No money, no job, no rent. Hey, I'm back to normal.

Well, I'm back from NYC, I do believe I've had enough. This was a really strange trip home for me. For the last four Christmases, it was just a quick visit to NYC between semesters. I always knew I had another term waiting for me when I got back to Madison. Stuff was in progress. But this time I'm back to (theoretically) start my career. As what, I don't know. I have a journalism degree from a major university. That and a quarter will get you a game of skee-ball.

When I was home, I had the awkward conversation with my parents about money. It seems I've bled them dry over the past four and a half years, and now they're cutting me off. It actually was fine, I was the one who brought it up. I said, "Pop, thanks for everything you've done for me, from here on out I won't need any money from you." He sighed, and then he said, "That's good, because we have nothing left to give you." That made me feel sad for my parents, like I had broken them financially. But it felt good to be on my own a week out of college, like I was coming out of the gate swinging, ready to pull my own weight. It seemed right. No matter that I have no job and no prospects. I'll figure that out.

Getting cut off made me feel like a man. The last time I talked about becoming a man was in July of last year, when I was one month shy of my 21st birthday. Clyde and I were drinking on the porch at Mifflin Street, and I was lamenting the fact that I couldn't get into bars. We hatched a plan to drive to Canada that night, where the drinking age is 19. My theory was that as you cross the border into Canada, you become a man. You've earned the trust and respect of a nation, even if it's not your own. I began calling Canada "Manada" and I was pulsating with excitement to go. But then we got tired and passed out. When I woke up the next morning, I was still an innocent American boy, nestled securely in my bunk bed, trapped in a land that refused to open its bars to me.

That was a year and a half ago. In that year and a half, almost everybody I know has moved forward in life except me. Here's a quick list:

-Clyde Bowren: in the middle of his second year of law school here in Madison.

-Max Armbruster: accepted into UW law school, working for a year here in Madison to establish Wisconsin residency, so he can save beaucoup tuition money. He's working a crap-ass job in the food service department of the University Hospital, but it's all part of a larger plan, you know?

-Milo Vladek: my roommate; in the middle of his first year of Med School here at Madison.

-DB Everett: graduated with me last week, kind of in the same boat as me in terms of looking for a job. But he's got his shit together and I'm sure he'll end up going to law school or something.

-Joe Wladislaw: has one more semester to go to finish his mechanical engineering degree, and he's already interviewed at a bunch of places. In six months, he'll be taking home $35 or 40 K a year, easy.

-Bob Jefferson: same as Joe.

-Vic Franco: same as Joe and Bob, but he has two semesters left because he co-oped for two semesters.

So now when we all go out drinking, there's a note of desperation in it for me. They're all still on their educational path to success, I'm a working stiff. Or not even.

Christmas itself was fine. My sis got me a little journal to write in, I'm pretty excited about that. One of my goals is to write in that thing every day.

But first, I gotta say, I am excited about being an adult. I can do whatever the hell I please, and I owe no explanation to anybody for it. So far, what's pleased me is drinking almost every night. To the point of drunkenness every other night.

Yesterday I went over to Clyde's apartment at about 2 pm. It was an unseasonably mild day, it may have hit 35 degrees or so. But it was rainy and dark and overall a great day to sit inside watching movies and getting drunk. So Clyde and his brother and Vic and I watched Barfly and got drunk.

Barfly is an excellent movie, I can't believe I never saw it before. Mickey Rourke is hilarious. The main character is a poet who pretty much drinks his life away day after day in L.A. bars. After the movie, a drunk Clyde couldn't stop repeating this one line, "Endurance is more important than truth." We kept drinking in an attempt to prove the movie right.

But eventually my endurance ran out and I headed home. I got back to my apartment (which I share with Milo, Joe, Bob, Vic, and another dude named Vernon Pinkley) around 9, and Max was over, looking to see if anybody wanted to go out drinking. I was pretty tired, but the movie had inspired something in me, so I thought I'd weigh my options.

"We just saw Barfly," I said. "Have you ever seen it?"

"Yeah, it's not bad," Max said. "Have you ever read Bukowski?"

I hadn't even heard of him, nor did I know what Max was talking about.

"Is he related to Frank Brickowski?" I asked sarcastically.

"No, he's the writer who the movie's based on," Max said. "You should read his stuff. Very honest. He really lives like that."

I was in no mood for an education, so I excused myself and went upstairs.

When I got up to my room, which is actually just a closet with a bed in it, I opened up my new journal and decided I was going to write something. The first page was an inscription from my sister, so I opened it to the second page, which was nice and clean and ready for me to throw down some brilliant words on it. But nothing came. So I turned the page back to the inscription and read it again.

"To Hans

X-Mas 91

for your first sportswriting assigments and other demented things from the never-never land in your fine little brain

love you doll!

xx ya sistah"

That's what it said. It made me feel special, like I was destined for something. I decided that if I couldn't just start spitting out an award-winning story right there, at least I could jot down a few practical thoughts to help me in these first few weeks of manhood. Here's what I wrote:

GOALS:

1. Go to the library and learn all about cars. If I don't have a job, or if my job is easy, this is the moment in my life to catch up on all sorts of things that I've always wanted to do. To educate myself where others have failed to educate me. And the first thing I want to know about is cars. How they work, how to fix them, all that shit.

2. Write in the journal every day. Who knows, I may never have this much time or freedom again.

3. Find a university job so I can have access to the gym and play hoops.

4. Look for a journalism job?

5.

At this point, I ran out of ideas. I left it off there and ran downstairs to see if Max was still around, and if he still wanted to go out. He was, and he did.

"How about the Hideaway?" I asked. The Pinckney Street Hideaway was a little bar tucked over by the State Capitol Building. You could get $3 pitchers of Leinenkugel’s there on weeknights, and on weekends they were still only $4.

"Sounds good," he said. And I agreed. It did sound good.

I woke up this morning in a pool of sweat, not remembering much from after we got to the bar. But something tells me it was worth it.