Actually,

it all looks and works better over here.

This is what they write about, Judah Nagler sings

on The Velvet Teen's "False Profits." I'm on the green line train, Boston, bound for North Station, and I've very recently become homeless. I think, "Yes, this is what they write about, isn't it?" thinking specifically about Al Burian and his book Burn Collector, a compilation of his most excellent zine work. The book is largely about Burian's time spent homeless, or mostly homeless, sleeping on couches, broke, unemployed, in Portland, Oregon and Providence, Rhode Island. Courtney loaned the book to me during my last visit to Philly, and I've been obsessed with Burian's hilarious and heartbreaking tales for a week solid. It's only fitting that, as I near the end of the book, I find myself in an eerily similar situation: I'm out on the street with literally nothing but the clothes I'm wearing and that very copy of Burn Collector.

Let me back up a bit and fill you in on my situation in general, in case you're one of the many people with whom I haven't communicated in a while: in the last three months, I've traveled roughly 6000 miles, moving across the country three times--Denver to Boston, back to Denver, back to Boston. The specific reasons for each of these moves have already become hazy and shallow to me, so I can't really tell you why I'm here. I'm just here.

And tonight, I'm homeless. The short story is: I've been kicked out. You probably know I was staying with Jill. In fact, she's the whole reason I came to Boston in the first place. And now, through a series of circumstances too laughably pathetic and painful to recount at this moment, she's kicked me out. All my stuff is still in her apartment; she wouldn't let me come up tonight to drag it all out of there. The deal, she tells me, is this: she's going to put all my shit out on the lawn in a couple of days. The idea is aggravating, mostly because I've got a laptop and a couple of other things I don't want to lose, or see smashed on the pavement. I manged, though, to bargain her down to this: she's going to, whenever she feels like it, probably some time in the next few days, throw all my stuff out on the lawn in front of her house, but she's going to call me when she's about to do it, so if I'm free, I can run over there and grab it all. Seems fair to me.

So until she calls, I'm stuck with what I'm wearing: a pair of jeans that haven't been washed in far too long, and the old beat-up Cure "Boys Don't Cry" t-shirt I inherited from Nick. Actually, I got lucky, because I had the foresight (before last night's drunken adventure to The Other Side and Eastern Standard and, eventually, Shannon's apartment, where I slept on the couch) to pack a spare t-shirt, to wear to work today, and--the real saving grace--my phone charger, so I'll actually be able to receive her call when she says, "Come get your stuff, asshole."

I don't think I've processed yet how I got myself into this, or what it means. That can wait.

In case you're wondering, my course of action, after being told to leave empty-handed, was something like this:

- call Courtney;
- call around to see whose couch I can sleep on (Rhianna comes through);
- get to Rhianna's and immediately open a beer;
- walk with her, and beer, to CVS to buy a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and a bar of soap;

and now I'm typing this on Rhianna's boyfriend Rob's giant amazing iMac in an otherwise dark room near a window overlooking the North End.

I aim, with this post, to take this woefully neglected blog in a new direction: specifically, I want to document whatever it is that's going to happen to me here in Boston, where, oddly enough, the only constant factor I have going for me right now is my job at Whole Foods. And when better to start writing about my uncertain adventures then the absolute first night? You're getting in on the ground floor. Congratulations. You can be witness to all the details: whose couches are more comfortable, whether I retrieve all my belongings (intact or otherwise), what I end up doing with my life now that I'm here in Boston, et cetera.

You know, the good stuff.

My New Glasses: an Epic Saga in Ten Parts

I scored some sick (other acceptable adjectives: ill, fresh, fly) new glasses today. I also got sent home early from work for drinking beer on my lunch break, but that's another story.

Here's my beautiful and spiritual journey of discovery re: the glasses, in ten parts.

I: Here They Are.

Look at them.

II: What Do I Think of These New Glasses?

Let me inspect them closely.

III: I Am Thinking Very Hard About My Feelings For These Glasses.

It is serious business.

IV: I Will Pose Awkwardly, Like a Model.

That will display them in the most accurate light possible.

V: What Do They Remind Me Of?


VI: I Know!

They remind me of some other glasses. Maybe they're a little bit Elvis Costello, and a little bit Hisashi Yoshino.

VII: They're Kind of Odd, That Much Is True.

Or unusual, anyway. My face looks different in them. Maybe they'll help me make funnier faces (a skill I've been trying to build).

VIII: I Think I Have Come to a Decision.

This is how I look when I decide something.

IX: The Decision Is: These Glasses Rule.

I can totally wail and rock out in them while listening to The Stone Roses and other music.

X: Look, They Even Facilitate Extended and Harder Rocking.

I am pleased. These glasses will go down in history.

(Note: I was listening to The Stone Roses by The Stone Roses whilst taking these pictures. I think that's important background information, mostly because that might be the greatest Britpop album ever recorded and what else would I listen to during such an important time in my life? Nothing, that's what. Fun trivia: in photo #6, I was actually just listening to "This Is The One" and singing along and putting one finger up to indicate that this is, indeed, the one. This pair. Of glasses. It is the one.)

Hello

A very good friend of mine once told me, "Denver's the smallest big city in the country." At that point I was still fairly new to living in the city, having clawed my way out of the suburbs' stultifying grasp less than a year prior, and I didn't understand what she meant--everything seemed so new, there were so many places to explore, so many people to meet. But she seemed to know everyone. When I trace a finger backward through my friendship lineage, in fact, I find that she's responsible--both directly and indirectly, in different cases--for introducing me to a number of people with whom I maintain friendships.

Now it's been a few years, and she's gone, and as I walk and ride my bike around I feel exactly like she must have. I know what she meant. Denver is a small town masquerading as a major U.S. city. I see people I know everywhere.

Last night I was riding my bike home--actually, to Laura Fusaro's apartment--from work, and as I was riding past a group of three girls--three shadowy, bundled-up girls--one of them said, "Hi Patrick!" in a cute, sort of playful voice. I turned around and looked back as I kept riding and they laughed and I said, loudly, "Hi?", and kept riding. I don't know who it was.

This sort of thing happens to me all the time.

To whomever greeted me on the shadowy street: hello.

This was maybe going to be a blog post about how I need to get out of Denver, but it's also a blog post about how I love Denver. I guess the jury's still out.

I cannot be trusted to care properly for myself

An actual sticky note left (when? I can't remember) on the dashboard of my computer:

buy

socks
pants?

Clearly I am thoroughly unprepared for adulthood and the post-grad life. Fear for me.

Oh, right.

Blog.

So

Leaving in a few hours for Boston. Going to wave hello to New York City while I'm there.

See you in a week.