An Open Letter To My Old Web Address

So I let "marcinthecity.com" expire. It was a clear symbol of my neglect for the blog and I took it as such. I actually tried to renew it (it's only $10/year), but godaddy.com was acting all weird and wasn't working, so I said "F this, I'm going solo!" I actually said that, in my bedroom, all by myself... and with exactly the kind of zealous bravado you would expect from someone who says "F this, I'm going solo!" alone in their bedroom.

I just finished watching every episode of The L Word, seasons 3 up to the present (season 6, episode 1). It was a dramatic roller-coaster of a weekend. It occurred to me that maybe I like TV so much because my life is so boring, so in relation, instead of living my own boring life I can vicariously live through the most dramatic and exciting parts of 7 other people's lives! I guess that's exactly the kind of escapism TV hits at, and I'm not ashamed to say that I fall for it every time.

I only left my apartment this weekend to go shopping and rent DVDs. The good people at Videology know my as "that sad guy who is obsessed with The L Word." Maybe they think I'm renting it and watching it in bed all weekend with a significant other, or something--and give me the benefit of the doubt for being a romantic, and not a shut-in. Sadly, I am the latter, not the former.

And I think I have an ear infection. Who, over the age of six, gets an ear infection? Apparently Marc in the City.

I went grocery shopping for the third time this weekend at an upscale natural food store and it made me feel like an adult. I bought some of those soups that come in boxes, and soy milk, and wasabe edamame and prunes and almonds in those little over-priced plastic containers. The guy behind the counter was wearing these hilarious D&G sunglasses that read "D&G" in big gold letters on the side. He was otherwise all greezy, and swinger-y, and I got the impression he was the sun of a wealthy oil baron in the middle east who was forced to come to America because his lavish lifestyle of excess kept embarrassing the family in Dubai. So he packed up his horrible Gucci, print shirts and flew to Brooklyn, where he found work at a little over-priced grocery store. Who knows.

I took a nap at 5: 30 and woke up around 9:00. I guess I needed a break from all my intense loafing. It's weird, you know, how you watch all that TV and get so wrapped up in the lives of these characters and then suddenly you have to exercise some restraint and wait until the next episode is released. Then the series is over (The L Word is on its last season now, just started). It's times like these when I think I should have gone into television writing. I read all the time, but I wasn't a bookworm growing up. TV was my sibling for god sake. Whatever, we'll see where life takes me. You know, I just don't want to be one of those people with the "good job" who never really does anything significant.

And, of course, that's all relative, you know? Like, I've already done lots of things that a few people think are significant (that I won't list here because that would be super lame), but there isn't an over-arching sort of track for accomplishment, you know? Even Ivy-league school attenders and doctors and whatever, they're just members of a big elite club, but it's still a club with thousands of faceless members.

I was looking at plane ticket prices on Expedia today, thinking about taking some kind of vacation (I haven't taken a real, vacation for vacation-sake since I was a Sophomore in high school). Incidentally, my family NEVER went on vacations when I was a kid, which is fine, I just find that people think that's weird so I thought I'd mention it. Anyway, I kept finding these package vacation deals that were, like, $500 for flight and 4 nights in a hotel at some local, and I thought "Hey, that's a really great idea." But then I thought, "no, wait a second, I don't want my vacation to be packaged up and marketed so easily to me." It has a certain drone quality, like some marketing team is like, "We will create this fun place, X number of people will go. If we get Z number of consumers to attend we make Y profit." It seems devoid of any kind of personal fulfillment. Like those Club Meds (are those even still around?), or cruise ships. I hate the idea of cruise ships, by the way. I can see how they're fun, but something about being on a boat in the middle of no where with all the amenities of a crazy vacation to enjoy doesn't seem fun to me. I'd rather find what I want on land, go somewhere interesting, and not deal with a bunch of tourists that make me feel like I'm on the "Fun version of New York" floating in the middle of the ocean, floating on the ship among an ocean of the faceless brood I see every. single. fucking. day. in. the. city. Only this time they're wearing lays.

Maybe I'll go to LA. LA, for all my bitching about thinking it's phony, and dry, and kind of ugly, it's always held this sort of mystical, promised land quality for me. Maybe because that's where all the entertainment I obsess over is created. Maybe because it's the west coast, so I know everything will be brand new and comfortable. Maybe I just like the freedom to by a jug of Early Times in the grocery store (and get a Ralph's discount on it, no less). Maybe I miss warm weather, and seeing colors other than grey (even though LA is just orange, if I remember correctly).

I've been trying to write lately but shit got real about a week ago and I haven't felt like it. I've got about 100 pages of a first draft finished, but whenever I read it I feel like I need to fix it before I move on. I'd be too embarrassed to let anyone read it in the state it's in now. First drafts are meant to be bad, but every time I read one of my first drafts I'm convinced anyone reading it would think I'm a hack. Not even a hack, but someone who doesn't deserve a degree in writing. And for all the appendices you make for the bad-ness of a first draft, they can't make up for the actual quality of the writing. I learned a long time ago no one gives a shit about what you say, it's what you do that means anything to anyone. Maybe that's why I keep moving. Because there's no surer sign of moving forward than moving hundreds of miles away.

But hey, how about I just step back, take that vacation I was talking about, and re-assess. These Cheez-its are getting to my head and I'm in serial drama withdrawals. We'll talk more later.

-Marc