Six Weeks to Determine if I’m Bumpkin or Metrosexual

I’ve weathered two Chicago winters. Well, that isn’t entirely accurate. The first was blissful solitude, almost like a full year of the Vacation Sensation, having freshly replanted myself from LA with office job and clunky car and failing relationship and drooling cat. I went from a sweltering eternal 72º in smog-drizzled California to a frigid 10º midwest winter, replete with biblical thunderstorms and frozen mega lakes I went from bike-blind, hollywood-drunk, perpetually texting drivers to bike-blind homicidally indifferent drivers. From.. well, yeah, you get it. 180º. U-turn. Flip-flop.

My first year in Chicago, fully expressed in 4 panels.

One year of zero responsibilities, boozing it up and drawing with newfound creative juice! And raising hell with the motley Trubble Club gang. Somehow avoiding the ever-elusive task of Crafting The Big Story For The Big Book I Will Draw Some Day Motherfuck. Yes! This is the life!

My second year in Chicago had a bit less of that new city sheen. I was in the same apartment, going to the same taqueria which I had settled on as the winner within walking distance, alternating weekly between a lush and teetotaler, a lazy bum and a devoted jogger. I managed to get quite a bit of drawing and webdesigning done, yet also sometimes woke up with hangovers bad enough to consider calling an ambulance. Thankfully I instead realized watching Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and nursing a cup of ginger-honey tea while propped up in bed against a wall of pillows, while slightly rocking and humming "ohhhhhhhh" for a few hours did the trick to bring me back to life. Nothing makes you feel more idiotic than drinking enough (by yourself no less) to puke. What the hell is the point of that? None. No point. Just a lack of recognizing "good buzz ok stop no need to keep slurping." Back to teetotaling for 3 weeks! Rinse, repeat.

I decided I’d move back to Oregon and go rural. Hell, my whole adult life has been an alternating existence between the woods and ye olde concrete jungle. I visited Oregon for our yearly camping trip and suddenly remembered just how goddamn honky Oregon is I looked at property to buy on the outskirts of various towns and cities, and I often felt like I was looking at stills from Deliverance. I imagined myself moving in, three months down the line, dead silent and pitch black outside, sitting at my sad little table with a desk light, sipping whiskey and trying to draw a page of comics. Good god man, what was I thinking? I’m trapped! (Insert slo-mo NOOOOOO footage.)

Despite my indecision, I told my Chicago property overlords I would not be renewing their required lease for a third round. So now I have six weeks to decide. Rustic shack or happenin’ bachelor pad apartment?

I do really like the idea of an acre+ along a river, about 15-20 minutes from decent groceries and a movie theater, live music, a good comic/book store, etc, equipped with a simple dwelling that isn’t miserable to live in and one I can putz around fixing and adding onto. Garden, woodshop, computer/drawing studio. The funny thing is I’m describing almost exactly the setups I had while living on Orcas Island minus owning the property, ten years ago.

I’m just tired of so many goddamn cars and pollution and noise and crime. It’s charming to a certain extent, then quickly becomes miserable. But I love a real transit system, being able to live without a car, being around a ton of creative people, constantly having things going on, the ability to eat out late and to eat out well and to eat out cheaply, the plethora of attractive ladyfolk that seem to flock to urban areas (however unapproachable they may be), and the general sense that I’m living in an actual pulsing group-human-heartbeat. As opposed to being the minor human blip in an otherwise more natural earthy heartbeat.

That said, I like the idea even more of living now & then in New York, Chicago, LA, Portland, France, South Korea, etc -- but also having 1-5 acres in a beautiful quiet sleepytown that I can retreat to for months at a stretch and write, relax, reset, and be still. Unfortunately, that requires lots of cash, which I’ve never been too talented in accruing. I currently have a nice little safety egg with zero debt, but it would disappear (and then some) if I decide to buy property.

In short: I don’t know what the fuck to do. I’m now 35, I feel like I should have figured this out. I love many parts of Chicago, and I’m terribly bored sometimes (gasp! that’s new) alternating with feeling sharp & on track & creative & present, then depressed and seeing absolutely no point in getting up. I don’t like that boredom and depression have become an element of what used to be a clear and driven existence. I can’t necessarily blame that on Chicago, I could be anywhere, this just happened to be where I was when it stuck its tar-coated teeth into my being.

Truthfully, I wonder how much it has to be with my being a fully-engaged 21st century human in an increasingly insane age. With my iPhone, iPad constant internet, Hulu, Netflix, bittorrents, Wii PlayStation 2, digital projector, giant DSLR camera, podcasts & mp3s -- essentially I’ve crafted a constant stream of media input I can’t resist. I’ve drunk heavily and am once again a bit hungover on the technology, but there’s apparently no escaping. I mean it can be done but it’s become a sort of social suicide. Hell, maybe it truly is worthwhile to selfishly cut the cord of Virtual Life and return to a slower existence where you’re only connected to those you physically run into. It honestly sounds equally terrifying and blissful.

The giant irony being, of course, that I’m typing this on my laptop to post on my personal website. Jesus christ, is this living large in 2010? I feel like I’m being whisked along in a sea of illuminated corn syrup being nuzzled by electric fish, my eyeballs doused by a pH-balanced waterfall of television and movies, moving nowhere fast, satiated, bloated, pleasantly intoxicated, oh wait: MUST CHECK EMAIL.