Marc Spitz

Hi, my name is Marc. I haven’t blogged in a few days for a couple of reasons. Minor one: I’ve been getting critiqued on the way that i blog, i.e. uncleanly, without boxy, byte-y disciplione. It has been constructive, this input, but I am self conscious. Also making me a little hesitant: the James Wolcott memoir, Lucking Out, which I’ve finally gotten around to reading and am fully enjoying. Wolcott uses words I don’t have an easy facility with like “cant” “pedagogical” and “cloud-mingled.” Lately, I’ve been re-thinking exactly what this space should or could be since some days it’s company for me, and others, like Valentine’s Day, it’s a fully written piece (and on still others it’s nothing at all). My friend sarah started hers (as Ultragrrrl) because she used to get so fucked up she couldn’t remember what she did the night before, right? Is that the creation myth of her blog or did I get that wrong? And eventually it became a kind of branding thing? Or is that wrong as well? I think first thought best thought re: approach to blogging. It’ll get brittle and break if I ponder what to place in these boxes before hitting “publish.” There will be days when I will write something useful to more than just myself (I hope) and days like today where I type. Something might inspire a reader to look into one of my books or plays or magazine pieces or post a comment and another thing will elicit an eye roll or an egg roll. Eggs. I can tell you that a lot more writing is coming soon. Blogs. Books. That’s a promise. All official and shit. And I’ve been protecting these little quail or robin egg or Cadbury egg of happiness inside me over the past week as a result. And I guess looking for my cool again. I was actually making a noise the other day and for a second I wondered “What the fuck is that sound?” And I realized it was laughter. So, as I’m feeling this probably decade in coming sense of happiness, I’m really selective about what and how I communicate and where I go on the street, what i do with my time and choices, which trains i take, and what I consume (mostly root beer floats and cigarettes) so the fucker doesn’t crack. I need the eggs. Speaking of Cadbury eggs, bodega counter dwelling harbinger of spring, this morning, while walking the dogs, I sensed that it was coming. I know this not because I saw any krokus but I had the urge to play the Beastie Boys second album, and the second song on Nevermind, which only happens after the thaw for whatever reason. Taxi driver, I’m the egg man…