Senior Year 1992

9206.23 How long has it been since I sat down and committed to...

dearj- — Sat, 23 Jun 2012 18:59:30 -0400

9206.23

How long has it been since I sat down and committed to paper from so very volatile memory the names of those I’ve liked? Never, you say? Good. I woke up this morning with strange visions and Elvis’s Burning Love washing over. So here I go. They’ll be arranged in chronological order, so please bear with the sloppiness.

2nd Grade (K-1st, I was 6 and 7, okay?): Stacie K.

I think that was mostly because she was the only other Asian besides Charlie, and to like him beyond friends would not be good.

3rd Grade: Miranda G.

All I remember is that I couldn’t look into her eyes.

4th Grade: none.

I was deep in the throes of despair from being in that cow’s class, Mrs. Van Matre, but if you force me to pick one, maybe Tammy D. Maybe. Maybe Lana.

5th Grade: perhaps Amy A.

The only one bold enough to lay hands on my person until this last year, at the all-nighter, when Amy Al. pinched my butt. Hmm. Maybe Lana.

6th-7th-early 8th Grades: Jennifer F.

There’s little else I can say that hasn’t been said before; her essential aesthetic perfection, her graceful ways, her (damn!) she’s beautiful reaction, her attitude, her niceness (sappy but true), her joy, her closed eyese in the sixth grade picture, but perhaps most of all, her down-to-earthness; she never let a bit of my worship go to her head. And you know, I don’t think I ever stopped.

Mid-8th (my hormonal period): Tiffany M.

Though she was an awfully nice person, it seemed as if she lived in a little unreal world of her own. Please, I don’t mean it as seriously bad criticism or anything like that, but we all need to dream; some just do it more often than others.

Towards the tail end of that year, I guess you could throw in another: Stacy S. She moved, she liked, she signed my annual. Period. Throughout Junior High, didja ever know those people that you know would be basically impossible to approach? She was one. Tina T. was another. Both of them were so damned nice to me, ‘specially Tina. Hmm. Would I have (asked her out, you fools)? You bet. She moved, too.

9th-10th: Teresa K. (plus Stina for at least a week)

She was witty, she was funny, she was attractive. At least she was to me. Read 8912.08. But by Spring Trimester of sophomore year, she’d already started to fade. Then again, you have to see who she faded against; there were the likes of Alissa S. and, of course, she who much of this NewJournal has been devoted to her. But more on her later.

As for Stina, I think I’ve trod that ground already. I liked her for a week; at the end of the week, I had a dream (just a dream) that I, ah, er, she and I were making love and when I came, well, actually, just before, I woke up to find the like gone. No matter what you think, it was a loss.

Back to LTK? I know that it got started before 9th Grade Recognition Night (in other words, before NewJournal), because I was thrilled that I’d learn to dance from the one. What else can I say?

She makes me do things I don’t want to do
I don’t know why I should be telling you

— You Want Her Too, Elvis Costello/Paul McCartney

Alas; it was not to be. The death blow came when she admitted that she liked Adric. Lucky Adric. Poor me. But I think that’s quite enough of the self-pity, don’t you? To move on.

10th-11th-part of 12th: (ooh, another steady) that legendary one, Dani.

I’d first gotten the inklings in 9th grade, when she wore her hair almost vertically. I thought it was neat. Now that I look back on it, it looks almost hideous. She was, at once, both everything I’d ever known and nothing I’d ever seen. How could I help but fall for such a one, an exotic beauty who lived in the legendary Salnave district? she was the girl-Goddess next door. I even had dreams, full-color, vivid and very eye-opening dreams about her.

I daydreamed. I couldn’t help myself. And you do know that most of this NewJournal has been dedicated merely to singing her praises. D’ye remember when she swung by the Whitworth auditorium with friend and my heart nearly stopped? D’ye remember every day in Humanities when I’d be looking over to check if she was there and every day it seemed as if she was looking back? 9007.26 9106.01 D’ye remember the way she looked with the sunlight filtering through her hair, what with the reddish highlights? D’ye remember the way her blue eyes would sparkle, the way they’d stare, they way they could be nothing less than vivid remembrances of her soul? D’ye remember her almost painful shyness, unmatched by any besides my own?

How many conversations went unspoken? Would it have worked out? Unfortunately, with Dani, I’m left with far more questions than I have answers for.

Did I ever
open up my heart?
Let you look inside?

— This One, Paul McCartney

I tried to let her know (no, I never really was all that good at concealing feelings, especially these that run so deep for Dani, through deep, meaningful, exchanged glances. I could cite the hair, the legs (both long and nicely shaped), the looks, tbut more than anything else, I’d rather talk not about her absolute beauty, but of her inner peace, that which she seemed to have achieved very early.

Y’look at her and you say to yourself “That person’s on an even keel.” What was that saying — oh, yes — if I’d let my reach exceed my grasp, perhaps it could have worked. Unfortunately, I’ll never know. I keep on guessing; while it may have ended this last fall (it seemed as if my entire world had caved in on me, to be true), it could still start. while you may be different, you can’t just drop someone from your mind, especially if that one has represented the hopes, your dreams for an entirely blissful two years. Y’know, I even thought that she was put on the earth as a challenge to all people (male), whether or not people (male) would have the courage, or whether or not they’d be able to work it up sufficiently in order to ask her out.

I know that it was difficult enough to go up and work it up for an entire week before Valentine’s Day.

So, after mooching through Junior Year in a sort of spiritual bliss, I come to the latest (but, as the past dictates/indicates, by no means the last) chapter of this particular entry. But first, let me just say that I could envision Dani as the mother of a series of Amerasian love children. To be more specific, of Chinese-Americans. She was/is that beautiful, that sweet, that nice, et. al. shall we move on? This is, indeed, probably the most diffficult aspect of all to talk about, not only because of the disastrous results, but also because of the recentness of it, making the scars look fresh indeed.

12th: a two-way battle, decided by default, between Missy and Jodi.

Y’all already know the winner. Who lost? Me. (Damn this self-pity, it’s now starting to bother me). As I’ve said before, it went with the left brain rooting at first for Jodi, then switching and joining the right brain when it was shown convincingly that Missy could do much, much more than stare (but still look good doing so). It was a long, drawn-out battle; undoubtedly, Jodi could have won. I guess that Dani’s abrupt withdrawl from the availables sent my thoughts into a tailspin.

Do You Believe In Love?

I’m losing faith. Why? It’s like this: here I am, a pretty likable guy, and (well, I do guess that it is her faith getting in the way, as before) there I go, crushed ego and all, from all of my (in)action from that warm Saturday Night. I don’t know if I’d be able to live with either, though, because of the inevitable comparisons that would set in with one and the moodishness of (both) the other.

Y’know, when I started this some two and a half hours ago, I had no intentions to make this my longest entry ever, but if you look back at all of the long entries in the past, most of them have to do with this particular topic. So why do I find this the easiest subject to write about? All I can imagine is that sneaky someone will be able to pick this up in the future and remark that those guys in the Nineties weren’t all that different.

Eventually, all of us are going to come to the conclusion that yes, we do love someone. If that particular person reciprocates, then all will be all right. So please, perhaps there’s only been two of this group of fifteen (that’s it?! I’m no Wilt, so please, don’t accuse me of being TOO shallow) that I’ve loved.

Can I forget about them? I don’t think so. Will I forget about them? The love can only grow. The steadies. So now, I’ll freely admit that my first love was Jen F., the second was Dani G. I still do. I still might. But what did I love? Images? Please don’t trouble me so.

I guess the rest of the day could be summed up with the athletic activities that I’d done: Rollerblade and swimming.

I wish that this pen would behave a little better. So here I stand, without even a pen to write with, at the tail end of five pages of schmalzig stuff. So if you do read this, please remember that those I’d said for 12th Grade are still valid, if fading, while the other two that I’d talked about are also valid. And both seem (right now) just pale remembrances.

—————

Patrick Litchfield, Joanna Lumley, St Regents Park, London (1970).

When I first set virtual pen to paper I had a hard date in mind for the end (30 June) of this senior year blog but I think I beat myself to it by a week here. I’m not convinced that I did it consciously but this helped close a chapter and get me ready for the next movement, so this is where I draw the line for Senior Year 1992. That’s it, see you later. Movie’s over. Go about your lives, citizens.

Well if you’re sticking around (and after that long, self-indulgent entry, I can’t blame you for fleeing) then you probably deserve some better explanation than just a simple “that’s all folks!” I think this was my boost for the summer: keep the memories alive, just two weeks after the last time you’ve seen these people, carry them through to August and the start of school and hold your hometown close to your heart. Cheney über Alles. It did work for a while, while the geographical distance was short and the days were long. I’d go prowling the summer night air after getting home from the store, no doubt you may have seen me passing through or passing by.

Then life happened. Six weeks into my new floundering existence as a full-time college student something clicked and I found a new home. After that first year I stayed on to snag a summer job, then started spending only bare weeks at home, impatient to get back at first to my Bay Area weather and then to my girlfriend, my fiance, my wife. Life happened, as I said. We’ve been married for twelve years now and thoughts of my life before fade into a distant haze that doesn’t bear up under close examination. Twenty years seemed like a long time before I lived it.

Something else that surprised me this year: I thought for sure I’d be drawing from this pool of memorabilia, which dates back to that rough period of time, but I can’t remember posting more than a picture or two. Contemporary stuff, sure, and stuff I found on the Internet that piqued my interest lately have been my touchstones; creative commons has created a vast pool of questionable stock photographs and the written word that I used to rely so heavily on in college seems to be filled with an endless stream of images and video, using technologies so new and amazing to 1992 that I might as well be writing in a magic book for all I knew then.

I’m glad I had the chance to share this, and I know that I’ve learned more about … everything? … since starting this. By everything I mean it: the world around me, the way I was, where I’m going; I watch the patterns of the past spin endlessly past me into the future, I see the same path to be trod by new feet and next generations and though I sometimes wish I’d tell them that they aren’t going to like that route, I know they’ll learn something from it, and grow up a little more, day by day by day.

My faith is renewed, my pace quickened; I’m smiling more now than ever. Magic? No. Just share.

9206.22 It hit 97 today? Perhaps tomorrow I’ll just sorta...

dearj- — Fri, 22 Jun 2012 17:59:33 -0400

9206.22

It hit 97 today? Perhaps tomorrow I’ll just sorta sit around the house, not really caring all that much about the weather. Geesh. We had to go to the store twice today; y’see, the alarm sounded just after we left the first time, which was after Dad was dropped off at SFCC and we effected a car switch in order that we could offload all the groceries that Dad and Mom brought home, which was after Dad called and told us to go to the Falls so that all would be possible.

Actually, that was about all of the excitement that could be had for the entire day. In truth, today’s been a very long day. I put in ten hours, far too much. Well, anyways, Uncle will be coming over — actually, now — so I guess that all I can do is take a small pause. I guess not.

What should I do? What reinforces the notion that we Pacific Northwesters are environmental-slightly-strange-people? Four words: Northern Exposure; Twin Peaks.

It’s still too hot, almost too hot to write/think effectively; then again, it could be my tiredness. So if you think about it, maybe that’s what sets off the hormonal rush.

Y’know what? It seems to keep on getting harder to finish this up. As before, I’d thought that this white space just kept on growing. I just wish that I could sorta go to bed right now, even though TV seems so very interesting at this time. I’m too tired.

All around, the people looking half-dead
walking on sidewalks hotter than a matchhead

What was wrong with the Supreme Court today? A unanimous ruling for hate crimes. Hurm. D’ye s’pose that Tom Thomas could have had some big effect on that, what with his disinformation on Brown v. Board of Education?

—————

Dana Tuszke, Ashley, Redheaded Lefty (2008).

Sadly this turns out to be the norm for summer entries: without other people to bounce against I end up bouncing against my family for three months, which drives everyone nuts. Lord knows how vain and critical I am, and Lord help you if you should run afoul of that particular capricious mood. Funny thing is that the Spokane area is a little like Larry McMurtry’s Texas: sooner or later everyone runs into each other, our Danny Decks going through life one encounter at a time (what, you’ve only read the old West fiction by McMurtry?).

You say the right words and nod at the right times, shake hands and maybe a back-slapping hug is in order, goodtaseeya, seeya soon, pleeztameetcha and byefernow. If I didn’t already have too much on my plate this summer I’m not sure I would have made it back to the reunion; twenty years is a lot of time to put on yourself and the weight of expectations sometimes won’t wait. Have I already said how America is the only country where it’s polite to ask what you do? And even if I’m sure that no one’s judging, I’m ready to run away again, thank you very much. I did it once. I can do it again.

What am I looking forward to this summer, twenty years in the future? Seeing my kids. Going to a foreign country and leaving the continent for the first time ever. Setting up a Linux machine. Putting our power station back to work generating electricity. Working with the good friends I’ve made, these past few weeks. I know that I’m not always patient with the kids lately but I know I’m going to miss them like crazy in a few more hours.

9206.21 I’ve just gotta tell you about the dream I just...

dearj- — Thu, 21 Jun 2012 18:00:39 -0400

9206.21

I’ve just gotta tell you about the dream I just had. I was back in school (oh, the horrors!), and the most strange thing of all was the fact that I was wearing Rollerblades, but I was getting around pretty good without them. It was fourth period, and I’d been gone for some time, as there were many books that I needed to turn in. Mrs. McDermott gave me her key to the book room and also a cart to carry my books on. While I was cleaning out my locker, Mr. Bryant dropped by and started to talk about the books that I was by now flinging from my locker (it seemed endless, and I found library books from August, fer chrissakes) and the books that he had personally read.

Somewhere in there, Missy dropped by and asked if we could talk; I was sorta impatient (and busy), so what I did was shove a leather (sorta a creamed-coffee color) folder with brass-plated corners into her hands. I told her “This is my personal history; please, just read it instead.”

Eventually, I got done, after the period had nearly expired. Mrs. McDermott herself had come by on her way to the bookroom (I noted with some panic that I had four or five copies of The Stranger) and had actually shot me a dirty look as I stood there talking to Mr. Bryant. I remember that there was little in my mind except for the fact that surprise at my not getting a notice for my overdue book …

… but in any case, I bladed back into the room, and where I usually sat was sitting Missy, with either tears or a glint in her eye. I couldn’t hear her too well, I so heard two replies. The worse was “I think that you shouldn’t have shown me this …” and turning on her heel, she spun away. I wish that I could have definitely heard “I thank you for letting me see this.” What happened next? It’s up tot he imagination, because at that point I woke up.

So what all did that mean? I guess that you could make a case for all of this being directly linked to the Daryl Hannah overdose yesterday, but I don’t think that that’s all of that. There were other aspects, too, but d’ye s’pose that my tired mind made the weak connection between Dr. Lecter and Mr. Bryant? In the end, I guess you could call it mostly wishful thinking; mostly, what I’m wishing for now is an end to all of this, a quick end to this entry; after nine hours in the store, I need nothing less than a full night’s sleep.

We spent about two hours Rollerblading tonight. It’s still too damned hot to sleep. Oh, well. I’ll just try to make the best of it. I’m just a little tired.

Is it the hormones? It could be. It could be indigestion from the two flavored Doritos that I’d eaten all through the movie. I dunno. I really have got to stop snacking when I’m not that hungry. I’ve built myself quite a gut now. Oh, well.

What’s to be done about the pictures? Already they fade from sight of my mind’s eye. Yes, it sounds trite. Yes, it is true. What can I expect? What am I expecting? What meaning does my life bring to others? Sure, you might tell me not to ask so many questions and just roll with the punches, but that is (pardon the comparison) like an active suspension versus a passive one; y’don’t understand that in order to rise about the commonplace and bland, you need to anticipate, not react. I hope you do.

Is jealousy the root of greed? Is greed the root of evil? Damn … I’m starting to sound like a preacher. While there may not be all that much bad with them, there is enough. Let people decide for themselves. So what was a great moment? Will there ever be another? When can I rebuild?

—————

l_a_i_a, he undressed her with his eyes … (2007).

Geez, even in my dreams I can’t give myself a break. Perhaps it was residual guilt: I’d ordered and paid for prom pictures, where if I remember right you can see my hand hovering nervously over Missy’s waist, afraid to touch — I mean, what if the — I mean, seriously — what right do I have to that kind of privilege? They are some of the things I wish I’d had the foresight to preserve from my parents’ house before they packed everything and moved; ever since then I haven’t been able to find them.

If I’ve learned anything over the course of this past school year, you shouldn’t take your memories for granted. Write them down if you have a chance and if not, find a way to recall them later when you can get them in print. There have been so many moments that I’ve read what I wrote twenty years ago and the exact mood struck me again, not through any happy accident of amazing writing, but because it jarred something loose from the depths, floating up undisturbed. Do you remember what it was like to take your first bike ride? How about driving for the first time? It’s like that — everything clicks and all at once you’re feeling competent beyond your depth.

So I know I’m a pack rat who’s spent too much time and money storing and moving stuff, but be smart about it: save the stuff that’s important — letters, photos, mementoes — because they’re your permanent record in a perishable world. If you don’t have the space, find some way to digitize them and keep them backed up in the cloud, on your desktop, off-site, somehow, anyhow, because the wonder you’ll get from tripping down the halls in your mind is going to beat any vacation.

9206.20 And even if YOU didn’t like it, I do. The Silence...

dearj- — Wed, 20 Jun 2012 17:51:22 -0400

9206.20

And even if YOU didn’t like it, I do. The Silence of the Lambs actually does justice to the book. Of course, what that generally means is that there was much greatness in the book to begin with …

I spent this, the longest day of the year, in the store.

And so now you tell me that Orion Pictures is bankrupt? It’s probably the Media’s fault.

Okay. There’s two more Daryl Hannah flicks — well, actually, four that I know of now. Blade Runner. Legal Eagles (? R.Redford, D.Winger, D.Hannah — whatever the name of that movie is). Happy Spirits. Steel Magnolias. All of which fall along with the all of the previous ones I can remember — Roxanne. Splash. Wall Street. Crazy People. Memoirs of an Invisible Man. So? So what? There’s no obsession here. I’ll just need to go up to the Kennedy …

So what has prompted all of this? Jodie Foster’s nose, the end, to be particular. D’ye notice that sorta dimple there? Hmm. Just fifteen days after school’s out, the hormones are already shifting higher. And I thought all of this would pass this year, but it seems to be kicking in even earlier. Sigh. Woe is me. Why is it that I lack even hope this year?

This summer is fairly short, anyways. Sour, Sour, sour grapes. I guess there’s really nothing that I can do about any of it so I might as well relax a little and just try to make the best of it. You did know that we need to open the store two days in a row, because Mom and Dad are going to visit friends in Seattle, right?

Yeesh; when Alex’s family comes along, this house — what — then it’ll be ten people — yeesh — but only for about three days. Still, though … you’ll never know, will you?

What the final mystery is, though, is why people really can’t care less about each other anymore.

—————

Mary Ellen Mark, Jodie Foster 221P-035-009 (1995).

I always liked (perhaps abstractly) the idea of having a large family; I was overjoyed when my grandparents came to stay with us, and then the next year, an uncle and aunt too: eight people shuffling through the house. A few years later they moved out (to be closer to the store) but I still remember how full and warm the house was most nights. It’s a distinguishing factor but probably a dubious honor; what do you actually get out of it?

There are probably a million reasons to limit the number of kids you have to two (and probably a million more not to have kids in the first place) but I feel a little greedy and keep thinking that it sure would be nice to have more. Then I take note of our denuded bank account, the chaotic state of the house, the million things we have to take out of the younger child’s mouth (seriously, he puts that thing on everything) and I begin to understand why everyone stops at two.

9206.19 Is it just a bit sad to you, too? Tomorrow’s the...

dearj- — Tue, 19 Jun 2012 17:51:35 -0400

9206.19

Is it just a bit sad to you, too? Tomorrow’s the longest day of the year, and besides wasting it on/in the store, I have to be faced with the conclusion that everything merely goes downhill from there; the days will only get shorter until late December. Yeesh. The entire year (it seems) has been spent building up for the climax of tomorrow, and it seems that; well, to blow it all out on one day is like squandering a fortune on pet rocks. All that we earthly mortals may do is try to make the very best of it.

I dreamt I was good on Rollerblades, and lo! I learned to use my brake well.

Despite the Cheesy music, most of today’s been some pretty excessive brooding introspection. Like what? Like this; why do fools fall in love? Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers never told you, either? One thing I’ll always refuse to believe: falling was, will never be a mistake. If you think so, (1) don’t forget how you felt, at least, (2) you’re a truly hardbitten cynic, or (3) maybe it wasn’t love. Number three? Sometimes I think so, but doubt swoops down hard. So why do I expound so on the subject? There’s really no good reason, so I’ll talk some on the book I’m reading.

Needful Things. Good Stuff, I say, even if I’m already halfway through the book and there seems to be no really classically good ending in sight. It looks like you’ll get one of those Stand endings — sort of a pyrrhic (sp? Pyhrric Phyrric Pyrrick) victories. It all seems so sad, but that’s the way it’s shaping up. I hope it turns out better. I’m almost sure that it will.

Really, my braking’s gotten much better.

The gang of three: really, actually, well. No more. You don’t suppose that there’s more than one victim in all of this spectacular botchedness, do you?

—————

Matt Millard, Triple threat (2007).

The solstice is so-named because the sun appears to stand still and then reverse its course; about this time I always reflect on how long the days are getting and how nice it is to wake up and see a bit of light. Consider how early I have to get up most days and it’s pretty remarkable to get any kind of sun in the mornings. If you could freeze one day, which one would it be? I’m not sure I would have chosen working at the store as a highlight then, but for someone who was painfully shy it wasn’t a bad gig.

I wonder if the people we used to know at the store are still in the neighborhood; through the magic of Google Maps I’ve virtually cruised by a thousand times to see that there’s nothing left of the store I remember — it’s not even a grocery store if I read it right. What of the people? I remember some names but not enough to figure out what happened to them, either: Roy with his son David; that girl across the street, Buffy, what of the old neighborhood?

9206.18 Oh, boy. Even though it’s only (only?!) 11:00,...

dearj- — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 18:22:52 -0400

9206.18

Oh, boy. Even though it’s only (only?!) 11:00, I’m feeling a little more than dead tired. I dunno. I really shouldn’t be feeling this way (but I am, and there’s little I can do about it). Oy vey, indeed.

Well, today the really big news (I guess) is that we went to the Wu’s after closing the store; there, not only did we watch a movie — Edward Scissorhands (again! (will I never be tired of that movie?)) — but also half of another — The Pick-Up Artist, in which our protagonist (he’s so lucky) gets to drive a cherry, red ‘68 Camaro RS Convertible. Yeesh, indeed. I’ve already run out of words …

What else? I got to explore a mid-80s, third-generation Camaro; for starters, there isn’t even a glorified glovebox … the seatbelts had already fallen from their retainers on the seats … the hood actually warped when I tried to lift it because of a grumpy shock … the dashboard just absolutely reeked, full of idiot lights and a enormous gas gauge where the tach shoulda been … but at the very least, for all of the wondering I did about it today, it could have had the TPI engine (that one with the beautiful intakes?), but alas, it was a carbureted V-8, with only one nozzle leading in. At least it had the F41 option.

I’m just so very tired at this time that I feel no particular desire to hurry, okay? And it’s still only Thursday; it’s as if this week has been revolving very, very slowly, and that slow motion is the only kind that I have at this time. The truth is that I feel/see no need to do, as I have said before, anything much this summer. So sue. I’m just sorry that there’s nothing that I can do about your little lives, but that’s too petty.

—————

dalmuln, Jack Scissorhands (2003).

Quick, name two of the ways you can tell a ‘67 Camaro from the ’68s! Okay, I picked vent windows (the ’67s have ‘em) and round front turn signals (again for the ’67s … they went to a rectangular turn signal on the ’68s). So are you terribly shocked that I keep spitting out random facts (nice F41 suspension option, by the way)? I suppose that’s another twenty-year change; before you could wow and amaze everyone with your knowledge, now everyone has a smartphone and access to Google at their fingertips, and everyone’s an expert.

This ends up being one of the best summers in a long time, and for a long time to come; by the next summer, I’m already looking to get a job (fool that I am; why would you WANT to hurry into an adult life?) and then it’s go go go from there, gotta study, gotta find a job, gotta get married, gotta gotta gotta. You never get a chance to yourself again — that’s the dirty secret of high school graduation — and life keeps getting better too, the giant upside they also don’t tell you about. At this point being an adult means getting the chance to do things you want to do, not because someone’s made it a requirement or is holding something you want just out of your reach. Welcome to real life, graduate: your world just got empowered.

9206.17 So, what do you think? Once again, I find myself in the...

dearj- — Sun, 17 Jun 2012 17:58:30 -0400

9206.17

So, what do you think? Once again, I find myself in the unenviable position of having to catch up; I still need to start/finish up these damned thank-yous.

Well, now that I’m finally through all that (except for addressing the envelopes) I guess I can start to really write. Sure. Was there any meat to this day? So far, nope.

Please please me
oh yeah
Like I please you

Oh, sure.

Well, they’re out there having fun
in the warm California sun

What sort of demented justice does this world have, that some schmo from Don’t Tell Mom … (okay, okay, it is fiction, but still, it raunches, you know?) would land the most beauteous Christina Applegate, and yet, nicer persons (i.e. Raymond Jardine or the Sun of Interflux, if you insist on rubbing fiction in, or, more to the point, me) can’t? Please, don’t plod, pass with pride.

So, d’ye think that the O.J’s going to rot my teeth, really? Just you wait and see.

After going by Dani’s house (oh, fer shame, fer shame) we came home; I talked to Dad about our cousin’s driving. Although he seemed to be fairly good when me and the Kuos passed by, but from what I hear, he shifted into Park without shifting into — uh — wait — he shifted before coming to a complete stop. If Dad got half as mad at him as he did as that one guy who burned his socks on the heater some years ago, I personally (if I wasn’t in the driver’s seat, even; if I was just watching in the backseat) wouldn’t have wanted to drive again, ever. I’ve actually felt that way before.

Oh boy, not another one of those damned WAR protesters. They’re just so very un-good for this country, like all of those gun-control freaks, oh, like Mr. Brady. Mebbe y’all don’t understand; you’ll still get your guns, if you’re un-criminal. I guess that all of you shouldn’t have anything to be worried about, less’n y’all got somethin’ to hide.

—————

Christina Applegate, c. 1990.

They say you have to be smart to play dumb, and Kelly Bundy was about as box-of-rocks as you could get (not that I ever watched the show, nope, not me). I was talking to my wife about actors and actresses we admired and it turned out they had one thing in common: a refusal to be typecast. Sure, it’s easy to fall into a role but to be known as that’s what you do — make it that’s ALL you do (Sandra Bullock — light romance until lately; Leonardo DiCaprio — doomed brooding lead roles) must be pretty tiresome.

I’m not sure what to say about the cousin situation, except that we weren’t really close; here I was come into my full glory that summer and all of a sudden there were extra folks in the house to keep entertained and amused. Maybe it was jealousy on my part, fueled by paranoia and my own refusal to hang out with my parents: here’s a new immigrant, steeped in dutiful filial piety and in comparison, the kid that they’d just spent seventeen years on turns out to be pretty ungrateful. Hey, I never claimed to be rational. No need to start now.

9206.16 Ungh. Discords again. Y’do know that I thought...

dearj- — Sat, 16 Jun 2012 17:41:40 -0400

9206.16

Ungh. Discords again. Y’do know that I thought that all of this is/was going to stop as soon as Lawrence went off to college, but the thing is that, as before, I seem to be caught in the crossfire. I guess that all of these difficulties are life’s little ways of telling us that yes, we still are tied down by these earthly bonds.

The whole idea behind this business seems to be trying to make your own portion of the world a little better for yourselves, damn whoever you hurt. It’s those people that actually care more about those beyond their immediate vicinities that merit attention; they are those who need (but so rarely get) to be recognized. I mean, we need to recognize them, they’re not just publicity hounds. And now this pause (that definitely doesn’t refresh) has lasted for at least five or so many minutes. So, like a UN Peacekeeping Force or the Swedish Army, what’s a neutral observer to do?

I’d really like to reconcile these two gladiators, he of sharp tongue and he of even sharper, but it all seems so very complicated at this time. I just feel so utterly helpless. Well, it’s really not that I’m incapable of doing anything; as things stand, my own ego is hanging by a thread and one gust could easily snap it.

In lighter news, I nearly crashed the Beetle (ooh, great). Really, today hasn’t exactly been my day, even if the last few hours were salvaged somewhat by Charlie inviting us over to watch Don’t Tell Mom, the Babysitter’s Dead and we shooting the bull with him for about an hour. Really, that part was all right. But the rest of the day … well, let’s just say that somethings are better left in the distant past.

Someday, you do know nothing will be perfect, but I can try to make it that way.

—————

Gordon Tarpley, IMG_5813 (2011).

I don’t remember having to play peacemaker but it sounds familiar. After he’d moved out to college my brother became very independent-minded and vocal about it; coming from the background that we did (parents: absolute final last word and no sassing back) this was a shock and dismay moment for me. Hey guys sorry, but could we go back to getting along please?

Everyone has a moment that they realize their parents are just people doing the best they can; mine just didn’t happen to happen until after I’d moved out too (and really, not until I became a parent myself; it’s one of those things you find yourself perpetually unready for; there is no perfect time to have kids, right?). Sooner or later they’re going to expose me for the fraud I am; I wonder if it’ll happen while they’re still at home, though.

9206.15 I thought that I was over youbut darling, it’s...

dearj- — Fri, 15 Jun 2012 17:50:49 -0400

9206.15

I thought that I was over you
but darling, it’s true, so true
that I love you even more than before

[— Roy Orbison, Cryin’]

… yes, it’s the Big O. I still need to finish up with these thank-you notes, though. At the very least, I got to Rollerblade today, even if, coming back from the parking lot, I was unable to brake effectively and so I lost control and decided to crash instead of get hit by a car. I think it was a pretty decent tradeoff. Unfortunately, in doing so, I ripped a hole in my shirt. That’s okay. I’ll just spend a little bit. I guess I should write the thank-yous.

How should I handle it? It is Monday, isn’t it? Urgh. I still need to tell you about the dorks in the Toyota Corolla hatchback who decided to squirt me with water as I was first trying to ‘blade, but I guess I’ve said enough, almost. Next time, I’ll bring along a hockey stick. Hmm. The second time I tried to slide, I got much better with the brake, but not good enough (or so I thought) to go down the hill; the last time I’d tried, I wiped out at the stop sign; I guess I’ve already told you about it, though, so I’ll just try to keep it short.

I did mow the lawn today, with no really ill effects on my nasal passages. What really needs to be done is a little bit more organization in the compost heap; y’see, not only is it growing more steadily gargantuan, it is really starting to decay, and thus give off that nice odor; perhaps it was the recent rains that are doing this. Oh, well — I still don’t own a classic Camaro. But, as before, that’s okay.

Is MacUser going to collapse under its own weight, caused by a steady stream of business-related topics that turn most casual users off? I surely hope so.

—————

Dimitris Papazimouris, Rollerblade in villa Borghese (2007).

Remember when rollerblades were new (or exploding in popularity) and folks either resented them or envied them? I jumped in, aided by graduation cash and an enthusiastic skating family (Dad knew how to ice skate from his years in Canada, and Lawrence picked it up at Stanford, doing tricks too — I never got up the courage to go ride stairs (backwards) as he did). So the first week I’m on skates I’m pretty much a dead lump of flesh on wheels — how do I go, this isn’t much fun to plod around and oh … I’m rolling now.

I had (delusions) dreams of getting so good that hockey teams would be beating down my door and each other’s heads in to get in my good graces. Of course, I had dreams of being so academically adept, so world-renowned that I’d have universities and industries begging for me to join, too. How has that worked out so far? One thing I’ve learned over twenty years is that you can’t wait for things to come to you; as busy as you are, the people who could use your talents are at least as busy looking for you. Why not make it easier on them and show yourself off?

9206.14 Yes, it was a fairly lazy Sunday. Not a Pleasant Valley...

dearj- — Thu, 14 Jun 2012 17:52:36 -0400

9206.14

Yes, it was a fairly lazy Sunday. Not a Pleasant Valley one, though, unless you’re one who like gloom without rain. Thunderous weather, ponderous doings. It’s really been a quiet day thus far.

And you do know that Paul (my man) McCartney will be fifty on the 18th — that’s what — Thursday. Do you want to be a paperback writer? It does sound like fun.

D’ye know that, because I’m not writing this at som insanely wee hour — it is 4PM, that is — my thoughts are nearly as scattered as they can be?

Do you need anybody?
I want somebody to love.

How do I feel at the end of the day?
I feel sad because you’re on your own.

Gee, thats a good song. I’m still a little bit disorganized, but tomorrow, I should be able to finish off most of my unfinished business; of course I’d be happy to do it tonight, but in truth, I’m waiting for the sun to rise and brighten my mood. Tomorrow, perhaps; I’m about ready to give up on today. Then again, if it got too warm, it would be too humid. SIGH.

Today really turned out in slow-motion; i met the one guy that I was suppose to; should I be happy? I guess so, but I’m a bit too tired to do much of anything. I did just spend the last hour and a half watching TV; more specifically, I watched reruns of both Night Court and Quantum Leap. As usual, even though it was a Sunday night, it was very enjoyable.

It’s Flag Day? Oh. Uh-huh. Please, I do like this country, but don’t spew your phlegmatic attitudes towards me. At least we’re not in Canada … 6 inches? Yeesh.

At the very least, St.Louis won.

So what is there to be said about anything in life in general for very much anything? It’s all too sad. Really. I’m just so very tired. If you don’t think that all of this has been a very dull (but mellow) day, please add some sort of — measure of — spice in. You’ll see.

—————

Lone Primate, PMC-IR Another Pleasant Valley Sunday (2006).

This was a terrible entry; I apologize. You think that from zero to eighteen years is long enough to create a (mostly) complete adult, so what does twenty extra buy you? Apparently not a whole lot more besides weight in the gut and shortness of breath. I try to look at years now in terms of stages of my life: twenty years ago I was this, now I’m something else, what does the next twenty years hold for me?

Well, if my daughter follows our example, she’s getting married in twenty years. Forget graduations and college; that’s only twenty years on. Would we be ready for that? Is this what our parents imagined when they watched us playing at five? For me, even the passage of a year (as seen by reviewing photos from last year) seems like an epoch for both kids; I wonder, coming back in a few weeks from two weeks away, what that’ll feel like, seeing them two weeks older, not an insignificant chunk of their lives. Why do I keep trading time at home for time at work?

9206.13 No, it was just Saturday the 13th, not Friday, not as if...

dearj- — Wed, 13 Jun 2012 17:59:34 -0400

9206.13

No, it was just Saturday the 13th, not Friday, not as if it would have mattered anyways, not only have I lost all track of time, losing all sense of what day it is, this day turned out pretty gray and rainy. It drizzled on and off all day. All day, it’s been really, really sloppy; but still, even with all of this rain crap, it’s still very dry.The lawn looks but little improved, probably mainly because it’s too damn dry.

Well, in materialistic terms, today was the day that I blew nearly as much as a nice bike investing in Rollerblade products. Should I go into the gory detail, oh, why not. I got a pair of Coolblades, along with full protective gear. I guess that wasn’t so bad, but all of the problem was that I couldn’t do much with them, because of the rain.

Lately, though, I’ve been feeling pretty run-down. I think that even though SNL is on right now, I’ll go to bed soon. Or, at the very least, I’ll just wind this up as quickly as I can, even if I do need to go to the store tomorrow, meaning, of course, that I won’t be able to sleep in — again. I’d really like to, because of the general disquiet and semi-funk that I’m going through.

So when did Chevy Chase star with Gregory Hines? That makes no sense oat all. This is a truly bizarre film.

I also read Heir to the Empire today; indeed, even though I was dubious about any add-ons to the Star Wars trilogy, I can safely say that it doesn’t reach too far for ideas; it actually makes more sense.

Then again, SNL could be far more entertaining than mere sleep. But really, I should be getting more rest. But maybe it’s better to sleep like the dead, or at least until 7:30. Ugh. In any case, I’ll soon be done, and when it’s all over, I’ll be able to choose a proper course of action. Oh, boy. Tomorrow looks to be just as big.

—————

Joe Loong, DSCF4996 (2008).

Disclaimer: those are Aeroblades, not Coolblades (which came with multicolored buckles) and an interesting defect; the tongue was secured through a little tab of plastic, and I always seemed to rip mine — Rollerblade was very nice to me, though, and sent me a new pair for free). Actually, that is something that has changed in the past twenty years: customer service. Believe it or not it still exists but you have to get past the gatekeepers of voice menus and mandatory options first.

Case in point: three weeks ago we came home from vacation to find our internet modem/router had given up the ghost at some point over the long weekend. We called and upgraded our setup and, breathless with anticipation, plugged in ten long days later; a week after that all the connections dropped and we saw smoke coming out of the new magic box. As they say it’s always a bad sign so we called customer support, who promptly (and robotically) advised us that we needed to turn it off and then back on again (my cries that the freaking thing was ON FIRE going unheeded) before I could get to a live human. Once we were there everything was great: the tech was apologetic and service was prompt.

Maybe that’s a sign I’m getting old: patience for normal things is lacking. I can’t believe you make me wait to (see my shows, where’s my instant streaming; have my package delivered; you know the drill). Have we really grown so impatient as a culture and nation since the 90s?

9206.12 Is it good to be back home? Even though we got home at...

dearj- — Tue, 12 Jun 2012 18:00:47 -0400

9206.12

Is it good to be back home? Even though we got home at 3AM, the answer is a resounding yes. Even if there’s no Ellen Barkin movie on. Really, it doesn’t matter; it shouldn’t.

Today was the first cold semi-drizzly day that I can remember since about the beginning of soccer season. And while that may be too long, it suited my tired, grouchy mood almost perfectly. Why?

You never close your eyes anymore
when I kiss your lips
And there’s no tenderness like before
in your fingertips

You’re trying hard not to show it
But baby
baby I know it

No, but still, sometimes it still hurts.

If I was able to hurry at this hour, don’t you’d think that I’d be (at the very least) trying to do so? I think that I’m just a little too tired and thus that the words aren’t flowing as smoothly. And the coffee only helped for a little bit last night; never mind the fact that I drank a little over two cups. Or was it one? In any case, not being a caffeine junkie, I wouldn’t be able to tell you how it felt to sleep-walk (drive) through nearly a hundred and forty miles last night.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I drove well; it’s just that I could have drive more alertly, had I more sleep. I was damn tired. I’m still tired, and this is supposed to be vacation time, all sorts of rest and peaceful activities, not spending so much time in the saddle and trying to fall asleep without banging your head on the way down.

Costco tomorrow? Yep. I feel so very tired that maybe I’ll only read a little tonight before setting sail for oblivion until 7:30. Oh, well. All I can do is be, so why hasn’t the world come to my doorstep? I guess it’s just fair that I’ve only tried (for others, really, just jumping through hoops and all). I need to start to feel a little bit better. Soon.

—————

me, Showtime 7775 (2012).

My daughter had her first dance recital today, and it’s interesting seeing the shoe on the other foot for the first time. I used to get almost physically sick before performing, as my shy nature (and natural lack of talent) kept me out of serious piano competitions, so I never got a chance to get better about it. Sure, I’d rip off some pieces during our “class” time which must have been structured after my piano teacher’s courses before she retired from the University, but that was amongst friends who were just as nervous about performing as me.

But now as the parent it’s different to see how the nerves kept everything on a high pitch for her; I’m sorry I ever accused my parents of being anything but proud, though. How can you not be? If it’s something she’s worked towards and achieved in a short time, and she’s done her best (she knows no other speed at this early age) then it’s all you can do to not clap and stomp and whistle when the performance is over.

9206.11 While I realize that writing in a moving car may be one...

dearj- — Mon, 11 Jun 2012 17:53:43 -0400

9206.11

While I realize that writing in a moving car may be one of the very most difficult things you can do, today is special merely because (A) we’re going home, (B) (or (2)?) we’re going home non-stop, and (C) we’re in the southern mountains of Oregon (as far as I can figure, riding along a twisty (but creamy-smooth) I-5. So, is there a whole lot to say about today?

We got up relatively late and thus we left Palo Alto around 8:30 AM. As a result, all we’ve been seeming to do is drive or sleep; to break this semi-monotony, I’ve decided to write. What would Mrs. McDermott think of it now?

But if these few lines should prove to be some sort of epitaph for me, my only earthly record of my life, I’d just like to settle the account with Missy, because, even if I say that it wouldn’t have worked out between us, that maybe there was some pretty bad mojo, maybe you wouldn’t believe me. Here’s why you should; it all generally boils down to a question of compatibility. I’m almost sure that, even if our relationship had progressed past the point of our all too conventionally platonic (not even a kiss! yeesh …) state, our basic characters would have started to clash — badly — her conservatism versus my liberalism — her Mormonism versus my unstructured Buddhism — her military upbringing versus my, well, again unstructured life — her Yin to my Yang, basically (or is the other way around?) It was dangerous for me merely to like her in the beginning, because she was already taken, because I’d just seen the face (even though she can be a really charming person when/if she wants to be … shades of Liz Bennet?)

You think you’ve lost your love
well I saw her yesterday.
It’s you she’s thinking of
and she told me what to say.

She said she loves you …

She said you hurt her so
she almost lost her mind
She says that now she knows
you’re not the hurtin’ kind

She said she loves you …

Ah, but if it was only so very easy. I’ll be the one in the corner, eating pride.

—————

liquidnight, Serious Business I (2012).

I’ll quote Stephen Crane here:

III

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”

— From The Black Riders and Other Lines (1895).

Likely as not you’ve read that some place or another: it’s the sort of thing that gives you pause on how you’re living your life. How deluded we think that creature is, how desperate, how degraded, how depraved. They say that desert mirages are formed from rising heat waves which cause the sky to be mirrored onto the ground at a distance, shimmering waves of water just over the horizon tempting thirsty travelers forward. Is it another form of desert mirror that forces us to look at ourselves and how we eat the best part of ourselves while loudly proclaiming that we’re better than this?

XL

And you love me

I love you.

You are, then, cold coward.

Aye; but, beloved,
When I strive to come to you,
Man’s opinions, a thousand thickets,
My interwoven existence,
My life,
Caught in the stubble of the world
Like a tender veil-
This stays me.

No strange move can I make
Without noise of tearing
I dare not.

If love loves,
There is no world
Nor word.
All is lost
Save thought of love
And place to dream.

You love me?

I love you.

You are, then, cold coward.

Aye; but, beloved-

The great unnamed common wisdom They (as in “they say”) say that there’s a thin line between love and hate and I’m sorry to say my heart’s passport was liberally stamped with entry records to both sides of the border. For as much crushes (which I called love) as I’d give and ramp up to unreasonable expectations so too when it came crashing down as all such fanciful constructs do, I’d nurse grudges at great length until I was able to convince myself that it wasn’t me, it was them.

Growing up is about taking responsibility for who you are and how you act. Consequences are swift and severe; you cannot skate through everything on a trial basis and hope to lead a fulfilling life. The value of this twenty-years exercise has not been in the memories (fun!) or the philosophies (hi, you’re ranting again!) but in showing me the direction: where I’ve been, where I’m going, how to correct the course. I love this seventeen-year-old me as a deluded naive kid and I’d hate to say that there’s a lot of him left in me, too. Love and hate.

9206.10 Today really has been quite a busy day. Y’see, it...

dearj- — Sun, 10 Jun 2012 17:56:36 -0400

9206.10

Today really has been quite a busy day. Y’see, it wasn’t that I got up too early; if I had, I wouldn’t even be awake right now. But, well, that’s quite enough of all the bellyaching that I’ll be doing for tonight.

I got up early in an attempt to be early for my driver’s license appointment. It was a (blöd) bold move that succeeded; I had thirty some minutes to study after reaching the station in Oakland (from my bed of the floor last night — er, actually this morning, but that’s irrelevant, but oh so very nicely space-wasting). What was the problem at the DVM office? Well, I guess that all you can say about it would be that none of those people seem to be trained in customer relations. Yeesh; nearly all of them were assholes to me, especially that one bitch who corrected my written test. What good came of it? I learned that we all can drawn on an inner reserve, some sort of hidden strength, when we’re confronted by all such freaks. Oh, well.

I jumped through their little rings (did I already say that I scored a 45/46 on their test and that in order to get Mom’s signature on the damned form, Dad “went” to Berkeley (in the van) to do so? Well, it’s not as if she would have refused to sigh anyways), and I earned my license. I now reside in Rancho Palos Verdes, California. Sure.

In other news today, I wandered about the south end of campus today; I got a change of address form, a credit union account, and (what else? I’m so very tired at this moment …) oh yeah, I saw this one guy right in front of Sproul Hall, before we went in, preaching all about how God loves us all (oh, so that’s why there’s still misery in the world?). By the time we had come out, not only were all eyes on him, he’d also attracted his own crowd of hecklers — at least three or so — and one, hovering bicyclist; he just orbited that guy. I really do think that I’ll like UC-B. It looks pretty great. And even if it does seem a bit busy, I can adjust. At the very least, the greatest thing that I’ll need to worry about parking will be my bike.

—————

John Williams, Golden Cove, Palos Verdes, CA (2007).

The California address came courtesy of my dad’s uncle, who worked for the company I work for now, and who made a hourlong commute every day by himself (which justified getting a nice car: if he’s going to spend that much time on the road … believe me, I understand with my own long commute). Strange, then, that he could afford to live in a coastal community while we’re scrapping to pinch pennies and make every investment count.

I suppose it’s no wonder, though; both he and my dad were going to the same school in 1949 which elected to flee to Taiwan rather than wait around to see what Mao did to them. Families were big in China and my dad — born to my grandfather when he was nineteen — was only a few months younger than my grandpa’s youngest brother (the Palos Verdes uncle). I have yet to tease the full story of that particular trip and what happened from him but I know that I still have a few years (and yet I can’t procrastinate on it, not if I want to hear it firsthand still).

I may talk a lot of crap about my dad here but the truth is that he’s one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met and I defy you to say that given that example, he’s not justified in saying that we’re all a bit lazy and spoiled in comparison.

9206.09 To be more specific, as I always seem to open these up...

dearj- — Sat, 09 Jun 2012 18:02:23 -0400

9206.09

To be more specific, as I always seem to open these up with where I (physically) am at one moment in time, I guess I should say that I’m in Stanford, California. More specifically, I’m in Trailer #26Y, Manzanita Park, with Lawrence. I did go to visit UC-Berkeley today. Well, I guess that by saying that, I’d be a liar; actually, what I did more was go to see the surrounds. They were pretty damned crazy. I mean, yeesh, there seems to be far more than 100K people in the streets, and they’re all crowded onto University Avenue. I wonder if the campus is much better. In any case, I say more long hair than I’ve ever seen at one time; although I’m not one to pass TOO quick of judgement, I’m unsure whether or not I’d want to venture out into the streets after dark. Yes, it was that scary. It was a helluva lot like Seattle’s Chinatown at lunch hour.

Did I get a sense of the college atmosphere? If that was what it was, then UW’s Terry-Lander Hall, of last summer’s MITE was merely a bland aftertaste of that most exquisitely vocal of campuses, UC-B. Yeeha. It almost scares me.

In any case, I need to study the California DMV Spring 1991 Driver’s Guide in an attempt to pass tomorrow’s written exam and obtain a California License. Yee-hee. I know that yes, it will be very helpful in establishing residence, but the damn book was written for morons … so why the hell can’t I understand it all that well? Catch this: “When you make a U-Turn, you turn around and go back the way you came.” Honestly, why can’t they have spent a little bit more money on printing clarity?

Ah, but no Ellen Barkin. Sigh.

And you do realize that there’s not a whole lot that can be done about .. but there’s really no need to go into a great deal of detail about any of that. Let’s not dwell on such … but already, I’ve said too much. I really loathe both the driver’s guide and the officious asses who man these various stations though. I mean, there’s five colors for the curbs, and you only need to be within 18” to be parked. Oh, well; I’ll just have to do the best that I can, and little more than that.

—————

me, Joren’s Sister (1999).

Oh, the all-important college atmosphere, just as important as academic reputation and hard work, right? My wife (we met at Berkeley) likes to poke fun at the way I courted her, when she’d ask over and over if we could go out and I finally gave in, power-walked down to the sandwich shop, ate standing up, and went back to the boarding house we were both staying to continue studying. I was terribly single-minded and it wasn’t until later that I figured out that human companionship is more important than anything else.

If I have strong regrets they’re right around the fact that I never seemed to pick my head up for anything but classes while I was in the middle of two amazing cities — Boston and Berkeley. It was drilled into me early and often that my job was school, and the sacrifices that were made to make sure I could do that job made me feel guilty for every ounce of hedonism I spent in school (I’d try to stretch a twenty from the ATM over the course of a semester, much less a week or a fraction of a day, as I do now). My vice was used books and CDs, and after my last final was over I’d spend hours on Telegraph, poring over racks and figuring out how far I could stretch my dollars (or what cover art caught my eye). I suppose that’s why the internet is so dangerous for me: virtual racks of stuff as far as the eye can see.

9206.08 Well, it is true that now is early (only 6:30), but the...

dearj- — Fri, 08 Jun 2012 17:59:55 -0400

9206.08

Well, it is true that now is early (only 6:30), but the truth is that the day started early; thus it is only fitting that I should finish so, too. Besides, Ellen Barkin’s going to be on the hotel closed-circuit TV — on Switched. I guess I should mention that I am writing this in that most blue-collar of hotels, Motel 6, in the Medford South one, room 144. After all, by the time you read this, I’ll be out of here, so there’s no need to be so very secretive.

Gee, this pen sure does write well …

Ah, but Ellen Barkin … then again, there are no comparisons with the one, that one, the (Missy) Daryl Hannah. Hmm. Y’do’know that … ah, well, but I’ve already trod over that blasted heath and wounded myself griveously. Already. I guess that I’m just trying to rake in the sympathy, pity vote; I don’t need it; I can survive on my own.

Yeesh. I misread the damned schedule and I get to watch some B-movie named Perfect Weapon. No Ellen Barkin. Sigh. No nothing but scratchy bedsheets and low shower fixtures, but best of all, no home. Really, though, it’s just far too early to be homesick. And tomorrow will see me in California.

As with any road trip, I did some major car-spotting. As a reward for my efforts, I saw both an Acura NSX (red) in an Oregon rest area (all of them have trees growing around — the rest areas, not the Acuras), tons of new Caddy Sevilles (and even a new Eldorado), but most excitingly, a ‘69 (ooh, ah, um, No!) Cougar, with the headlamp doors flipped up. Even if it was green, it was truly beautiful.

I guess that the last thing that may ever matter in the end about any of this entry is the fact that, six hundred miles away, there’s still just one thought on what must be, what could have been. Blush? Just a slight one, mind you. Oy vey.

—————

Norman Seeff, Ellen Barkin Classic (1987).

At some point my frantic (seemingly) searches on the Internet today led back to Love Actually, a film I’d picked up from a now-defunct used movie store across the street from us. Movies are funny things: no matter how much you may like it and want to own it, you’re unlikely to watch them over and over again when you do have them unless you’re five or six (and even then some of those movies just get binned and never watched again). It makes perfect sense to go to a streaming model, where content is served when needed as needed: less waste, less energy, less chance to get lost (I could have sworn we had a lot more movies before the kids started to walk).

I grew up in an era of big cover art: records and laserdiscs, one hundred and forty four square inches to catch the eye and beckon us to buy; smaller discs are easier to store, no doubt, but lose something in the shrinking …

… am I avoiding the topic? You bet I am. The real link to Love Actually (which I still adore, but haven’t watched since that initial time) is through Joni Mitchell’s Both Sides Now, which held me spellbound in 2010 for the opening ceremonies in Vancouver (cue it up to 2:01:05); I’d heard the tune before but never listened to the lyrics. What does it all mean? Whole essays have been written about that song but this is the point for me: things I was sure of twenty years ago have been proven untrue and uncertain; twenty years from now I’m sure that my unshakeable faiths will be changed, and that’s part of us growing up. It’s easy to laugh at what I thought was inconsolable heartbreak twenty years ago and dispense the kind of backwards-looking advice that’s well-meaning and completely unhelpful. Maybe I can find some peace from living the way I think I will twenty years hence: wiser, faster to laugh and forgive, patience coming naturally and not through hard labor.

9206.07 Can it be that just only tomorrow, I’ll be leaving...

dearj- — Thu, 07 Jun 2012 17:57:30 -0400

9206.07

Can it be that just only tomorrow, I’ll be leaving for Stanford (actually, Medford, Oregon)? Just two hours, huh? Not too exciting, but still, I’ll be able to see what has eluded me for all of three years now, California. And if it’s anything like I remember, I’d better pack plenty of T-shirts and shorts. Yep.

Why is my handwriting so good (except in that last “handwriting?” I dunno. Go figure; d’ye think that I’ve actually gotten enough rest for the first time in weeks?

… and this year of 1992 is almost half-over. Uh-huh. Yep. Yep. What was that silly, inane saying I used to use … oh, yes, it was Yah! OK. I’m okay, are you, really, truly? I guess not, but that’s all right.

I’ll still need to do all of my stuff, pack it, I mean, tonight. Books, clothes, tapes. That should do it … but there’s no Cheez-its on this trip. Oh, well. Those few days of down life showed me just how unpopular you get, especially if you’re me, walking around with no chest, but also no shirt. Go figure. I need a pen too, but I’m pretty sure that there’s one in the kit; I just need to empty out the change. So, how long has my bag been sitting on the floor? A little over two months? Hey, I can handle it, even if you can’t.

I’ll need to get this off my conscience sooner or later, so here goes: because I do, still, despite, like her, it keeps on hurting.

It’s too late
to turn back now

I believe I believe I believe …

[— Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose, Too Late to Turn Back Now]

out of, I wish.

If you don’t need me
why don’t you tell me
instead of running around
with all the other guys in town.

Can’t you see?
You’re hurting me;
don’t you care?
Don’t you care?

[— The Buckinghams, Don’t You Care]

Is there any wonder left in your minds as to why I like the older, 50s-60s rock?

I’ll try to end on an upbeat note, even when my spirit’s broken like this: The sun shined.

—————

photographer unspecified, Christa Miller for Maxim (May 1997).

Isn’t that just what melodrama calls for? Road trip! Two days removed from graduation and we’re ready to hit the road flying. By this point our road trips ended up being marathon driving sessions (we had a lot of available drivers to rotate in and out), long distances and stretches of the road eaten up with each ninety-minute cassette of music (I liked) keeping us on track and in tune. On the other hand, it’s only been two days, which sure seems like not a lot of time to get used to the idea that I’m never seeing any of these people again (except my roommate freshman year, who came from the same high school).

I’m getting ready for another trip and I’m neither as prepared, determined, or looking forward to it as I was twenty years ago. Life gets more complicated (better! but more complicated) and your commitments don’t seem to decrease. Can you do this? How about this too? And this? The more you do the more they ask you to do and less gets done. The trip is a chance to get away from it and regroup, but at the expense of family time: three weeks gone out of four, and I haven’t even started yet.

9206.06 So Dad’s best excuse is “don’t be mad,...

dearj- — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 17:55:02 -0400

9206.06

So Dad’s best excuse is “don’t be mad, he’s just a kid?” Goddamnit, (1) why didn’t you watch him or ask someone else to and (2) a four year-old is old enough to start to learn some responsibility. Don’t get mad, people are sleeping? Have you heard yourself in the mornings? It’s so unfair, and I try to live with it, honestly, but sometimes you just push me too far; don’t you understand that I’m a person, not a slave?

I can’t even express my own emotions? Oh, I’m sorry, it must be my fault that everything in your life goes wrong? What, you just want me to do everything?

Oh, take this, for instance: because Dad can’t abandon his friends/relatives, any one of whom could have watched the barbecue, I’m sent out to get all the extra food from Chinese Gardens. Oh, I’m supposed to read your mind when you tell me “come over and help.” What, it’s my turn to do everything wrong?

What, I’m just not good enough for you; you talk about Mom lagging on everyone, but who was it that forgot all about my own birthday? And it seems as if the only sharp-edged words I hear lately are from you. And it has been just about a year since you let me know that whatever I was doing, it wasn’t enough. Is it just a deep-seated insecurity or what?

But now something I told myself this afternoon rises up to haunt me: take a good look in the mirror before you decide to open up your big, fat yap. Really, because there’s just too much acrimony in the world already. With resigned (but not exaggerated) patience, I’ll just go back to leading the not-why-but-how-much type of life that I’ve been forced to lead.

No, I guess you can’t think for yourself; don’t be deluded.

—————

me, Thataway 7726 (2012).

Unresolved anger maybe? If I need nothing else to remind me, let this suffice: we pass our anger down like an heirloom, an oral tradition to be treasured and measured against the shortcomings of our patience and ability. There’s not much else to say here about today’s entry except to goggle at how spoiled I was (I think the kid in question had wrecked something I’d built in LEGO and took all of ten minutes to reassemble).

Still, I remember one of my dad’s favorite sayings is that everyone needs to be motivated in one way or another, and the million unfinished projects littering the house now are mute testament to that: I could be doing this, or that, but instead I’m learning something new: how does emulation work on a GP2X? Am I man enough to go with Arch on the new laptop instead of Ubuntu? Somewhere lost in there is the idea that I just want to be able to use these things, not just fiddle with them endlessly (which is why I gave up on keeping track of PSP firmware versions and homebrew, and which is no doubt why there’s another bunch of junk joining the other junk I haven’t had time to throw out yet). So yeah: I hated to hear it, but it’s true, everyone needs motivation.

9206.05 The gripes are even more minor when compared to all of...

dearj- — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 17:52:38 -0400

9206.05

The gripes are even more minor when compared to all of this fuss that’s going on over what I’ve observed coming from it; y’see, it seems that, on the eve of one of probably one of the momentous times in my life, I can remember my childhood almost perfectly. For example — those doors — the family room and the back door — I can remember thinking that Hong Kong must be the result when their edges touched.

Do I want to leave? Do I have a choice? …

And so now, after all of the smoke has settled, I am officially a graduate of Cheney High School. My name will go up on the board, as have untold thousands before me (and those to follow too). It all just seems so very unreal at this hour. I mean, after all, it could just be that I went to sleep at 5:00 and only now got up (at 1 PM), but I think that it’s more the fact that the profundity of it all hasn’t quite sunk in. Y’know what I mean?

I was able to speak at graduation — not too shabbily, either, I might add — and for the most part, the crowd was fairly respectful; at the very least, they paid pretty good attention to me. The giving of diplomas seemed to drag on interminably; that was quite all right, though, as it was fun to watch both the floor show of bubbles and condoms and rubber balls going everywhere (and the corresponding reactions on Mr. Knott’s face, which was yet another show in itself), and the objects that Dr. Zimmerman got [in exchange for the diplomas]; I saw condoms (in fact it was mostly condoms), a little sand pail or Halloween loot bucket (by Kelli), and a beach ball, ugly as hell (by Rachel S.).

I do wish that Sesame Street was on at this odd hour, though. Regression into childhood? Hmm. I still need to check the paper, then, I guess. There could be some good movies on right now, y’know.

Well, anyways, I spent most of the last part of the all-nighter in a conscious rejection of material things; equipped with only my trusty yo-yo (and some stuff I put far, far away), I gave away all of my money; it felt pretty good, as a matter of fact. Yeesh. I mean, you spend your life in pursuit of all of these things, and you never know when to quit. But enough of the philosophizing.

What else did I do? I sang Karaoke. It was insane, really, y’don’t know how and still you’re up there and making a big fool of yourself, even if you’re having a damn good time. It really was pretty good. Really.

Hannah and Her Sisters?

There’s just so little time left for so much to be done; I can just procrastinate (again). It’s all really all right in the world. Not. I’m just sorta tired, that’s all. I need to clean up some of my room. I don’t want to, though. It’s really okay, (my life, I mean) becuase there just seems to be so little objection to very much.

So what am I trying to say? I guess there’s little more than the fact that Missy now avoids me like the plague (do I blame her? a little bit, but the truth is that I’ve never hated any of the people that I’ve liked). It’s been tugging at the edges of my awareness for about a month now and really, I feel as if there’s nothing that I can do about it. So please, just let me retrieve the shards of my heart in peace.

—————

Jindřich Štreit, Sovinec (series, c.1970-1980s).

GRADUATION DAY. We’ve been working towards this for thirteen years and by the time you get to the end you’re staggering, barely able to keep up (really? another project?) and then they throw all kinds of curveballs your way: big party, big all-nighter to keep us off the roads and away from alcohol (I have my own reasons for going stone-cold sober) and then what? I suppose you’ll never see a lot of these people again except under limited circumstances. In the intervening twenty years I saw our original group of friends — Phil, Pete, and Mike — once for a few hours one night. How many trips have I taken back to Cheney? When I wasn’t in school I can remember three: once in the winter, to show my wife where I grew up; once in the spring, for a cousin’s marriage, and once again in the winter, to bury my friends’ parents.

Graduation isn’t necessarily a matter of life and death; it’s a milestone that should be celebrated but not reminisced. The actual act of graduation is fairly meaningless: someone gets up and drones on about duty and responsibility (I think my speech was titled something like History Requires Action). It’s a long, drawn-out walk and handshake commemorating something actually significant — you’ve successfully fulfilled the requirements of the system, and this, more than anything else thus far in your life, points to you being a responsible adult now. It’s as though those last thirteen years were spent playing at life, and now they gave you the keys, a slap on the back, and that simple admonition to keep your nose clean, son.

Of course like me you could always run away from that back to school, where achievements are regularly doled out (you’ve unlocked the College achievement! Here’s forty quarters for laundry and some detergent) to keep you interested until grades fail to become a primary draw. Then what? I think everyone wants to bring something back to the reunion to say here is my mark on the world, my funny stories since that night we last saw each other, my life.

It’s tempting to judge it on an obsessively objective basis: let’s play the numbers game. How many cars? Kids? Spouses? Houses? Dollars? Years? How big is the pool? I’ve been told that the United States is the only place where it’s acceptable to ask someone what they do as an icebreaker question. Hi, I’m Mike. What do you do for a living? This is the flip side to the statement that always started with “when I grow up … I want to be _____”. This is how we judge ourselves and others, this is the face we put on by the door before we head out.

If I was going back to Cheney this summer — and odds are that I won’t — then I’d soften the question to whether or not you’re happy now. No one has had the same set of twenty years and it’s impossible to expect a universal yes even if libations are flowing. So the follow-up question would be whether or not I could help, because we attend these reunions to brag on ourselves, true, but also to exorcise the demons and memories of long ago. They have a funny way of festering over the years and ripening into some some strange assumption we’re convinced is real unless otherwise disproved, and in the echo chamber of our minds, we’re always right, there is no margin for error.

9206.04 It’s not the way you look at me that tears us...

dearj- — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 17:55:36 -0400

9206.04

It’s not the way you look at me
that tears us apart

It doesn’t matter anyway
we’re going to show them any old way

What can I say?
When baby, it’s you.
And baby, it’s true.

Today was almost as lazy as yesterday. But, of course not quite. I did go to the library and check out several books, most notably Red Dragon, the Thomas Harris novel that predates Silence of the Lambs. It’s been such a long day, though … I’ll be that much more happy when I’m finally able to sleep once more. Uh-huh. Were the Shirelles ahead of their time? Let’s hope not.

I dunno, it just seems that the longer I pause between sentences, the more that blank space between here and the end of the page grows, in leaps and bounds, until it threatens to engulf all of the rest of my vision. Leaps and bounds? Maybe not, maybe I should say instead by (steps and jumps? Gargantually? bigger?) an exponential rate, directly proportional to the amount of procrastination that I’ve done today.

Ugh. At the very least, I’ll probably be able to watch Sesame Street tomorrow, and probably on a (relatively) clear nose, at that. Which, of course, makes me very happy; it seems as if my nose has been stuffy or running or sore or otherwise impaired since ht day that I first mowed the lawn. But I’m pretty sure that y’all would probably rather not hear about all of this. Yep. D’ye s’pose so?

It really has turned out to be a pretty long day. The Spaceward Ho! game that I started yesterday resolved itself quite nicely (only one or two more colonies, which were promptly re-taken, were wiped out today), with me gaining control of the galaxy. Yes, I do feel sorta like a maximum leader right now. It’s just the way things must be.

Well, at this point, so much writing has occurred that, once again, the light side seems ready to give in to the easier, dark side. Quick and easy it is (was).

—————

Christian, cookie monster (2011).

Oh come on. Everyone has some embarrassing shows that they insisted on watching way past an appropriate age; for me it was Sesame Street (I liked their musical numbers) and Laverne and Shirley (huge crush on Laverne). What were some of yours? Sometimes I think that I pick shows to watch today because of what they remind me of: simpler times, familiar plot lines, and comfortable characters. Is there any wonder that I fall for cartoons and syndicated sitcoms?

I started re-watching Cheers recently when it became available from Netflix; we have a million devices, it seems, that can stream those shows so instead of having to put televisions everywhere in the house we just call it up at will on our phones and that’s amazing to someone who grew up fighting with his brother over whose turn it was to get up and switch the channel: what you want, when you want, where you want. Freedom of choice has another effect, too: I’m not watching anything lately, now that I can watch just about anything.