November 1st, 2001

full life

(no subject)

Very frustrated: no record store in midtown seems to carry The Dismemberment Plan. I borrowed jdixon's copy of their new record the other day and was kicked, very hard, in the ass - which is amazing, considering that I'm already obsessed with most of the new Death Cab for Cutie record.

Very pleased: last night's Yankee game was ridiculous.

Very bored: duh.
full life

(no subject)

While I'm enormously psyched to have the internet at home again, I've noticed that my songwriting productivity has all but vanished. I'm gonna be recording an EP in a few weeks with the express purpose of getting label people's attention, yet I'm far more interested in screwing around on this thing. Hell, I still haven't even re-set up my 4-track and stuff.

Heh. I was thinking that, since I've uploaded all my old journal entries onto this computer, I could just cut-and-paste entries into my LJ - like, if I had written something on 11-1-95, I could paste it in here, a "wow, that's what I was like 6 years ago" sort of thing. Here's the thing, though - a lot of those entries are really poorly written, as well as just being about stupid things. I had just gotten into seriously smoking pot, and I thought it was making me a genius, and that everything I wrote had some profound insight into the human condition. Reading it all these years later, it's sort of embarassing and dumb.

However, the whole idea of having an online journal is to be as embarassing as you want. That being said, here's an excerpt from 10-29-94, which was 2 months into my sophomore year of NYU.

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i'm just getting bored
and watching people walk by, not noticing me, or perhaps leaving me alone. i have nothing to hide. a couple and their friend serve to remind me that there is company in numbers. i'm horribly depressed. there is nothing to do in a city where everything happens in larger numbers, both in enjoyment and price. and if someone came along and asked to read what i had written all they would see is bastardized ink and illegible words. it's the weekend before halloween and already the costumes are being worn. why? what does it mean? a girl alone regards me in the same way i regard her. alone. not in the mood to talk. i understand. really i do. perhaps the two of us could get together and discuss the merits of living single. we'd make an interesting pair. everyond is drunk or stoned or at least has somewhere to go. a 14?year?old kid throwing a plastic football is enjoying this saturday night better than i am. the fucker. there's a cop car whose lights have been on since i sat down here. he hasn't moved. not an inch. someone's got to love me in a town as ugly as this.

"sometimes even music can not substitute for tears."
- paul simon

on the way to my chekhov rehearsal i saw a "crazy". he had not been there before. he found a home and a spiritual companion with the newspaper stand at 10th and university.
a lot has happened to me since then.
so just 5 minutes ago i walked to the deli to get some coffee. if i'm going to sulk, i reasoned, i might as well be awake and sulk and perhaps things might work themselves out. the "crazy" was still there. he was tearing up pieces of paper. perhaps the newspaper stand had said something to offend him. his face is blank. no expression except whatever cosmic dirt has imprinted on his withered face.

now the girls who walk by are noticing me. i've made certain eye contact with 7 of them. nothing has been said. a knowing glance to see what a bearding boy with a PHISH hat and a notepad is doing alone on a pre?festive night like this.
fuck fuck fuck nothing is still happening.
i'm beginning to enjoy it.

EVERY CIGARETTE IS ANOTHER DISASTER. i've been reading bukowski all night. at least i'm not depressed like i was on the previous pages. i've spent 2 hours listening to PHISH and reading. bored out of my head. the coffee has rejuvinated my veins and now i'm bored and awake. but what can you do except smoke and wait for something exciting to happen... i remember as a child falling from the rings outside. 7 years old and attempting to take on the world. "5 minutes" the monitor would bellow but still i had to conquer the rings. it was the thing i couldn't do except in my mind. in my mind i was the greatest athelete in the world. in the real world i was always the last kid to get picked and more often than not i'd spendthe afternoon alone wacthing the games. and the minutes chrank and i was trapped on the 3rd ring and finally there was nothing for me to do but fal and i did. almost hit my eye on a rock but fate stepped in and i cut my eyebrow instead. and no one saw a thing.

it's not even halloween and yet everyone is dressed like there's a carnival. all the people who left the building before are returning now, and to them it looks like i've been here the whole time. fuck 'em. maybe i've discovered the secret of life in this book and they just don't understand. as is usual. everybody in the world believes themselves to be the center of the universe. i see this to be true. it gives you something to hope for. in this way we are all GODS. perhaps we imagine everybody else, as they imagine us. this is similar to the bad trip i had at the dead show. they've turned off the empire state building and once again i've missed it. couple couples couples, whether they are or not they pass in front of me like soldiers. they march into the great unknown which we call the future. hot damn, i wrote my first metaphor.
everybody's got somewhere to go.

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Oh, the melodrama... Oh, the humanity...

There are few things more annoying than bad college poetry. Tim McCarver is close, though.