heard	The Pretenders			Learning to Crawl
			David Torn			Door X
			Prong			Beg to Differ
			Metallica			And Justice For All
			Dionne Farris			Wild Seed, Wild Flower
			MeShell Ndegeocello			Bitter

 

Shudders and Boards good for you, sly.. (10-11) I t's one of those stories that I save for parties, the kind of thing I really should keep quiet just in case I ever get the chance to ever meet any of you personally, in case you ever find me sitting on the floor of my apartment with my back up against the couch, perhaps with a bottle of beer at my feet and an acoustic guitar lazily resting in my lap… It's one of those stories you don't tell at bars, you wouldn't want to hand out over the phone.. even in our quick fed e-mail on your portable phone world, there is still something about it. Something about the time after dinner, plates and paper towels stacked on top of each other with no hope of getting washed until the next morning. Something about the time of night when you put on your favorite CD on in the background, when you think you should probably be having a glass of wine but don't bother because the beer was cheaper, the time when every memory becomes a story, and you connect with those people near and dear to you. I have always believed that there is something about telling stories. The same stories, the good ones that you don't mind hearing over again, and again, and again. The ones you hear from close friends, and will retell to other people as "the funny thing that happened to this guy I know…" I believe that we as humans are creatures of experience. Creatures of singularity. We thrive on our potential to have something happen to us that couldn't in a million years happen to anyone else at any other time. I really do think that's part of what makes it all worth it. I want my life to be constantly filled with moments.. constantly touched by instances that I can chronicle, rinse and repeat, those times when the only light in the room is candles and you pull out the special bottle of Rum that you bought knowing that after the party died down we would all find ourselves in the living room, telling those same old tales over and over. In fact, I think that maybe I cling to that concept a little too tightly sometimes, and it gets me into trouble when my expectations for things fall short. I find that lately I get frustrated when things that have the potential to be epic fall short and become 'just another thing'. I find that I get disappointed when the number of "could be epic" experiences in my life aren't as many as I would like there to be. Yes, I'm one of those. I like it when things happen just right. I want things to be perfect. I make too big a deal sometimes over surprising my wife with things, of trying to spring plans on her at the last moment, because the more spontaneous things are, the more special they seem (There's probably also something to the fact that some of the things that I have over-planned have all ended up crashing down on my head…). But all too many times it seems that things aren't perfect. Things get hitched up, people don't show on time, it rains, babies cry, or grandparents suddenly can't watch them for the night…. Those weekends where I envisioned days of surfing and nights of passionate lovemaking, only to get horribly sunburned during the first part of the day, completely ruining things for the evening. Hey, it happens… that's what life is all about…   But it's still frustrating.   …and in turn I am the one who brings all the baggage with him: the song that means too much to hear without getting bummed out, the doomsday ex-girlfriend stories (the convertible orange Volkswagen 'problem'), the selective remembering of only the good times…   I remember…. Those parties at Florida State and even before then at Stanton so vividly, not so much the crazy things at the party, or the wild feelings we felt, but so many times I remember how almost always we would be the last ones there, slouched on couches just smiling and talking. I remember nights when we were going to "go find a party" and when one couldn't be found fast enough we would just skip on to that part of the evening, talking and laughing, laughing and talking.   I remember…   One time a Prince Manor party was winding down to that point, where most of the people had left, and it was just me, Kim, Andrew, John, James, Jeff, Ted, Amre, Sandy.. and this guy named Philip who had shown up at the party late. Philip was someone's friend of a friend, and he was really enjoying all of our company - telling us his little jokes and commenting on the things we were talking about, but the fact was that it was getting late and we were all trying to get to that next part of the evening, that Tribe Only part of the evening, our part of the evening. Waiting... …for Philip to leave. And I remember Jeff Spence, being very happily drunk, finally going over to Philip and saying, "I don't know who you are, but why are you still here? None of us like you, get the fuck out!" And when you read that without having been there, you sorta stop and think to yourself, "geez, that was a little harsh…" But you have to understand the moment. The mood. The unexpectedness of it, the fact that one second Jeff couldn't stand up straight and the next moment he was cussing out some stranger who was keeping him from passing out in the presence of only his closest friends… man that night was beautiful!   But then I start to wonder… did I start an online journal to try and turn every little mundane instance in my life into a special moment? Did I begin chronicling my life -- first in an orange spiral notebook in high school and then on this world wide web -- to try and make those unsure and confused days seem that much more pivotal? Have I manufactured some of the importance of my life??   When I was reading more journals (seems like the time and opportunity to read them is harder and harder to come by these days) I remembered looking forward sometimes to stepping into worlds where things were happening, where new adventures were breaking out. I remember reading journals as a way to create that room full of close friends sitting on the floor, nursing those late night cups of coffee, sharing their memories. Sometimes it would work beautifully, and sometimes it would fall horribly flat. Sometimes I just wanted to make that connection too much, wanted too much from the experience, like expecting true love from a blind date. A journal I used to read religiously, Zen and the art of Psychoanalysis (I'm sure it's still out there somewhere, maybe with a different name), could sometimes be the most heartwarming thing you've ever read, and then sometimes, because of my own expectations that I brought with me when I went to read it, it could be the most boring and pretentious thing on the web (I'm sure the same could be said for my journal and it's ever-changing face). I sometimes opened her journal wanting the entry to make me think and wonder.. and sometimes it just didn't. There's a lot to be said for the power of the reader, and the things that the reader brings with him when he opens up a text file, or a book. For example, have you ever nonchalantly started reading newspaper maybe while you were in a waiting room and found that you got so unexpectedly enthralled by an article, story, or whatever that you couldn't put it down until you finished reading it? How many of you, like me, have found yourself sitting with a magazine on the toilet long after you were done using the toilet, turning pages and waiting until you have read the entire thing before moving on with your life? If you remove that uncomfortable moment when you're done reading and you realize that you still have…er, um,… work to complete before you can leave that particular facility, work you really should never put off at all.. well it makes you wonder just how important you and your mood are when you start reading something.   Sometimes when I read, the whole world disappears.   It's like the story I was thinking about this morning when I started writing this. It's a funny little story, just one of those amusing things that happens to you. But the thing is, I really wanted to tell that story this morning for some reason. I don't even know what made me think of it in the first place, but once I got the idea in my head, all I needed was someone to tell it to.   And here you are…   But think for a second. Did you want to read something like this when you got here? Were you hoping instead for a rant, or another fiction story (I've started tinkering around with something new, btw). Or did you come in as an open book, just excited to see anything at all that was new? I know I don't update as much as I used to, and that changes the dynamic for people reading the journal. The connection is so much weaker. It's not like this is a book, where you can go and read it at your own pace, knowing there's a beginning and an end there waiting for you, allowing you to put it down when you want, or race through the pages when you want… A woman named Magdalena Donea used to write a journal called Water (that eventually became a journal named Moments). It was, in my mind, one of the single best things on the web at the time. She was such a powerful writer, and she crafted her entries in a manner that made them cozy enough to read over and over again. But about the time I started reading her stuff she hardly ever updated. It would be weeks between entries (kinda like me, lately) and when she finally did post something, I would devour it so fast because I had gotten so hungry for that warm, cozy feeling that often I found myself all to quickly getting to the end of an entry thinking to myself, "This is it? I waited weeks for this?" - which is totally unfair. It's not like Maggie, Laurie, Grover, or I have to update at all. As writers, this is just a place to spill thoughts once in a while, share stories and have a good time. For us, it's good enough that it happens at all once in a while…   But as a reader, as the one who gets hooked into the whole spirit of the thing, this is the most important place there is. This is the whole point of being at the party, the waiting for everyone to clear out so the close friends left over could gather around and laugh at old stories… If you take that part of it away, if that part doesn't happen... it could diminish everything that led up to it, no matter how beautiful it actually was or wasn't.   And I have come to realize that in a way, because this is the story of my life, that I tend to gravitate between both of those poles. Sometimes I sit down and just write something, just put it out there and it's cool. But at other times I find myself sitting at the keyboard trying to make something special happen. Trying so hard that the pressure I put on the situation ruins the whole thing.   I do that sometimes in my writing. I do that sometimes in my life, too….   I want this to be a good book to read. I want my life to be something you can't put down, something that makes you turn the pages faster and faster as you go. I want that so badly that when the chapters come out dull, or don't come at all, I start to question myself…   I've occasionally daydreamed about what it would be like if this journal ever got printed as a book. I think it would be endlessly cool to hold this monster I have created in my hands. To know that there was a permanence. A reality to it. To know that I could escape the overwhelming anonymity of this Internet and somehow make it into something that could be read, or treasured. Would people read it? Would people quote it? Would people dog ear the corners of pages where I maybe said something that made them smile, made them laugh, pissed them off, or touched their lives? Or would they just peck at it like a bad appetizer at a party. Would it be the kind of book where they really wanted to read it, but when they sat down to do it -- the mood just wouldn't hit them right?   And of course there's the bigger problem.     This is the book of my life.   I don't know how it ends just yet…     and again.. maybe that's the whole point, after all :-)     (I know I never got around to telling that story that started this whole thing. I'll tell you what: Come over, hang out late with me. After all the other people go home, I'll brew some coffee, and I will tell it to you).   I promise it will be worth it,     Because it's a really good story.