Yes. Allow me to indulge in nothing but chatter about my own uninteresting life, which, right now, to me, seems on the verge of something very good, or something very bad. But first, you have to listen to me apologize, which may even possibly be worse than if I’d just said what I had to say, I don’t know.

One of the first things I noticed when I felt ever-so-slightly interested in the idea of writing a column, was the proliferation of writers that were so very interested in the idea of telling the whole world (some of those can be pretty small) all about "my life!"

Hot damn. What an unusual idea! I’ll get right on that! Sure. You laugh. It’s so easy to fall into, I’ve found. I now find myself rather self-conscious when writing, trying to make sure there aren’t to many self-referential points contained in the various pieces I’ve done so far.

Today, however, you not so lucky, my friend. So, listen, already. I’ve got stuff to say.

Things are going swell, in some respects – my job at the Post is evolving into something rather enjoyable, and even, hold your breath, semi-profitable. I have been working just about every day there at 1211 Sixth Avenue, finding myself feeling quite at home within the environs of the newsroom, way up there, there with the birds-eye view of the newly-refurbished Radio City, with it’s bright lights, here in the big city.

My second job (don’t even get me started) over on Broadway, (Miss Saigon to the left of me! Cats to the right of me! Scarlet Pimp to the back of me! It’s a bad-theatre bonanza!) is going fine just now, thank you. I will neglect to reveal to you my hourly rate over there, at one of our city’s fine advertising agencies. Let’s just say, it’s quite the cash cow. I’m freelancing (damn you, temp agencies all!) which just means that I only get paid every two weeks, with another five day wait in which I try to find out what the hell they did with my paycheck. Really, I should just give in and go back to temp agencies – I could get paid every week, but that’d mean being soft, and baby, I’m hard. Rock hard. I can handle anything they throw at me, if it means never again finding myself within four walls of any Mad Ave office building, sitting in the waiting area of one of those horrible temp agencies filled with bad hair and attitudes and incompetent payroll clerks. I’m sure they never mess up their own paychecks – why for the love of all things holy can’t they be responsible with ours?

So, between both jobs, I’m laboring 10-12 hours on the average week day. My schedule each day varies, so I never quite know what the hell’s going on. If you asked me what I’d be doing on Friday, this week, well, I really couldn’t tell you. I’d actually have to consult my calendar, which makes me sound like a pretentious jackass, or at least someone who thinks he might be famous or successful or wants to be so badly that they have to constantly refer to their "calendar," or their "book." If you’re such a hotshot, you should probably have an assistant.

Was I just ranting there? Do I sound like I hate the world? Really, I don’t. It’s just people I don’t like. All 20 million of them in the New York-New Jersey-Connecticut Metro-fucking-politan region are driving me nuts!

And if we didn’t have enough residents, there must be at least 2 or so million visitors in the area at any given moment, maybe more, and hell, a lot of them aren’t really visitors. They’re looking for temporary apartments, which means that they’re competing with folks like me, who really don’t stand a chance, mostly because any guy with a brain (or a sex-drive) renting out a bedroom is likely to be considerably more charmed by a leggy blond (or handsome male) who speaks little English but wants someone to "teach" her (or him) about America, than me, just a normal old American who really needs a place to live and doesn’t want to talk much. Let me "teach" you about America, sister, I’ve got a lesson plan all mapped out for you.

Which reminds me. I’m still looking for an apartment. And, while we’re on that subject, and before you groan, (oh, dear God! Not again!) here’s my secret confession, that only you know: I might move to New Jersey.

As those very words slip from my fingers, and make their way onto the page, I feel dirty. Dirtier than if I’d just spent an hour surfing farmsexx.com. Dirtier than if I’d just emptied the grease trap at Pommes Frites. Dirtier than..

Never mind.

Jersey. Yes. Where were we. Okay, so this really nice girl, just moved into town, has a great job (my opinion, not necessarily reflecting hers) and sounds really friendly, wants to share an apartment over in Union City. Now, my first reaction, is, where the hell is that? But, instead of acting like an illiterate, Apple-centric doofus, I decide to look it up, and I find that it’s that interesting stretch of residential straddling I-495, which most of us know and hate as the maddeningly congested stretch of highway cutting from the Turnpike to the Lincoln Tunnel.

I’d never actually left the expressway to find out what was going on up there, on that hill, overlooking the bright shining skyline, which, I think, is best viewed from over there. There or the BQE. But that’s neither here nor there.

So, Jersey. (Does the fact that I keep getting sidetracked signal my reluctance to discuss the topic?) With a little willpower, and some legwork, I found out that yes, there is a 24-hour bus that goes up there, and as a matter of fact, it only takes 8 minutes from Park Avenue, Union City, to the Port Authority, and really, 15 at most, during rush.

And I’m sitting here thinking of Brooklyn? Come on! Look at the logistics of that! I can walk to Port Authority in less than 10 minutes, board one of 8 buses, and be on my block in 10 more minutes. That’s a shorter commute than I have now!

Since I’m spending my life at work, and probably will continue to do so, I think, why not move there, where it’s so close by? The towns along the river’s edge (West New York, Union City, Hoboken, the like – I exclude Jersey City for many reasons – see old columns) are actually quite nice, I’ve found. They have a good deal of charm, and I find myself liking them a great deal.

Which means, that would officially make me a traitor. But hey – me, I don’t give a tinker’s damn. It doesn’t make me any less of a New Yorker in my own mind. Sure, I’ll pay taxes in New Jersey, get a new phone company (do I? I don’t know.)

I fully plan on finding a fabulous Manhattan apartment as soon as I can afford one (10 years, at this rate), but I refuse to be relegated to Inwood, Midwood or Highwood while waiting. I just won’t do it. If I can’t live on the Upper West Side, in Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea or Tribeca, (yes, my wish list) I don’t want to live anywhere else. So, the choice is clear – it’s Jersey! Yes, I’m picky, but I also know that it’s not worth living 40 minutes away on the F train just to have a New York address. And you don’t even get that. It’s "Brooklyn," or "Jackson Heights," or "Bronx." They still call you a Bn’T’er. So what does it matter what tunnel you go through to get here.

It’s Jersey for me! And you know why? Two hours after posting my ad under "seeking share" on the Hoboken web site, I had no less than six contacts offering me space. Do you know what that means? Do you know how ridiculous a prospect that is, over here, on this side of the mighty Hudson? Damn nigh fiction. It’d never happen. Ever.

The kicker – they’re all young professionals (no, I know I’m not charting any new territory here), with really good entry-level jobs (again, not necessarily their opinions) in exciting industries who plan on going places. That’s interesting to me. I am sick of living with middle-aged crazies who subsist on rent control, or folks who have no furniture because they’re paying 80% of their income on rent.

So, we’ll see. Will I do it? Time only knows. I’m getting close to sure of it. I can still be talked out of it. But hurry, i’m going to see an apartment tomorrow in Hoboken, a few minutes walk from the train, down there, in that lovely little corner of charming cobblestones and coffee shops and the blissed-out view of the Manhattan skyline. If I like it, I’m writing a check.