A Disclaimer from Los Angeles

If there’s any real way I can open this blog, it’s with a warning:

This is not going to be tasty stuff.

This is not going to be a blog charting my “experiences” with gleaming photographs and pretty borders, proof that I was indeed in New York, and taking slightly off-angle photos to prove my artsy street-cred.

I know who my audience is, and I could give you pre-packaged, snarky commentary on the trials and tribulations of being an intern on two of the most prestigious shows on American television. But I won’t do that. Most of you already see that side of me on CalTV, and though I love entertaining the people, only few of you know the other side to “this all.” Look at me, I sound like a voiceover from a Britney Spears MTV Diary segment.

Scratch that, a lot of this will be entertaining, I’m sure. Amusing in the sick sense that you’re not dealing with a stable author, but as this guy I’m “seeing” retorts, who’s stable anyway?

Back to the solemn real-nasty ill shit of this blog: Sure, I’m more than grateful for where I am, the opportunity I have, the people I’m going to meet, but what I care about most is how this whole “New York” experience is going to do more than teach me valuable career lessons, or make me appreciate chill Bay Area transportation.

It’s gonna force me to finally grow up.

Yeah, this is dangerous. All of it. Self-publishing a pseudo-diary, a short virtual novella, that will probably come back to me some day in the future. But I told myself that I wasn’t going to drift through the motions of living in a new place without taking the time to make something more out of this.

Art? Life? A cure for the disease that is now found on all aisles of CVS and your local college library: over-thinking?

But over-thinking implies that there exists one specific, safe level and pace at which to think. Is there? Can you just think about something enough, be satisfied, and thusly be deemed a “thinker”? I guess so. But because I already thought and typed that, it’s too late for me.

As always, words remain when reality, family, hopes, dreams, and speech fail me. I’m just lucky such slick macbooks* exist so I can chart my thoughts at the light-speed in which they develop (and then change.)

*[No Macbooks were harmed in the making of this blog]

The fancy labels and the entertaining stories will still come—I’ll still write about how I fucked up Stephen Colbert’s coffee, or how I camped out at 30 Rock to catch a glimpse of Andy Samberg and we exchanged a couple words (*this will happen*); but the majority of this stuff will be Panoosh—

(disclaimer for anyone who doesn’t know me, in the roughest and/or smoothest sense of the word, the act of panooshing, at least for me, involves taking in all the menacing, wonderful, simultaneously confusing aspects of life and mixing them up, studying them, dwelling on them, and then letting them go. It’s a purported effort to not try so hard, so that by the end of your self-indulgent rambling that probably no one other than bored young employees on facebook will read, it will be time to get some coffee and marvel at the nonsense that you just spewed out all over the computer screen.)

Well, if anyone knows me, you know I love this shit. And if you don’t-- now you know, and maybe you’ll find snippets of sentences or memories in here that spark some thought so that you may, too, become a gloriously prodding over-thinker, a label once reserved only for neurotic Jews and/or Virgos with obsessive compulsive tendencies. But I apologize, that’s wrong. Acknowledging the aforementioned stereotype only perpetuates it, no? I take back everything I just said.  (Possibly).

Alright, shit’s getting too real, and by real, I mean personal. Although I’d love to share everything that goes through my mind, let’s be honest: no one cares.

So I’ll talk about stuff people can all relate to: tooth extractions! We’ve all feared them, experienced them, and if you’re lucky, avoided them. Well, it happened to me three days ago when Dr. Ozaki reached into my beautiful mouth and extracted 4 of the most lucrative sources of my young-adult wisdom (teeth). That’s why the first entry of this blog is being composed from my home in California, as I rest for two more days before heading to New York.

And so, while many of my friends have been or are currently abroad, soaking up a completely new culture, I have some business with the domestic abroad agency: headquarters: My Mind; CEO Mayor Bloomberg.

Time comes full circle anyway, so maybe I’ll be in Italy the next time I think about time. And because Twitter was too small for the overflowing words I have, I invite you to sit back and experience a slower form of publishing: the weirdly colorful and tragically maddening world of FELBS & THE CITY (f*ck you Carrie Bradshaw).

Oh, and because this is a family channel and I run the risk of my actual family reading this, I’ll try to keep it somewhat kosher with the addition of only-necessary astricks and other forms of syndicated censorship taught at Internet etiquette class.

One more question: Can I be in a New York state of mind, when New York only exists as a PLACE in my mind?

I'll let you know when I get there in three days.

NOOSHES,

Kfelbs