Low-level hypocrisy is my favorite hypocrisy. If I’m in a car I hate pedestrians. If I’m a pedestrian I hate drivers. If I’m a non-paying listener of publicly supported radio I complain during pledge season. If a waitress forgets my hollandaise-on-the-side-and-oh-can-I-please-have-organic-challah? I bitch under my passive aggressive breath because hey, I’ve blocked out years spent shouting at line cooks for ramekins. No wonder I’ve decided to blog. I don’t read blogs. I don’t subscribe to blogs. If I was in a bar, and a girl handed me this:
I’d use it to give my number to somebody else.
I know a guy who printed up cards that say Poet and people make fun of him in iambic pentameter. (Hello I’d like a poem do you take cash?) I suspect I’m setting myself up for entrepreneurial ridicule. The way I did in 6th grade after winning a year’s supply of Purina Puppy Chow and scooping it into brown bags and reselling it door to door as my own Adult Formula.
I just ordered business cards for my blog. I chose the graphic of the administrative assistant whispering unprofessionalisms into her boss’s ear after hours. Yes, I’ve given my blog cards a backstory.
I don’t understand how the internet works and I fear my implicit trust in it. Maybe that’s because I remember a time when there was no internet, like highschool, when teachers assigned papers on such diverse topics as natural selection and Imelda Marcos. Back then, you couldn’t just Wikipedia Imelda Marcos. You had to go to the public library to use the dreaded microfiche machines. The microfiche machines were kept in the low-lit basement and broke easily, and there was always a serial killer perched at the machine next to yours whose heavy breathing you could barely hear over his woosh woosh of film as it spun to another article on strangled nurses.
Several of you have asked me why I am suddenly doing this, this being blogging. I don’t know. I did read Julie and Julie last fall. Julie Powell was a discontented New York City “government drone” about to turn thirty who decided to cook every one of Julia Child’s recipes from Mastering The Art of French Cooking in 365 days. She chronicled her adventures online, established a loyal readership, got discovered, and landed a book contract.
Julie Powell had a hook: it was expensive, messy, and time-consuming. Me, I want to bum a ride off of Fame. I want Easy Street but I don’t want to walk there in dirty snow. That’s why I have a hook like Concessions, which only involves bringing a stopwatch to work and timing celebrities on the toilet and keeping an acurate record of who washed their hands and who didn’t based on the wet/dry money exchange when they purchase candy from me. See: lazy! I will never reduce heavy creme or debone a chicken for Fame.
I turn thirty in a little over three months. My skin isn’t wrinkled and I’m thinner than I’ve ever been, but I’m not sure these serve as benchmarks for success. I’m stuck in a rut. I’m held up. I’m a lot like Anna Nicole’s body except no one’s fighting over me. I have a disgusting amount of debt from poetry graduate school and now, by big plan to pay it off, besides working two jobs and submitting an occasional villanelle to an academic journal, is, wait for it, to blog.
So far, I am $20 in the hole from ordering blog cards.
This post is a petition to my current readership to recruit on my behalf. If you like what you see, forward Trybecca to five other people. Please? If you don’t forward Trybecca you won’t have bad luck for the next year and if you do forward Trybecca you probably won’t find love or inherit money, but, you help ensure the survival of the following:
*Concessions, in which I report on the bowels of stars like Dustin Hoffman
*Dregs List, in which I respond to bottom of the barrel Craigslist postings like this and, in the vein of Anderson Cooper, provide you with cutting edge investigative journalism.
*Thirty Things to Do Before You’re Thirty, or, Talk Thirty to Me!, in which I freak the fuck out, make lists, and do things like audition for the Broadway Production of Les Miserables using a headshot taken from a camera phone:
In addition, I promise you detailed 2007 President’s Day and Oscar coverage (I’ll be dressed as a Dream Girl), the big reveal of whose coat I used to smell at parties, and thrilling monthly updates on the length of my growing hair.
I also promise updates on Britney’s hair. We could be sisters!
This three-day weekend, if you stop by Trybecca, leave me a comment. Let me know this is working out, and if it isn’t, that it’s you and not me. Link me. Request a post. Ask my advice. Ask me out. Subscribe your parents. Who happen to run Random House.