So, end of the month, I'm out of a job. If you don't know what I do for a living, don't sweat it. Most days I'm not entirely sure, really. Moreover, I spent a significant amount of time and energy creating safe places and shell personalities for myself on the internet. Compartmentalization, as James Ellroy would say. The goal was always to immanentize my own personal eschaton, which is a fancy way of saying that Chris Sick was always more about figuring out who I wanted to be and trying to go and be that. Which didn't leave much space on the wide, wild Internets to be who I actually have to be forty hours a week to continue eating and having a roof over my head. For better and for worse, the last few years has seen quite a bit of bleed-through on both ends.

None of which answers the original question, which is, of course, the goal. I work in the field of urban redevelopment, a statement that tends to illicit either rapt fascination or utter boredom in whomever I tell it to. I am-- at least until June first-- on the private side of the equation, working for a private consulting firm that hires out to various government departments, agencies, and quasi-public/private partnerships (cf: business/special improvement districts, Main Street organizations, and Community Development Corporations). This private consulting firm is something of a family business, founded by my father, his wife, and his best friend of twenty-some years (nearly my entire life), it employes but three people, myself, my younger brother, and the son of the only partner I'm not related to.

The best way to characterize us is a scrappy little upstart, began in my father's basement, and originally employing me more out of a consideration of who can be trusted to work in their living room than any innate talent, experience, or education relating to the field. I've done this-- with some minor interruptions thanks to True Love, California, and heroin-- for about five years. Which is just an amazing number to me, still, despite it accounting for roughly only a sixth of my life. It feels like forever, and I was totally unprepared to countenance it ever ending. On some level, despite the signs, some part of my had the blind faith that only a son can have for their father, I was always sure he would pull us through.

But, the reality is that when your entire business model is built on government-funded economic development, a Republican executive in the capital who promises to hold down taxes and balance a wildly-in-the-red budget doesn't bode well for your bottom line. Gov. Christie has eliminated one of our primary source of clients (the New Jersey Urban Enterprise Zone) and the statehouse is eying the other (Business Improvement Districts) for elimination. We had been on the path to branching out, picking up a major client in New York City, and although they assured us (just last week, in fact) that they intend to put out another bid for the program we've been running for them-- this is par for the course, even though we designed and implemented the program, they have to rebid it every fiscal-- their budget is facing a 60% reduction in funding, which means the chance to build on it is minimal.

Which all adds up to Chris Sick without work. Which for some reason makes me start humming Elvis Costello's "American Without Tears". There's a host of different moves I can make, most likely if I land anywhere it'll either be on the public side or back at the firm once they've scaled back costs and signed up new clients. It might be rough going, I'm dangerously under-credentialed in a field that loves nothing more than theorists. I'll be going up for part-time gigs paying $22k/yr against people with advanced doctorate degrees in urban planning, economics, and sociology*. Me? I never graduated college. There's some silver lining, however, I have a lot of real world experience and among my references will be the executive director of the country's oldest Community Development Corporation, which was founded in part, through the efforts of then-Senator Robert F. Kennedy. And I'll be sitting in on some high level meetings this month between the partners of my firm and a few big wheels at the Philadelphia Department of Commerce (which is the organizing department of Philly's economic redevelopment efforts). So, hope springs eternal, y'know?

Of course, in the meantime I have fall-backs layered upon redoubts. For those of you who have yet to meet me personally, I'm a pretty big guy, and I figure when all else fails, I'd have a frighteningly successful career in some type of petty crime and minor felonies, politically-motivated terrorism, or pulp-style science crime. After working in this shithole of an industry for half-a-decade, I'm not going to start being choosy about my source of income now.

We were sitting on the steps of a church. The whole thing had all been so seventh grade, but I didn't care. Earlier, when she put down her money for the bill and then ran up the street like lightening because she didn't want to be around [REDACTED] and the other girls, I thought she was gone and the moment was lost, but of course it wasn't. It was always there, and the only way it was out of reach was because I never know what's going on until it's on, or rather, until right before it happens anyway. But it was definitely on. Thinking about it, it was probably on the minute I tapped "post" on the Missed Connection, sure she would never read it, or-- if she somehow stumbled onto it-- she wouldn't ever put two and two together. Stupid, really, I couldn't have signed it any clearer without putting my full name, address, and phone number on it. It's been a little over a week, and I'm still getting emails. Sad-eyed craigslistgirls, chipped teeth and all-- hoping against hope that I'm the man they meet on the train, or in line for coffee posting sweet nothings to the dark internet, just for them. But I'm not. They were just for her.

And she called me on it. And Friday we were in a church kitchen while I found myself improbably washing out a coffee maker just before midnight and-- she would tell me later-- she felt like melting into the floor. Afraid of what? My heart's always on my sleeve, anyway, but I had taken the further step, taken it off my sleeve, laid it at her feet. "I'm seeing someone**" she told me. And later-- back on the church steps, after we spent the better part of our Saturday together, disguising our desire with other people floating in and out of focus-- we both knew that never mattered. The conversation died away, like it does when it's between two people who are slowly getting more and more comfortable around each other. And we sat there like seventh grade, just looking at each others' faces, trying to read the moment. Her hand was on her knee, I put mine over it, around it, and held it for a few seconds, both of us looking at it then each other. Then we kissed. Totally seventh grade.

(...)

Later, together in the dark, in my bed, wrapped up in darkness and blankets and cigarette smoke and each other, I told her about Bucky Sinister and Dorthy Allison and what I've been thinking about all week. Thinking about their stories of love and fear, of being alone in the dark, of lovers' fingers tracing the scars on your skin, or the ones underneath it. Of feeling totally vulnerable to someone, of opening up your head, your heart, your body, your bed to someone and then sure that the moment is coming when they'll reject you. When they'll see through all your tough poses and I-could-give-a-fuck faces to the broken inside of you. And find it wanting, lacking, not enough, never enough. And I fingered the scars on my knuckles, exhaling my voice around Lucky Strike smoke hoping she understood what I was saying. Hoping I understood what I was saying.

She kissed me and said she understood, and then we slept, comfortably wrapped up in one another.

I really should stop treating The Dirtbombs' "I'm Through With White Girls" like a guide to life of some kind, since no matter how often it seems true, it never-ever-ever really is.

Is the name of a blog I've been thinking about starting for the longest time. One of these upcoming days of funemployment, I might even do it. The basic premise is that on any given day in American Politics, there's something ridiculous worth pointing out, mocking, and discussing. Today's would probably have something to do with the on-going debt ceiling debate, and the complete insanity of it (detailed at the link). I should probably get on that, the reality is I'm just utterly exhausted.

My last foray into political affray ended when the "libertarian" I had spent the better part of a week arguing with about light bulb legislation (specifically, how it doesn't constitute "tyranny", no, seriously) stated that he felt that the LGBT community would be better served in their quest for equal marriage rights by just chilling out, and letting public opinion catch up with them in another ten or twenty years, since securing and defending their rights in courts, which, y'know, are what the courts exist for, just engenders ill-will towards their cause, whereas long term trends favor their acceptance and eventual inclusion.

This is the stated belief of a man who thinks that government interference in his selection of light bulbs constitutes a rank injustice and is just another example of our slide towards tyranny. Seriously. How the holy fuck do you engage with someone who can profess and-- evidently-- believe such strange things?

My plan? Mostly by being snide about them on the internet. Anyone who reads this be interested in reading something like that?

For the moment, still employed. I started a book club, and mostly reached out to other people in, ahem, cough, AA. Oddly enough, after creating the Facebook event page, the first response I got was from my old bartender. We just finished Song of Solomon which I choose because it seemed downright criminal that I had never read Toni Morrison. Next up? Clockers by Richard Price, who remains one of mine-- and apparently our President's-- favorite modern authors. After that I'll be forced to open it up to the democracy of the group, which is evenly split between people who want to read about nothing but crack rocks, horrorshows, and virgin murders, and refugees from Oprah's Book Club who are still stinging from reading ten pages of Cormac McCarthy on her recommendation. Leadership is clearly called for. Personally, I've been enjoying, in so much as one can, Dorthy Allison's Trash, and slowly working my way into Keynes' General Theory on Employment, Interest, and Money. Hands down the best book I've read this year has been Camden After the Fall: Decline and Renewal In a Post-Industrial City. Important for two reasons: one it's pretty clearly directly in my wheelhouse, and two, I grew up hearing the horror stories and seeing the White Fear of this City, while reading year-after-year about it being the murder capitol of the US. The story of how it transformed from an industrial powerhouse and engine of economic mobility and source of social capital*** for minorities and immigrants into the lost hope it is today is utterly heartbreak, but required if you really expect to have any understanding of, and eventual engagement of these problems. Other than that I've stolen snatches of Jim Carroll poetry here and there, as well as short fiction by JG Ballard, did a quick (1-day) rereading of Jesus' Son and was relieved to discover it left me with no desire to drink or use, and I'm oddly excited about having some free time to do proper reading this summer, even if it comes at the cost of food.

Music has been good to me, and continues to salve, if not specifically save my soul. Since the first of the year, I've seen The Kills, The Ravonettes, Johnathan Richman (this may actually have been last year, and serves as the very beginning of the Sick + Hatefuck romance), Haley (a friend's band that has a little notoriety), and a handful of other acts I can't be bothered to look-up. I've been listening to a lot of hip-hop, mainly the Blakroc album that combines the Black Keys with a ton of hip-hop stars. Personally, I'd recommend the video for "What You Do To Me". I could watch Billy Danze rap for days, for reals. I've also been listening to Pharaoh Monch's deleted first release "Internal Affairs". There's been a lot of Wu-Tang mixed in there, as well as some White Folk music, specifically the Reigning Sound's Love and Curses from '09, and both Chain and the Gang albums, because one can never have enough communist garage rock.

I've also been reading and rereading a lot of comics. New stuff has mostly been Johnathan Hickman, which has been very hit or miss, but I have to love it for the stylistic flourishes if nothing else, see: Nightly News for what I'm talking about. As for blasts from the past, I've been laughing myself to sleep reading Howard Chaykin's American Flagg!. Highly recommended if you have a sick sense of humor and any living memory of the eighties.

*This is actually True Fact, we encountered a woman a few years ago who briefly considered hiring our firm, she was the part-time manager of an Improvement District in Brooklyn, putting her doctorate in economics from the London School of Economics to good use and earning $22,000 a year for her trouble. How do you compete with that? Mostly with gumption, which I have plenty of. I actually stole a sizable portion of my fire in the belly from Harley Barbour, which is why he's not running. You can thank me whenever.

**You know, you say this and you generally get one of two reactions: A, you're a bastard for stealing another man's girlfriend or B, you're an idiot because if she cheated on some dude with you, what makes you think she won't cheat on you.

These are terribly foolish for a number of reasons. Let's deal with "A" first. One, she wasn't some other man's whatever. She's her own person, and I suspect she'd be as offended as me trying to claim some manner of ownership as she would be anyone else doing it. At some point, as the free agent in the equation, it isn't entirely incumbent on me to make her relationship my priority. Add that to the fact that it wasn't an exclusive or committed relationship I was breaking up, just a casual one. Okay, okay, I protest too much, obviously. But this statement from her makes it seems all okay, in my head at least: "I don't feel too horrible about it. He was a nice guy and I didn't want to hurt him, but we weren't exclusive. It wasn't... what I would need for an exclusive, committed relationship. And besides, this [Sick + Hatefuck] was going to happen sooner or later."

"B" By and large, women don't "cheat" on me. In part because I don't like placing strict rules and exclusivity contracts on relationships, adding constraints and labels just gives people something else to chafe against. The other reason? Despite my many (and public) failings, I'm actually pretty awesome to be in a relationship with. For reals.

*** This blog is actually a day or two early. I was going to handle it press release style, giving Suri the exclusive over coffee sometime this week, before typing it up for general consumption. But I had a hole in my schedule and-- quite obviously-- the need to talk in a totally vain and megalomaniacal way. Mostly, I blame y'all. For encouraging this sort of sick and twisted behavior. But, truth told, I love y'all for it. How are you friends? Since there can't possibly be anything left you don't know about me, assuming you've read this far.