ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- shit So everytime I click on "Add an Entry" I expect to see "Diaryland is currently stuffed to the gills with people whose contributions mean something. Kindly fuck off and try again later. Or don't; we really wouldn't mind." Where does this self-loathing come from? Is it an advanced form of delusion or just keen observation? Do I fear myself out of inherited psychosis or experience? So I wrote most of this shit on Sunday but I was on a time limit computer and didn't click "Send" before the time expired. Imagine my disappointment. I'm trying to duplicate the feel and style but I can't recall the mood I was in, which is all-important. Bear with me. Friday I went walking around San Diego, looking for something, anything, to do. I found myself in Horton Plaza downtown, which has some really bitchin' architecture. I wandered around until I came to Hot Topic and remembered that I wanted to buy a hat. I walked in and, just, swam through the store in a dazed joy. I gawked lovingly at original Nintendo shirts and Cobra and G.I. Joe shirts and first-run Simpson's Shirts. I stared longingly at Dukes of Hazard shirts and Ren and Stimpy dolls and Transformer back packs. I smiled a stupid, happy smile and felt a swell of nostalgia in my chest as I breathed in all that commerce that hearkened back to a youth that I choose to remember fondly. As I started to notice the eyes poking out from the fresh young faces around me, that swell of nostalgia turned into a painful stab of regret and I rushed out of the store. I swear that I heard cheers of joy rise up from inside that the creepy old guy was gone as I fled down the stairs and back into the comfort of the crowd on the street. Charlie Chaplin does this comedy routine that involves a hat. In it, he drops his hat and tries to retrieve it. However, everytime he bends over, he inadvertently kicks that hat away with his foot that he has extended for balance. So he kicks this hat all over the ground, which scuttles away for him everytime he reaches out for it, and everyone howls with laughter at this pathetic loser chasing his own hat around. THAT HAT IS MY YOUTH! And everytime I reached out to touch a shirt or other eighties paraphenalia item, my youth scurried farther away. If I were to pimp that Ralph Wiggum shirt in Downtown SD, I'd just be a creepy old guy who "Can't let go". It's best to just let it lie. Monica and I took Jonathan to The Broken Yolk Cafe yesterday on his last day in town and watched him try to eat the 12-egg omelet that is free to those who finish. He tried; my goodness, did he try. But he failed, miserably. And he truly was miserable when he was done. Poor guy was stuffed like a Taco Bell Big Stuft Burrito and hardly able to move once the fiasco was over. Sunday night I made it out to a local venue to see Matt Sharp, formerly of Weezer and The Rentals, do a small acoustic set and spin some records from his personal collection, but, after an hour and a half of waiting, he was a no-show. So am I going through a mid-life crisis? I'm only 25! (not even, actually) Granted, life after 50 doesn't appeal to me at all. What am I doing with my life? Where am I going? What will I find when I get there? And will I be alone? This feels just like a dream / i can not be believed / despite my words i'm not quite what i seem / not all smiles and handshakes / the laughs that fall out are fakes / despite your note i don't think you miss me / it feels like i can't breathe / all your soft stares are pressing down on me / it feels like i can't decide / is it a triumph or failure that i tried? Nostalgia is not a blessing; it's a curse. It's time gloating; basking in its victory; reminding you that it always wins. Time: fucking bitch! 4:47 p.m. - 2003-08-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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