And before that...

I think around April of 2000, my email pal Ian had asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I said, ”Octopusologist.”

”If I know something that I think you might be good at, can I offer it to you?” he asked.

”Hells yeah.” I answered.

A couple long months and emails and IMs later, I was meeting him for the first time in NY, being interviewed by Mike D, sweaty, tired, anxious, enthused, and ready to get the fuck off my path and into something bigger. Then Mike hurt his shoulder, and there was more waiting.

Then one Thursday evening in August, Ian made the offer and asked if I could be there in two weeks. Up until then, in the interests of not jinxing myself, I had done absolutely no preparing. So I put in my notice that Friday, and for the following two weeks I packed, planned, said goodbyes, worked full time at AOL, and attempted not to panic.

Then on Thursday, August 31, with strep face and no voice, I walked out of CC2 for the last time, picked up Laura Teeler and my cat, and we started driving. One year ago yesterday.

Yesterday, Grand Royal ended. Mostly, I feel bad for those who were truly emotionally invested in the company; I’d only been there a year. I was invested in this book, but who knows, maybe we can still do the book. If we can, it will be a far better book than it was going to be.

My parents took embarassingly good care of me all my life; my mom was born relatively affluent in New Jersey and wanted me to have everything she had when she was younger, and my dad was born relatively poor in Taiwan and wanted me to have all that he didn’t have when he was younger. Subsequently, even though we were safely middle middle class, they paid for my car and insurance and gas in high school (as well as my expensive school), they paid my tuition and living expenses in college.. I had it sickeningly easy the whole time. Then I graduated into the tech boom; two weeks after commencement, I was ensconced at Firefly. Since then, I’ve been on direct deposit – as a state of mind. Money shows up in my account on the 15th and 30th, most bills are auto-deducted from my account, and I just show up wherever I’m working every day and tap away at some keys and this allows me to make money come out of the ATM when I want Indian food or CDs or gas. I’ve never lost a job, only quit them.

So yesterday marks my first dose of dollar for dollar reality. Now I’m going to learn, on the fast track, what it really means to earn the money that allows me to live without a roommate (maybe), that makes my civic stay mine (god I hope so, it’s not really optional), that tips the bartender (gonna have to start clipping those $7.88 budweiser 18-pack coupons). This, I’ve come to understand, is a very very good thing. A long overdue lesson. Don’t get me wrong, I’m scared and have barely any savings, but the dread and anxiety I felt when Ian first clued us in that the shit might hit the fan are gone, replaced by this sort of que sera sera dreamstate where I feel like whatever’s next is next. I remember when I drove across country with Iodine in the car, and she panicked so much when we first got in and talked and talked and talked and panted and then as the days wore on, she figured out that even though you can get scared enough to think you’re going to die: you probably don’t die. You only die once (maybe twice if you’re mike watt), and you’re going to get scared a lot more often than you’re going to die. And I was scared shitless too, moving out here, and I learned that I can be scared shitless and things can still end up working out fine.

So I’m putting my resume together and crossing my fingers. If you know of anyone in L.A. who needs a Mary Chen, hit me up, of course. Maybe freelance is next, maybe I really can live the dream. Maybe another full time job. One thing’s certain: I’m about to eat the shit out of this sandwich.