Friday, May 16, 2003

I was perusing through the blog of a certain Donald Pierson when I came across someone�s lament concerning Sweet Don P�s deletion of Communist Agenda, his Open Diary. It appeared odd, at first. I had assumed that my slug-slow laptop had been at fault for my previous failure to utilize Pierson�s link, but no. It almost appears as if we are no longer meant to have an all-access pass into the boy�s head. But why? He has been so generous before�

Then it struck me. The unrivaled elegance of a private thought. What great weariness must come with constantly being pressured to enlighten, astound, appall, or entertain a vast and ever-growing audience? The joy of writing simply for writing; the chase and capture of something as abstract and fleeting as a thought and rendering it as concrete and as permanent as possible.

�Like�singing in your car. Unless you�re trying to annoy your passengers, you are probably singing just for you. And would I be wrong in saying that you have never sounded better?

Capturing is perhaps the wrong word. To have a bit of your own mind to examine at a later time is not a gain per se, but more of a prevention of loss.

The idea of an Open Diary did not particularly appeal to me when I first heard of it. �How can one be open,� I wondered, �When everyone is hovering over your shoulder waiting to dissect you?�

The previous overtones were a bit ominous, I see now. I do not mean to slip in Freudian-style an underlying paranoia of people. I just mean�

�that it may not be as much fun to sing when others are within earshot.

* * * *
Ha ha, it is now an hour later and I�m not nearly as drunk.

I can find solace in the belief that unabashed free expression is only a few drinks away.

I guess it is a bit sad, too.

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

There should be a tenth level of Hell. This level would be an endless morning after your 21st birthday. There would be an abundance of direct sunlight and tequila-flavored water.

Upon arriving at Casey Moore's (a bar) last night, I quickly assessed the situation. Harnessing my rudimentary math skills, I calculated that if I had just one drink with each friend there, I maybe wouldn't die. Empowered by my estimate, I bellied up to the bar and got to work.

I was averaging about a shot or drink every two minutes. In the brief period where I was able to notice that the empty glasses in front of me were beginning to outnumber the amount of friends present I realized my fatal(?) error. They were buying me more than one drink each. I don't remember being concerned...

I was awoken by my roommate, Mai Linh. She was taking it upon herself to see that I made it to my 9:00 final. I hadn't set an alarm or anything the night before. That could have been bad. So I slurm out of bed to the stark realization that I am still drunk. And not just kind of drunk. Can't walk in a straight line drunk. I had stopped drinking around 4:30 in the morning. We had all gone back to my house to continue drinking after the bar. I remember throwing up on the walk back, and then cracking open a forty and playing beer pong with Matt when I arrived. There was some more throwing up later, but for some reason I was still drinking up until I must have passed out.

So I found myself stumbling to my class for my final. Mai Linh and Matt had driven me to school because I was in no condition to drive. It was fairly obvious to the rest of the class that I was drunk. I'm sure they were amused. The professor handed me my final kind of chuckling to himself. "It's not my fault that my 21st birthday was the night before finals!" I said in my defense. He just laughed a little more. I'll bet he was jealous. I was living out the American Teacher's Dream: going to class drunk.

I finished my final before anyone else. We shall see if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

I came home and slept.

I awoke, showered, counted my injuries, fixed my bathroom sink, picked up all of the stuff I had knocked around while trying to take out my contact lenses. Yes, I'll admit it, I fell completely over trying to take out my contacts. It looks as if I tried to grab the sink as I fell, knocking toothpaste, toothbrush, my razor, soap, and my contact solution onto the floor. I landed partly in the shower where I lay there, only managing to get up after two failed attempts. Yay 21...

Now I'm feeling slightly poisoned, very sore, and a little wiser.

But older? I do not yet feel older.