“fuck it, Dude, let’s go bowling” – Walter, ‘The Big Lebowski’
This has been the hardest column to begin since I started this blog. Usually, when people say that, it’s followed by “and that’s why the blog’s ending” or some other, realer tragedy. That’s not happening here. It’s been a hard column to start because I don’t know what to write about. Listen: I am a working writer. There’s always something to write about, or at least some fun column gimmick (ekphrasis, what makes this song rip, albums I loved in high school, let’s read a poem). None of those have sounded appealing at all, though. Writing at all doesn’t really sound appealing, then again, food hasn’t been tasting right lately, either. This blog was started in 2022, a few months after I quit drinking. There’s always been a consistent voice and theme: life is full of monsters and terrors, but there’s too much fun to be had out there to be miserable all the time. Life is ultimately worth living if you have enough friends/family, books, and weed. Here, three years on, is a depression column. If it helps, it’s only gonna be three paragraphs.
The alarm goes off every morning at five. Used to be 6:30, but then I got a paying job. It’s a good job with a strong anti-AI policy, but it still pays less than my last job. It’s not really job’s fault, either, it’s the writing market that’s bad. The kid got waitlisted for the school-provided free summer camp this year, we can’t afford to send him anywhere, so my days are spent trying to be a good dad while balancing work. A kid can’t spend a summer inside. I work as hard as I can until 5 o’clock, at which point I cook dinner for my family. After dinner, I usually work some more. Tuck the kid in, recharge with a little weed and TV from 9 to midnight. “Chris go to bed earlier” I’ve tried, if I go to bed before midnight, I wake up between two and three and can’t get back to sleep. Without fail. When I go to bed, there is almost always more on my to-do list. There is never enough money in the bank. In fact, I’m walking around with debt. As if some unfeeling cosmic horror entity is watching over us, there has been some new financial hit every week. This week, it was a parking ticket for expired license plates, which either Mal or me would’ve remembered to update, if we weren’t spending every waking moment of this summer scheduling some appointment or another, dealing with some unforeseen catastrophe or another, or, you know, trying to squeeze just a little bit of enjoyment out of the time of year when you can go outside in Chicago.
*BONUS paragraph: in between writing that second one and this next one, I took the kid to an appointment. I was going to finish this blog while at the appointment. Before I could get started writing, Mal called to tell me about some new nightmare to hit our apartment. I still stand by the next paragraph.
Put it on my tombstone: THIS MOTHERFUCKER LIVED A BETTER LIFE THAN ELON MUSK AND JEFF BEZOS. You know what I haven’t spent this summer doing? Watching my wealth dwindle away and my company tank because I am a Nazi who mails women my sperm. Get married to some instagram-scrolling cyborg with Mar-A-Lago face whom I have to remind myself is alive. Throw parties that people only come to because they feel like they can’t say no. All of that is loser shit. You know what I do with my life? I raise my son. I eat food and watch movies and go on adventures with my wife. I see my best friend, since I was eight years old best friend, every week to work on art, bullshit about life, and smoke a little weed. I live in the same building as wife’s best friend, whose kids are the same age as mine, who are basically our family in this city. On my two podcasts? Bare minimum, I get to talk to two incredible dudes. Beyond that, I get to interview writers and artists that are super, super cool (keep yr eyes on yr feeds, we got a good one tomorrow). I read a book a week. People enjoy my cookouts. I live in the greatest city in the world. I’m going to keep having this “fuck you I’m having fun” attitude until I can’t, and I genuinely don’t know what can’t looks like. This is not an advice column, this is not The Secret or Power of Positive Thinking or whatever. Shit sucks and I’m pissed about it (royally pissed). But in case you needed to read “fuck you I’m having fun” today, there it is. Let’s go have fun.
Sorry you got an email,
Chris