...wasted youth

Last Friday was really odd, in the sense that the past came whispering back to me, seemingly hell bent on reminding me that no matter how much the world changes, no matter how much I change, what I've done, where I've been and decisions I've made remain immutable facts, dragging behind me like an embarrassingly long, not-quite-vestigial tail.

This whole shanghai down memory lane happened early in the morning. Having pulled four 10-hour shifts on the preceding work days, I had the entire, glorious day off. In celebration, Michelle and I slept late (well...8-o'clock or so—as I grow older, my definition of late encroachs on my previous definitions of early) and snuggled in bed for a bit, listening to the radio, before we got up and started our respective days. I was a 31-year-old man lounging in bed with a good job, a three-day weekend and an armful of beautiful woman. In short, I was ridiculously happy.

Then the radio station, 99x, did their regularly scheduled "Big Hair Moment," paying homage to '80s metal. And the song they picked was Iron Maiden's "Run to the Hills."

Suddenly, I was 14 years old, rummaging through my second dresser drawer among my 10 black, Iron Maiden T-shirts. "Hm," I was thinking, "sleeves? Or sleeve-less?" Soon, I would lay down on my bed to wriggle into a pair of jeans so tight my mother worried that I'd never give her grand-children. Then I'd finish the entire ensemble off with a massive pair of Nike Air high-tops and head off to my freshman year of high-school. I'd get there kind of early, so I could sneak a few cigarettes with my friends.

Suddenly, I was 15 again, roaming the narrow streets of Gibraltar with Live After Death cycling endlessly on my cheesy, too-poor-to-afford-a-real-Walkman portable tape player and drowning out the polyglot sounds of Gibraltar's unique, Spain meets Morrocco meets England at the crossroads culture. I was on a single-minded quest for the "2 Minutes To Midnight" 12", picture-disc single. Maiden's cover of "Rainbow's Gold," I thought, would be a perfect addition to the background music tape I had in mind for my Twilight: 2000 campaign. If I could get a good deal on the disc, I might even be able to pick up a carton of John Player Specials, to boot.

Suddenly, I was 16, poring over Derek Riggs' album art for Somewhere in Time, 288 square inches of cleverly conceived visual references to a lot of my favorite science-fiction stories and movies. Derek Riggs was certainly very cool, I thought, to be able to get all things neat into one futuristically baroque work. I wondered if I'd ever get laid, and determined that when I finally got around to slashing my wrists, I'd have Pink Floyd—no! Billy Joel, better still—wobbling around at 35 rpm on my cheap-ass King's Point stereo, just so no-one would think Iron Maiden had anything to do with my death.

"Run to the Hills" ended, and I was lying in bed, stunned by suddenly being four people all at once.

"Damn," I said lamely. "That takes me back."

Michelle laughed.

"I really have a hard time connecting you," here she patted my chest, "with that song!"

Of course, I have the same problem. Yet, the wince-inducing truth of the matter is that, all through high-school, I was a metal-head. Not the glue-sniffing, drop-out, criminal record metal-head, but the pot-smoking, AP English, AD&D-Elven-thief/acrobat playing metal-head. Think Weezer or Wheatus, not Beavis & Butt-Head, and you'll have a pretty good fix on what I was like.

You know, I'd love to say that I enjoyed the entire metal-head persona, but I didn't. I mean, I went out of my way to make that music important. I extolled the lyrics as poetry, explained the aggressive, repetitive music as being representative of the working-class, industrial background of the musicians and emphasized the historical and mythical subject matter as being, vis-a-vis this blue collar origin, a harmless, escapist attempt to better oneself by wrapping a creative though under-educated mind around classic themes. And I still believe that, but it has nothing to do with why I was a metal-head and chose to listen to soulless, operatic dreck.

See, it all boils down to not wanting to get my ass kicked.

When you're ceaselessly picked on, made fun of and occasionally whomped on after school, you begin to notice differences between yourself and your antagonists. "Hmmmm," you think. "A bunch of long-haired guys in black T-shirts seem pretty determined to make my life a living hell. Why is that?" If you're smart and strong, you realize they're doing it because they're assholes. Then you stand your ground and go on with your life, because you've got important things to do. If you're neither particularly smart nor terribly strong, you also realize they're doing it because they're assholes. However, you've got nothing terribly important to do, no solid ground to stand on and you really just want them to stop. How do you handle this dilemma?

Well, if you're me, you buy a bunch of black T-shirts with a dead guy silkscreened on them and cut the sleeves off, grow your hair long, get contact lenses (very important, that), spend most of your money on a secondhand guitar and pretend you've never even heard of the Beatles. Then you keep a low profile and set your sights on college, just four years down the road.

Of course, years later, you may be reminded of that decision when you least expect it. And it may spook you to think that you ever could have been that stupid. It may spook you so much that you prefer to think of that past decision maker as an entirely different person. That apparently is the price you have to pay.

Oh well, luckily all that is behind me and I've returned to my true, geeky roots. Saturday Marc, Michelle and I are going to see They Might Be Giants. For Marc and I, this seems like a burgeoning annual tradition, as we went down and saw them at the exact same place last April. Unfortunately, opening act OK Go have cancelled out. That's a shame, because we saw them opening for TMBG last year, and they were truly awesome.

Anyway, we'll try to get some photos and a review sometime on Sunday. Until then....

...three-day weekend!

As you know from a previous post, I've been schlepping my carcass through four days of 10-hour shifts in order to acheive that paragon of plebian pleasures: a three-day weekend. Obviously, since it is currently 11 a.m. and I am at home, I have survived my four very long days and am reaping the glorious bounty of free-time. And, let me tell you, both the reaping and the time are sweet.

My plans for the day are, in no particular order:

1. DRINK some delicious Earl Grey Tea

2. SET UP my webcam (as of 1:11 p.m., this is done! Hooray!)

3. INSTALL the content management system Movable Type on my server

5. GO TO the store for some beer.

5. DRINK aforementioned beer

6. HAVE LUNCH with Michelle at the park near her work. Outside! Believe it or not...

I have the utmost confidence in my ability to perform all these tasks, considering the fact that I woke up this morning—unbidden by any alarm clock, mind you—at 7:30. I rolled over, looked at Michelle and said, in a dumbfounded voice, "I just can't sleep anymore." Already this morning I've: caught up on the news, taken Michelle to work, tuned up my red and blue Magic deck and...well, updated this site. I feel awesome and dripping with accomplishment!

Anyway, changes are afoot. Check back through the day to see how things are coming along.