Journal of a Working Boy

(Written Saturday, October 14, 2006)

I'm sitting in Arty's northeast Portland studio and I have a fucking headache. My eyes are glassy, my nose stuffy and I didn't even drink last night. My current physical state could possibly be a remnant of the gin shower I took Thursday night, but more likely it is the result of months of general disrespect to my health. I can honestly estimate that since June I've drank alcohol approximately five nights per week – usually two nights of heavy drinking (7-10 drinks) and three of either social or recreational (1-3).

It would seem as though my problem (this one at least) is quite easily solvable. I could stop drinking so much. I've been mulling over this thought since July, though, and things have not changed a bit. (I'm probably drinking more these days because I have no responsibilities in Eugene besides writing two stories that I already know.) If I'm not going out with my friend Tim to get wasted while we talk about our fledgling industry, I'm drinking beers at his house while watching baseball and listening to Rocky quotes on the internet (this is actually quite fun).

Now, before you go all, "Danny, stop being a lowlife and clean it up," I must digress. You see, things are kind of up in the air these days. The journalism world is not the easiest place to find work. Generally, reporters must start at a small daily or work part-time at urban newspapers for a couple years before seeming credible enough to earn any sort of responsibility at a metro. This is after earning a college degree and working for free at internships where your writing sits next to salaried reporters' stories and the advertisements that pay the bills. In my case, most of this is taking place while I attend college for the second time.

If I sound bitter, it's because I am. Not at anyone or any institution in particular, but at the amount of work, time, and borrowed money that it has taken for me to get to this point – which is essentially my foot in the door. I'm also quite thankful, on the other hand, for the amount of time and education I have received. If it weren't for this journey, or whatever, I wouldn't be quite the same person I am today. Having said that, I still have a debt that rivals many Cincinnati-area mortgages.

I talked to my friend Jaleen for a while yesterday, and she couldn't imagine how dissimilar our relative professional worths could be. We both have a skill and there are companies that will pay for our services. The difference is that almost every company or individual entity that makes money needs a designer in some capacity. With a bachelor's degree at 23-years-old, digital designers (and engineers, architects, and other technologically savvy professionals) can choose what sparkling city to accept the $35,000 to $40,000 starting rate which will increase accordingly with experience. But, like I said, journalists start at $25,000 in Strasburg, Virginia, hoping that after two years they can make $30,000 in Greensboro, North Carolina. And on and on.

But here's the real problem: I am an average writer. I know a lot about sports, which is important for a sports reporter, and I try pretty hard. I get really excited when I leave events or interviews so I'm sure that I'll enjoy my future job, and of this I'm very appreciative. But I'm not in line to be the next Mitch Albom or Jim Rome. I'm more like Drew Carey – funny to a small, childish demographic and generally irrelevant to everyone else. And this has nothing to do with journalism.

What I'm saying is this: If I don't get a job that I really like in a place that sucks or a decent job in a place where my friends are, I'll soon be a fat, watery-eyed recluse living with my parents in Indiana. Then how much will I be drinking?

Here's to pre-graduation anxiety. Cheers.