lets keep things looking up

I made an editorial decision a ways back that I would avoid discussion of work on here. and that’s a good policy, I think: everybody is online-literate these days, Google is a nasty tough search engine and stuff written online never really goes away. so here’s a pro tip, kids: keep your online persona clean! that way, when you’re 40, everybody will be surprised when you get into some criminal bullshit. and people like surprises.

but anyway! I digress. the reason I bring this editorial decision up is so I can briefly — so briefly! — suspend it to describe my new job. I started this week.

and I’ll do so by first describing my last job, which was PR for a child advocacy nonprofit. that meant a lot of writing, but also a lot of media relations, a lot of blindly casting about on social media, a lot of pitching. doing all of this in a professional setting with smart, talented people was a great experience. and where I was once a Greenhorn, I’ve now graduated to Scrub. I learned a lot.

but! at the new job — the definition, the parameters of which are admittedly still coming into focus — they call me the writer. do you hear me? I’m the writer. the other day my boss introduced me to a room full of people in suits as “the writer.” and I held it together.

now, I’ll look back on this someday, probably soon, and think: man, this is some hokey bullshit. I know it is.

but, today in November 2012, with turkey day right around the corner (I’m on turkey duty for the first time this year), let me say: holy moly.

I’m a professional writer … of some sort! a writer. to me that feels like an honorific. and I’m very glad I get to write for a living, for whatever that’s worth.

what else

I bought a record player. for, like, forty bucks. it’s coming in the mail in a few days. my brother, always with the witty riposte, immediately ridiculed this news. can’t do anything in this family without a healthy dose of sarcasm, I swear!

my purchase, I fear it plays to type — that of the young urban professional. the damning evidence: I wear designer glasses that I bought online. I don’t have television. I write for a DC nonprofit. I have a blog that nobody reads. I commute by bike. of course I bought a record player. jesus! I’m turning into a hipster. somebody ought to do something.

but, nah. I don’t buy that. that’s not really why I got one. really why’s because I need a hobby, and a friend of mine suggsted digging around for old records, and I had an Amazon gift card. and, well, goddamn! do I gotta have an answer for everything?

nope, I sure don’t. and so, the first album I got, naturally, was Full Moon Fever. because I’m a big fan of Tom Petty. write that down, everybody: I’m a big fan.

2 comments so far

  1. Veerappan on

    we’ve got to go here, have to. Must. Go.

    :12 is legit, We need to party with that guy. Seriously, his cocktail party stories have got to win hands down. And you know he’s got stories out there, instances, blips on his timeline that we’ll never see, that equal him being used as a hood ornament on a bull in a bull ring. Pull out a bottle of booze with that guy and there’s NO telling where you’ll end up.

    You could pay him in booze for “favors.”

    Oscar! (i’m feeling that’s his name, definitely something from the Roscoe family ) we don’t have a 4th cinder block to keep the car off the ground, can you just lay there and we’ll put it on your head? Here’s a $1.76 bottle of whiskey for your troubles.

  2. dudeokay on

    after consideration, this is a great goddamn idea.

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