Like a Sculpture, But Longer

Okay, so I am the worst blogger ever. I admit it. It’s true. Call the e-cops and take me to e-prison, for I have forsaken you.

But, while contemplating my delinquency, it occurred to me why: my life is boring.

Bear with me for a second here. When I started this blog, I was at a very tumultuous point in my life. Post-grad existential crisis, living at home, working as a 22 year old intern for $10 an hour- it provided endless comic relief. Not to mention, moving to the second most eccentric city in the nation (NYC) closely followed by having spent 4 years in the most eccentric city on the continent (NOLA), well, it provided a lot of material.

I lived in a closet! In Alphabet City! With a bright blue wall! In a five story walk up! Hilarious! It’s like the pauper version of Friends.

And well, I’d hate to admit it, but my life is pretty boring now. I live in an almost-real sized apartment, with enough room to walk around without clipping corners and shifting furniture. I have a steady 9- (mostly) 6 job that keeps me busy and happy for 40 (50?) hours a week. I have friends who I enjoy quiet evenings on the town with- a few beers at the bar and brunch in the morning. I run errands on Sundays and walk around when the weather is nice. I have more cleaning products under my sink than snack foods in my pantry. I bought a real couch that I sit on quite frequently. It just goes round and round.

And, while I am really enjoying D.C., I have to admit it is the perfect setting for a quiet and happy and boring life- there are things to do of course and a lot going on, but nothing that smacks you in the face with its ridiculous. I’ve never come home to find my street closed off for a Dominican Easter Parade featuring a Jesus impersonator bearing a large wooden cross or arrived home to my apartment building to find my key doesn’t work because management changed the locks overnight without informing anyone, and for the most part, I am okay with that.

But oddly enough- those are the same reasons I miss NYC. The ridiculous and absurdity of it all. The never knowing what is going to happen.

This weekend, I was talking to a friend, who has never been to NYC, about why it is so great. He was skeptical.
“What’s so great about NYC? What does it have that we don’t?”
“Museums! And restaurants! And bars! And shows! And a subway that goes EVERYWHERE!”
“We have all that here” , he rightfully replied.

And it’s true, D.C. does, for the most part have everything I want and need. Instead of a bodega on my corner, I have a CVS. Everything I want is, for the most part, within walking distance. I have found my brunch place (Jack’s), my dive bar (the Big Hunt), my dance bar (Madam’s Organ), my favorite museum (the Corcoran). I don’t want for anything, except for something that the tourism board can’t direct me to- I miss the weird. Weird is missing from D.C. and perhaps, because I have lived among the eccentric for so long, I miss it in a way that I can’t describe. D.C. is decidedly normal: work suits and pearls, polo shirts and fitting in, normal hobbies and boring clothes and jobs that save the world. Everyone fits into the mold here and it adds to the boring-ness. No one is spicing it up. No one is taking a chance on being the biggest weirdo on the block.

Well, most of the time.

Yesterday, it was unseasonably beautiful out for a day in early November. Hovering around the high 60’s and low 70’s, it was the perfect day for the last bike ride of the season. I hopped on my bike and decided to leave my phone/iPod at home- determined to be alone with my thoughts. And, for whatever reason, that conversation about NYC, more than anything else, was really sticking with me. What was my problem? Had I been brainwashed into the romance of NYC? Was it really ever as great as I thought? Why did I have such an allegiance to a city that did nothing but work against me?

As I was contemplating, I subconsciously headed up toward my favorite place in the city: Columbia Heights, which has a distinctively urban feel to it and draws me toward it more than any other part of this city. Old buildings, divey-dive bars, beautiful old and quirky houses- something about it just feels like home. As I biked through the residential streets, I noticed some big structure in the backyard of one house. Curious, I biked around the block a few times, trying to see what it was. It would be about the size of a shed when it was finished, but for right not it was mostly just a wire frame…of what? A head? I couldn’t tell.

At one point, I had stopped in front of the house and was blatantly staring into this backyard trying to figure out what the eff it was and a young-ish (early 30’s?) man came bounding out of the house. Startled, I turned my handlebars around and put my feet on the peddles, ready to bike away in embarrassment.

“Are you staring at my sculpture?!”, yelled a man from his porch.
“Uh well…yeah. I was just trying to figure out what it was” I yelled back, face turning red.
“I’ll show you, want to see it?”

I did want to see it. And although I have been adequately taught my stranger danger lessons and watched enough true crime shows to know how it could have turned out, I put my kickstand down and followed him into the backyard (sorry, Mom).

“I started it about two weeks ago as a form of protest- I couldn’t think of another way to adequately express my feelings about it ”

And there, in the backyard, I could see what this sculpture was. A HUGE soon-to-be paper-mache sculpture of two men kissing.

“Oh cool. Are you making this for any particular reason? Like…a parade? Or something?”

“No” he said decidedly. “Just because. My girlfriend is actually coming over to help me finish up in a bit”

I thanked him for showing me and got back on my bike- my heart swelling with a familiar feeling of admiration and judgment. This man, a straight man nonetheless, was building a paper-mache tribute to gay marriage in his backyard. It was so D.C.- so overly political and yet, so NYC in its unapologetic weirdness. And it was then that I realized that there are fucking weird people everywhere and that D.C. weirdos were almost better- smarter- in their weirdness.

And it was at that moment that I missed my blog.

The paper mache sculpture of two men kissing made me realize that even though I have a boring life, theres plenty of weird shit going on in the world. Weird shit I like. Weird shit I don’t like. Weird shit I have an opinion on. So, why not blog about that? It doesn’t ALL have to be about me (although I am fascinating). It can be about politics, feminism, health care reform, balloon boys and girls. There is so much material in the world, why deprive my tens of readers of my opinion about them?

So I am back baby. And, as a personal pledge to myself, I promise to blog at least once a week. There’s a lot of weirdness going on in the world and I want to be a part of it.

You’re welcome.

P.S.- Had I been the blogger I aspire to be, I would have taken a picture with my phone to accompany this post. I am still growing and learning, so forgive me. I’m not even really sure what street it was on –or honestly, if I was still in Columbia Heights when I saw it- but if we get another nice day this weekend, maybe I’ll go back and look for it for you, my loyal reader (Tia)