My pops once asked me why I juggle multiple, unrelated gigs rather than having a steady, and asked me why I'm willing to go thousands into debt just to have an airplane take me over the ocean. I told him I don't care about money and said I don't want to work for anybody. He said, But you do work for somebody--you work for the credit card companies.

That shut me up. Smart man, my pops. He gave me DNA, half his brains, a roof over my head, ass-whippings when I needed 'em and three squares a day. Good guy.

Here on my own I'm down to two squares a day, kind of squandered my half of the brains. And the last ass-whipping I earned, over on 7th and Bleecker, never came to fruition; the gorilla-sized man and his bigger friend got back in their car and drove away with unbruised knuckles. Guess they had a party to go to.

At parties or the bar people ask me what I do and I say, You mean for a living. Like they're gonna say No, I meant what do you do to find spiritual peace and larger meaning in this world.

Whenever they ask I'm always tempted to answer I'm a hustler, but that sounds self-aggrandizing or like I'm cooler than I am. But I am a hustler, that's what I do for a living. Not a grifter, there's a difference. I find three or four things to do that have paychecks attached and I do them until the mailman brings me that envelope.

There's a certain amount I have to earn each day, week and month to get those two squares and the spirits to wash 'em down, and a certain amount to shut the landlord up, keep the lights on and prevent Mastercard from calling me when I'm trying to enjoy said squares. Some days it's a bitch, others it's cake, still others I find myself holding the bar down with my elbows while I try to decide which it was.

In Manhattan, the bars stay open late.