It's been a while, so this might run a bit long. Probably shouldn't tell you that. Don't tune out!! First of all, notice the quiet and heatfelt song I suggested. It doesn't fit the mood perfectly of this post (like other suggested songs attempt to do), but it does come from the best movie I've seen in a long time, "Once." Go see it. I cannot stress this enough. It is different from anything I've ever seen, plus it is good. Go! If you like it, I'll send you the soundtrack! For real! And the movie IS the soundtrack. You'll get it when you've seen it.
Now. Let's settle something that has been bugging me for the last six weeks. My dear friend Kendra, who recently moved to Vegas and is far closer than any of you to knowing how distanced I feel, recently sent me a letter. It does two things. First you read it, then I tell you the things it does. Kendra says, "Driving in Vegas is similar to driving in Mexico, only the drivers are less courteous and observant of traffic laws. There is no sense of order. You're lucky if there is a yellow line running down the street to keep people from running into each other head-on, even more lucky to find those white lines indicating lanes of traffic. Rather than create some semblance of order, people just drive wherever there is room to squeeze in. On freeways during high traffic hours, there are no lights to gate people onto the freeway. A pack of 15 cars will all merge at once, causing everyone else to come to a screeching halt. People also don't stop at red lights. Perhaps they are so used to seeing flashing lights everywhere, they no longer acknowledge lights in general. When coming to my house from the freeway, you have to cross into oncoming traffic to make the turn onto my street. There is no light, no stop sign, nothing except the knowledge that these people hate to apply their brakes. I can't take it!!" First of all, this letter proves that outside of California people do really drive like brain-dead crack addicts with cataracts, or like the Italians. Second, it tells me that I will no longer complain about drivers in Texas, and drivers in general. What more is there for me to bitch about that I havent bitched about already? The fact of the matter is that I avoided driving for two years, and I hate doing it, and most importantly, I may very well be a shitty driver myself. So until someone who has followed me in traffic chimes in, I'll just assume that I suck just as bad, and just as hard, as the Texas drivers.
End of story.Since the music is kinda sad and all, or at least melancholy, let's talk briefly about work, before we move onto...The Fun Stuff!!! Every once and a while, as I sit at my desk, I'll get this wierd kinda flash, like out of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," and I want to say, "What the...what the FUCK am I doing out here in the middle of Texas? Help!! Somebody help!!!" I'll panic for a second, break into a sweat, flail wildly for a second or two, and then it passes. Just like that. I look around to see if any of my fellow cubicle-monkeys saw my insane twitchfest, then get back to work. That's my biggest question: What AM I doing here? Not enjoying myself very much, not making much money yet, and not getting over San Diego. I am writing more. Reading more. I've got a new friend named Amy who has similar tastes in music and film and booze, so the weekends aren't terrible anymore. I feel like I suck at my job. While trying to avoid excuses, this is somewhat understandable, since a) it's a tough market right now, and even some veterans are doing worse than me, b) I am doing a whole new job coming off of 10 years waiting tables, and I haven't sucked at waiting tables since 1997, so being terrible when starting a new job isn't something I'm used to, c) the nature of waiting tables requires, at most, two hours of follow-through and requires very little paperwork while mortgages require months of follow-through and mounds of paperwork, and d) waiting tables has no real gravity, and by "gravity" I mean that no matter how much restaurant management wants the waitstaff to take shit seriously, we're really, seriously, just bringing some fucking food to some fucking hungry person. That is it. Simplest thing in the world, made way more complicated than it should ever be by manaagement trying real hard to suppress the joy of their unruly alcoholic servers and at the same time justify their status. When I messed up a salad order, no one lost their home. This seriousness is something I've never had to deal with before. I hate it. The Peter Pan syndrome that was the backbone of my entire San Diego exsistence has been torn away in the most speedy and terrible way. I didn't even get to hold on to one little bit of it. It's no wonder that Mike, my buddy who moved out here three years ago, is now married. Holy Fucking Matrimony!!!. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
And now... (music change, no caption needed)
Yes sir!! (or ma'am)
In less than a week I'll be in Sandy Friggin' Eggo!!!! Whoo!!
My return from Texas also coincides with Nick coming back from his Mom's house in Minnesota (Ya know?), and since Jason never left SD, this makes a Trifecta of Roomies!! Join us for our rollicing reunion party time!!
Friday night: Padres game!!! Get a five dollar ticket, and steel yourself for some fucking drinking!!! Downtown rampage follows the game, with maybe a trip up to the Lamplighter if we're feeling froggy!! (I might need somewhere to crash.)
Saturday day: Bay party on Mission Bay! Bring beer, we provide watercraft and entertainment.
Saturday night: Drinking and so on, in PB! (I might need somewhere to crash.)
Sunday: Breakfast, then I'm off to the airport.
If you want to meet up, simply call me, and come out. I hope to spend time with everyone I can during this short (but really neccesary) visit. Help me get drunk enough to forget Texas for the weekend.
The next time you are privy to my thoughts, you might be standing right next to me, instead of sitting in front of a computer!
Until next time...
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