Well, hard to believe but tomorrow is my last day in corporate-land.  I spent today tidying things up, and doing stuff like going out and buying boxes and packing tape ($64!) because my employer completely blew it and didn't send any in time, then boxing up (x8) my entire caseload (115 files), dragging them up the stairs and arranging, after much idiotic struggle (that for once wasn't my fault), to have it shipped off.  At 1pm the UPS man promptly took it all away - my entire livelihood.  Tomorrow I'll unhook the work computer, monitor, printer and phone, and somehow stuff it all into 2 enormously oversized boxes (with supersized bubble wrap the size of mag wheels) that they did manage to send.  And then .. nothing! 

Ie:  I have no job whatever on the horizon. 

(Is it nuts that I did this on purpose?) 

(Hopefully that will not prove to be the case.) 

(Oddly, I don't even really care.) 

Okay, even typing that last sentence feels like tempting fate, but in all honestly ... I actually don't care.  I'll pick something up, somewhere, at some point after I get back.  Maybe in insurance, maybe not.  Yes, I'm hugely ambitious.  (An attitude mum would want to strangle me for.)  But shit, how can you get excited about insurance ?  Thankfully my compensation package - for once! - is generous.  And the nice (and amazing) thing is, The Trip is already entirely paid for - housing and flight - I only need buy food and subway fare - and I haven't even dipped into the package.  Goes without saying that I'm incredibly fortunate to be able to do this.

*

Inspiration comes from odd, unexpected places.  For me in a way, the roots of my itchy feet came not only from feeling my 'middle age' - the realization struck me especially hard last fall that I've been in Maine, and in insurance, since the tender age of 24 - essentially half my life - and in some ways I stopped moving at that point (being surrounded full time by middle aged housewives didn't help) - but also - bear with me, inspiration came also from a chance viewing of a weird NYC arty/idie film called Shortbus, which contained every type of oddball, wackjob creative type and over the top NYC 'performance artist' and drag queen and non-equity actor and little folky Ani DiFranco-worshipping cute blonde gayboy singer you could pack into one film.  And it has a sing-along ending.  And then you find out all these people are friends in real life, and they go, some of them, on amazing roadtrips together scouting out Ford Pintos and national parks and throwing outdoor daytime DJ parties playing old music (no actual 'disco') and write wonderful, funny blogs documenting it all.  And then inadvertently through Shortbus I discovered Transamerica, which it turns out is just a total treasure - a beautifully told, totally original, really funny and emotional and sweet road movie featuring - okay? - what is supposed to be a 40-something, unattractive woman and her traveling companion - a startlingly beautiful 17 year old hustler boy.  How exactly am I not supposed to like that?

Anyway, because of all of this, I originally became smitten with the idea of visiting NYC, since I've never been, and doing stuff like checking out Central Park (frigging 843 acres and full of museums and historic fountains ...

... and statues and stuff like the Strawberry Fields mosaic), as well as Dylan's old haunts, such as the Cafe Wha (still exists!), and the corner of Jones and West 4th,(where the Freewheelin' cover photo was taken.) 

And how about the fact that Woody Allen and his jazz band play every Monday night at the Carlyle Hotel?  Stuff like that.  After, I was gonna drive south to New Orleans (because I'm curious, and oh god, all the little shotgun houses), and check out places like Asheville and Charleston and Savannah along the way.  I was even looking into hostels - that's hostels, not hotels - in addition to potential couch surfing stuff.  But something about the combination of my ass and all that solo driving, plus the fact that my car has 140,000 miles on it, plus the fact that I expected to be laid off in January - damn cold in NY then - made me change course.

Okay, in truth, and call me a lunatic, but Dan Savage sort of made me change course (as only gay men seem to be able to do.)  I was going to be on the west coast anyway ...

I've never actually lost my love for Seattle, mind you, it was just on hiatus, and of course, like with San Francisco, once I started checking it out again, I wanted to go really, really bad.  Funnily, I was initially gonna do just LA and Seattle, then thought, hell, San Fran is midway between, so ...

I briefly entertained a visit to Portland, Oregon, if only to check out Powell's Books (their answer to Seattle's Elliot Bay Books), all 1.6 acres of it (literally) (just read that they buy 3000 used books a day), but finally said screw it, and went with the safer bets.

*

So there.  My job's ending - today I, in fact, received my very last paycheck - I own a home and owe a mortgage, the economy blows, I'll be 47 in a few weeks which sucks for any number of reasons, the least of which being that I will likely and for the first time face age discrimination in my job hunt ... and I'm sitting here, smiling.  Yes, naive.  Blissfully, stupidly unaware of what is to come, of the financial miseries that may befall me, but once again, I just don't damned care.  Life's way damned short, dammit.