How to Hush a Sick Transmission

In a few days, I move into Brooklyn. Yesterday I held my new keys in my hand, finally after 23 years, a New Yorker.

Tonight I sped up 440 listening to Califone as the sodium lights winked around me. The turbo howled, competing with the grunt of the cylinders as the volvo soared across the back roads of Hudson County. It's a fitting way to bring my time on the peninsula to a close. Today I looked up the phonetic specifics of the North Jersey accent. Apparently what we do is rhotic and lacks a short a split. (wikipedia it. "new jersey english.") For 23 years of my life I continued my mothers dream of getting out of Hudson County and becoming a New Yorker. Now I know simultaneously that this will always be home, and that it's sensibilities will always somewhere be a part of me.

I'm moving into a place with Elias in Bedford-Stuyvesant, part of a network of beautiful brownstoned blocks. We have a beautiful if unimpressive view from the third story, and I will be within walking distance of John.

There's a new woman in my life. We'll call her Kay. And she makes me very happy.

I have a new job, working with Jay, as an "Investigator Journalist" at a due-diligence investigative firm. I write boring reports on hedge fund managers, and have a blast trying to catch mistakes that the research team makes. It's nominally enjoyable. It pays the bills. The office and the people in it are pretty good. Writing slogans in French from May 1968 on my impromptu bulletin board is only marginally helpful. Once I'm more on my feet, I'll look for something creative again.

Oh, and also, apparently, the PATH train is on fire.

Each one of those things could be a full post. But I am very tired. I'll try to write y'all more asap, but the move may make that difficult. Many happy regards to all. Boredom is counter-revolutionary.