Mark him down as another casualty.
I Know The Light Has Left His Face, But I Can't Recall Just Where or Why...
I come from a long line of drinkers and dreamers. So it is with the sure knowledge that sunshine doesn't hold up to dark that I relate the sad news that one of my friends is packing his leaving trunk and boarding that midnight train. If you can, and if you are so inclined, some secular novenas for those afflicted by life wouldn't go amiss. Any of you have suffered with/through clinical depression will know that it can steal the breath from your body. The word sad is so far from covering it that it might as well be in a foreign tongue.
So. Sometimes, when nothing else works, you have to go back to where people know you, and can prop you up on your leaning side.
I'm nowhere near making that decision for myself. But I wouldn't mind being even further. My roommate and I are having a party next weekend, and amongst the jumble of themes (Chinese New Year/Mardi Gras/Anti-Valentine's Day) she wants to toss a "Jugo's Four Month Anniversary in L.A." nod in there. The thought of marking my spectacular crash and burn in the City of Angels fills me with revulsion. For those annotating such things, note that my disastrous tenure in Portland was catalyzed by only two months of initial instability. I've already spent double that amount sinking further and further into moral bankruptcy and indigence in a town of ravenous consumption. I'm starting to suspect that my name is meant to be some sort of cosmic watchword for bad luck. I have no idea how someone with my bonafides wound up being so utterly unemployable, but happened it has. And I'm not talking about the worthless qualifications I spent 60K and 10 years earning: I'm talking about the fact that I've had about one billion jobs in the past and yet can't seem to land a single one right now. I've been a waitress, a cook, a stripper and a nude model. I've been an admin assistant and a paralegal and a college professor. I've been a library page and a circulation clerk. I've been a bridge page and a tournament runner. I've been a freelance writer and I've been a barista. I've worked in catering and editing and services for the homeless. I've done community programming and front desk reception.
I have done a lot.
Right now, I'm not doing much.
I used to date (and by "date" I mean "was the subject of an inscrutable dork anthropology experiment") this dude and I remember when the fear and worry of not getting by in Portland was gnawing its way up my alimentary canal he would very dismissively insist that being out of work for two months was such a comparatively minor event. Give it a year, he kept saying. It could take a year for you to find a decent job.
Well, I can't tell you how much I appreciated his supercilious concern for my well being. I wanted to shake him. But I can tell you that it wasn't entirely his fault. He came from money and he had money of his own and all of his friends had money. I honestly don't think he ever walked away from a job that didn't offer some kind of severance package. Sometimes I suspect that he reads this blog and if he does, he knows that I am talking about him right now. So you should know, [name redacted] that I bear you no ill will, but there were times when I thought you were an android who hadn't been correctly programmed to understand human emotions. Having said that, I hope that you are well and you should continue to visit The Get Down.
Anyway, good luck and prayers go out on behalf of one of my erstwhile fellow Los Angelenos. It's a hard knock life, for sure. Godspeed, LS.