Weakends

"Hey," says Clint, whitely, admiring his painstakingly groomed reflection in AM1462.8's shiny new Christmas belt buckle, "you gotta get yourself a Treo. I just got the six-fifty. It's in-dis-pen-sible."

"What the fuck am I gonna do with that kinda abortion on my hip," I ask, incredulously, envisioning this fucking codpiece with keys saddled upon my waist.

"Dude, you're gonna need one. Trust me. I can't live without it."

"Live without what? My phone rings like twice a day, and both calls are me, checking to see if I have any hidden messages."

"Well," he says, "you're gonna have to do some business on the phone because of the book, aren't you?"

"For what?" I ask. "So I can get that one call from my editor where he says, 'Thanks for signing the contract. See ya in four months'? And the other one where he says, 'We haven't received your manuscript yet. Go get yourself a good lawyer'?"

"What about work?"

"What about work? Why the fuck would they ever call me? I've been showing up at the same time and place for two years. Matter of fact, I think they still have my old cell number. They prob'ly already fired me three times over and never noticed me still showin' up."

Fact is, folks, I got nothin'. No reason for wasting my scratch on any of it. I don't need a Treo, don't need no fuckin' Blackberry, and I'm not entirely sure I even need my trusty Motorola V-220 when you consider the number of times it rings on a typical day. What the hell's the point? I go to work, come home. Go to the gym, come home. Write, stay home. Boom. Done. The magnificent life of a so-called blog celebrity -- it's all a big fucking joke, only there's no real punchline at the end of the week to make it all worthwhile.

For all his well-publicized faults, I rather envy this guy. At least he's out doing shit on a regular basis -- a place in the city, living his life, getting it done. Always busy. Me? Not so much. Not that I'd especially want to go back to watching pornos and beating off a half dozen times a night, but still. Friday night -- my night off -- kicks off with a can of tuna, a protein shake, and an internet perusal of apartment possibilities elsewhere. And it always ends in a big way: reading, always on my stomach, until I'm out. Maybe a blog post or some book work in between, should I be feeling particularly froggish that night.

I wonder about things. Wish I had a more active social calendar. Wish all the people with whom I'd be hanging out on Friday nights weren't either married or living out-of-state. Should I make more of an effort? Lord knows I need the practice. Have I turned people down so habitually that they no longer consider calling me? Should I move? How the fuck did I become so housebound? And why do I even care?

So, starting this Friday, I wanna do some shit. I'm goin' out, motherfuckers, and I'm gonna get shitfaced. Matter of fact, I'm gonna get off the train loaded, proceed downtown, and assume my position as the life of the goddamned party somewhere. Anywhere. Maybe I'll piss on a building. Might even get into a fight or two, but I gotta break out of this slump somehow.

Anyone wanna join us?