PARTY OF MANY, MELANCHOLY OF ONE

I’ve been having a rough time as of late, and I think the main cause has been my job. Don’t get me wrong; I love being a reporter, but the news business is a fairly pessimistic one, and I think I got caught up in the bad vibes.

I probably bottomed out last weekend, when K. went out of town. Now, it should have represented a chance for me to enjoy having the apartment to myself, to cook lots of red meat, snort all the cocaine I wanted, etc. However, from Friday to Sunday I had to interview various people for news stories involving topics which I won’t get into. All you need to know is that these topics are contentious ones. Throughout interview after interview, I was bombarded with equal parts self-glorification and angry hate-spew, the latter of which was aimed at real estate developers, bar owners, old women, and the American educational system.

My point is, in my line of work, everyone I encounter in the field is a mouthpiece trying to recruit me for a cause. They’re either trying to sell me on the greatness of their own beliefs, or the irredeemable awfulness of somebody else. I try to play fair, and sometimes that blows up in my face. Last week, we got an anonymous e-mail accusing me of being the lapdog for a community activist group, because I showed up at an event and reported what actually transpired. Meanwhile, an equally-angry e-mail is probably on its way from the opposite side, accusing me of characterizing them as bullies. Welcome to my “Yojimbo;” only, instead of playing two sides against each other, I’m pitting them against myself.

So people suck, or at least, that’s what I thought before last Friday. That’s when K. and I had our long-awaited “joint birthday-housewarming” party. To tell you the truth, I was not looking forward to socializing with people. Yes, I mopped the floor and helped prepare non-alcoholic sangria, but most of the burden for preparing the apartment fell on K. All those cheeses and breads featured prominently on a glass chessboard? K.’s doing. Still, I tried not to be such a gloomy guss once guests actually arrived, and to that extent, I’m proud to say I rose to the occasion.

In hindsight, I’m glad that I pulled my ostrich-like head from out of my ass. It was fun having people over, pinballing back and forth between the gatherers in the living room and the exiles out on the fire escape. Also, everyone brought gifts to our humble abode, so now our apartment is festooned with fine food, fragrant flowers, and well wishes. But more importantly (for my own piece of mind, anyway), the party served as a reminder that there is no substitute for good friendships. Because friends talk to you; they don’t necessarily talk at you. They tell you their problems, but they don’t expect you to conjure up 500-700 words championing their cause, while defaming somebody else. Trust me, there’s a big difference.

Five hours talking to a news source is not nearly as pleasant as five minutes conversing with a friend. No news can be good news. Now I can save all that cocaine for when I’m really, really depressed.