2003-09-10 11:01 a.m.

I saw this interesting piece of propaganda in the window of an old VW squareback. What better way to say "I am a wacko" than with crude, confusing handwritten notes in your window, right? I noticed the car because I always enjoyed the way these cars looked and the clever colors they come in. This one was once a brilliant orange, but oxidization has afflicted its outer skin just like the wrinkles and lines that have taken up permanent residence on my brow, beside my eyes, and around my mouth. When I am completely oxidized, will anyone remember me as the brilliant, shining orange thing I used to be?

The last few days have been such an adventure. I'll start with Friday, since that seems like a good day to start with.

On Friday I hung out in Palo Alto with Tollef Biggs. We discussed the similarities between our lives—no girlfriends, both no longer employed by Apple, both without stable places to live, both not entirely sure what to do next.

I felt at peace sitting on a bench with him in front of Restoration Hardware on University Avenue, a tree–lined boulevard teeming with venture capitalists and Stanford students, all dancing in quadrangles between expensive restaurants and expensive shops and expensive cars and then back to their expensive abodes where they will start their dance again.

I wish I could dance with them, but my moves have never been up to snuff, really. I like to fake it, though, as I two–step between expensive restaurants where I order the cheapest thing on the menu and then expensive shops where I leave with nothing at all except for a memory of how a woman looking at a piece of furniture smelled like my girlfriend from ten years ago.

But there was no dancing on Friday. We were wallflowers, sitting on the bench watching the others dance, talking about life. We laughed more than we had in a few years; we talked more than we had in a few years. As I wrote these words I thought many times about what one word I would use to describe how I felt sitting there. The only word that seems to fit is comfortable. I felt comfortable, and in the most positive way.

I don't normally enjoy the wallflower life, but I must say it's not so bad when you have a friend sharing it with you—you can blossom together for a while.

That evening I went to the Junior Senior concert at the Bottom Of The Hill night club in San Francisco. The first band, Communique, was great. The second band was not so great, and they require a bit more description in order to do them justice.

Imagine a mad scientist who wanted to create the most terrible band on earth. In order to perfect their terrible image, he would assemble a style team made up of blind retards and fund them to pick clothes from dumpsters in rural Texas. Hairstyles would be provided by clumsy drunks with no previous styling experience. They would style the band members' hair based on faded posters of Richard Simmons, and the bands Boston and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Think white guy with afro. Think girl with mullet. Think tragic.

From left to right: Balding dude with 80's cop sunglasses, (AKA "PLEASE PUNCH ME IN PART OF THE BRAIN THAT CONTROLS MY ABILITY TO WEAR 80'S COP SUNGLASSES OUTSIDE MY OWN HOME"), Girl with Mullet who "plays" tambourine and "sings", Guy who "sings", (AKA "DESPERATELY IN NEED OF VIOLENT CHOKING OR ANYTHING AT ALL TO MAKE HIM STOP NOW, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD"), and, the bass player who I have dubbed in my own mind, "Operation: Bad Hair", (AKA "SURRENDER: THE RETARD ARMY HAS WON".)

Next, the music would be a mix of only the most base and hard–rockish songs by the likes of Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Boston, and Led Zeppelin. If you are too young to know why this is bad, then thank your parents for not getting drunk at some party and accidentally conceiving your ass sooner. Some of us were not so lucky.

This evil band was called Young Heart Attack, which basically described what I wished I would have had rather than be there in the same county as them, breathing their air, exposing my delicate and irreplaceable ear drums to longitudinal compression waves caused by their horrible voices and—I use the word 'musical' very loosely—'musical' instruments.

Luckily Junior Senior was just brilliant. I loved every song. They were way too much fun to be legal—low brow, unintelligent pop fun with lyrics designed only to make people happy—danceable and dripping with smiles and glee. I admitted to the girl dancing next to me that I had actually only heard one of their songs before. She insisted that she would burn me a copy of their CD. I didn't believe her. People often forget to do anything that they say. But, the sentiment that someone wanted to burn the CD for me made me feel great, made me feel like dancing even more.

Overall, I must say the concert was a smashing success, even in spite of the pan–sensory torture of Young Heart Attack. The other bands were brilliant, cute, friendly girls danced with me, and the guy who I sold my extra ticket to (Parson was his name) hung out with me and bought me drinks all night.

So, sure, things have been challenging and strange. But, moments like the string of moments I had on Friday make me realize that my world is a pretty fantastic place. And, I was blessed with a wonderful revelation: Good and bad—or pain and pleasure—are not mutually exclusive. We can experience them both concurrently. So, even though things are rough, I have so much to be thankful for, and my life is FUN, even though it is also difficult and confusing right now.

Now it is time to sleep. But, hopefully tomorrow I will get time to write about Saturday, when I went to my ten year high school reunion!


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