B O N D P H O N E.
Words and pictures by Chris Lamb.

I am growing bored with my country, as of late; the Etch-A-Sketch border lines and landmark eateries that make up territory are becoming too worn, too well-loved. I don't mean America, by any means - there's still too much too see, too many places to go. I haven't lived on San Francsico's Valencia, preferably over that diner with the library of used books and perfect avocado sandwiches. I've never seen Albuquerque or any of Arizona. I've never gone to Rock City or any of those states in the middle with the long names that start with an M. My personal map of the world is a shaky diamond, Houston to Birmingham then up the South East coast with a brief jump to the West coast for a few weeks, then ending up in New York. I haven't been any where, I haven't seen anything. My first trip to San Francisco, my first time going farther West than an old battle ground or two in Houston, I saw the great American desert from above and was awestruck. I took in the contrast of snow-capped mountains against baked khaki Earth. And there, thousands of miles over the earth, traveling well over four hundred miles per hour, I understood the beauty of creation. I saw the world as astronauts must see it, as the sum rather than the parts, and a unified, peaceful sphere light years away from the pollution and war that were actually tearing it apart. I Understood. I Believed. Then I promptly fell asleep and forgot the whole thing.

It's Summertime in Manhattan, proper and muggy with the sort of humidity you have to peel off and leave in a pile next to your clothes before collapsing in front of a fan. I'm working at a coffee shop and, as of last week, proofreading on the side. I don't make much, but I make enough to pay rent, feed myself and my bartenders, and can almost justify the occasional new phone or music binge. It's not life, but it's living. When people ask if I'm keeping busy* I say yes, sure, because it certainly feels like I am. I work, I sleep, I eat and read and drink and watch TV shows pulled from the internet. Sometimes I write, and when that happens I try to ignore the lack of direction or intent that plagues my words. Time passes.

This is not enough.

The part of my brain concerned with cute coincidence latches on the frequency of Dis - capital city of Hell, nickname of Hades, general not-good-meaning word - in my life at the moment, and its use as a prefix. Disinterest. Dissatisfaction. Dishelveled. The old claustrophobia of 2004 that landed me in Alphabet City on two week's notice with three suitcases to my name has settled in, draw to sent of patterns and paths worn in the sidewalk of my neighborhood. I eat the same food and shop the same stores, I work the same hours and see the same people. I have stopped exploring, stopped bluffing and barnstorming my way into parties and situations I have no business being in. I can't remember the last time I felt rocked back on my heels, hit all at once by the realization that I live in New York City. I have settled, I have grown comfortable, and it has lessened me.

It is time for change, now, before the need to breathe sends me running for another city just as I'm getting to know this one. I have caught myself in the process of forgetting how things work, the truth-or-dare decision making that takes hold in the wee small hours and makes us gods before sunrise, and only pray I can make up that lost ground. It is time for dumb moves and proper challenges, for living on my toes rather than life and work as a repetitive motion injury. This is indeed the year that makes us grow up; that doesn't mean growing old. Gimme gimme gimme life, gimme danger, little stranger.

This is the fifth or sixth Go Get 'Em Tiger post I've made here, at least, and this time, swear to God? I really want to mean it. Bring on the Summer.

posted by chris  # 4:08 AM 0 comments

My Sidekick 2 decided to stop reading my SIM card last week. Rather than using my warranty for the umpteenth time to get yet another refurbished replacement, I did the sensible thing and dumped all my spare cash into the Motorola A630.

The smaller body and interior screen means I can dial like normal people, and the camera is a few dozen times better than the old one. Now that email's set up, I can mobile post just as easily and as much as last time.

Which is a joke, see, because I don't post that much, and - y'know what? Forget it. Just forget it.

posted by chris  # 3:58 AM 0 comments

Bondphone is dead. Long live Bondphone. More on the stupid things I spend money on later.

posted by chris  # 4:17 AM 0 comments

I have lived in New York for a year, as of last weekend.

Sitting at work, bored and reading. Stood slanted with poor posture over a book and waiting, just waiting for the cash register clock to tick over to one so oi can chase everyone out. A girl comes in, short with strawberry blonde hair pushed back and freckles, dear God so many freckles. Dressed the sort of casual cool that comes with classes. I make her coffee and she asks where I'm fron, where I went to school, do I know an Erin in Huntsville? I don't; I know people who do. Not only that but she's Camille's little sister, twice as smart and together and just as crazy. Ten minutes into comparing notes she offers to get me high and hits on me. I'm sorry, you're cute and smart and a sponsorship deal from ruling the world, but you fucked that Steve guy two years ago. I'm sorry, but no.

Nina moves to Florida via airplane a year to the day from my landing at Laguardia. I have her television, her shelves, her Trivial Pursuit (Genus IV) and her potatoes. I give my trusty old mattress to Val for her new apartment a year after finding it outside my building while talking to Huntsville. People come and go, they move in and out and break up and propose on all my little anniversaries for the end of May, going through the same motions in unrealized tribute. I'm in Rothko again, the first proper bar I went to upon arriving. I'm lying on my back on Will's roof, my first New York roof and proper view of the skyline, making jokes about Easy E in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Confluence, Ellison's Slippage is every where. It comes off on your hands and stains your jeans when you try to rub it off.

And now I'm on the N train home at ten past six in the morning, leaving Queens for Manhattan after a night closing bars and fighting landlords for people I just met. On the seat, waiting for me, today's paper already printed, bought, skimmed and abandoned to tell me what I missed in the meantime. My city, she takes care of me.

posted by chris  # 6:15 AM 0 comments