Manhattan Transfer

I spent the entire nineties avoiding anything like a real job. I traveled a lot. I hitchhiked through Eastern Europe and around Ireland. I went to seven different colleges and two professional schools. I edited student magazines and overthrew student governments. When I had to or wanted to, I worked for newspapers and politicians. This wasn't like taking a real job because I always knew that eventually I would quit and return to the aristocratic life of doing whatever I felt wherever I wanted to.

One disadvantage of this was that I missed the post-collegiate rush back to New York City. My friend came back with degrees in hand and promptly piled up together in tiny apartments. Some people had jobs. Others spent months searching. No one was making much money but at least they weren't getting any poorer. Twenty-five grand a year was more than anyone had made during college.

There was a mad sexual energy at that time. The lad who had gone down to Duke met the roommate of the lass who had gone up to Bennington, and pretty soon the roommate arrangements started shifting. Whenever I would return to the city for a holiday I was struck by how fast and furious my newly-returned-to-the-city friends were engaged in the pursuit of dating, mating and recreating (although not yet procreating).

The upside was that I spent years without the anxiety that comes with working for a living. I heard my friends complain about being unable to sleep, the feeling of depression that would capture them, particularly on Sunday evenings. I assumed this was just a very bad hangover but they assured me it was something more. The anticipation of the week ahead (so much that must get done!)combined with the feeling of loss for the week that had just been left behind (so much that was left undone!) produced a lown-hanging dread.

I started to learn this when I the nineties ended and I was tricked into entering the workforce. Too many people had become fabulously wealthy while I was learning how to tell Polish girls that I was a photographer for Rolling Stone. I decided to enter the work-force quick, make my fortune and return to the aristocracy of slack. Obviously I got here after they had shut off the money machines, and have now been working for four and half years. It's almost embarrassing.

What's worse, I've started to fall into the bad habits of all those people who work for a living, including feeling down on Sunday night. I think the only way I know to counter this is to get out of the apartment on a Sunday night. It's hard to convince others that this is the correct move--they've grown used to being curled up on the couch trying to blunt the dread with television. Especially the girls. First it was Sex & the City and now the Dreaded Housewives show. But I'm convinced I'm right. Get out on Sunday night. Staying in will hurt your soul.

All this was inspired by the Famous Filmmaker Mitch McCabe, who has a great piece up today about her Sunday night dreads causing Monday night insomnia and shopping sprees. Click through the links to the amazing pictures. Those are her legs above. I should have called her last night because I was awake until after three in the morning. My one question for her is: how did you get addicted to this work thing? It's half-past one and I still cannot make myself do any work. I'm going for lunch.