no doubt) and I'm starting to wonder why I have had nothing but trouble with the miracle musical vessel that is iPod. The iPod I bought for heartbreaker apparently works just fine, as does everyone elses that I know. Sure, they have a two year lifespan at best, but what can you do? Is the cosmos trying to tell me something by the repeated failings of modern technology? What's the value in only being able to get sound out of one earphone? Is the universe telling me that I'm not listening well enough? Or am I just one unlucky dude when it comes to MP3 revolution?




Last Friday marked the 6 of my story. As in six months since. Why does it only seem like ten minutes ago? Why do some people recover so fast? When did love start to turn to hate? And someone please, please answer this philosophical quandry that has been racking my brain the last two months:

Baby, baby where did our love go?

Like, literally.
Where did it go?

Tucson?

Budapest?

110th Street?

Oh right. I remember now.

That's it. I'm done.