My digital interface project has been a disaster sofar, and I’ve had no luck with it. I spent a couple of hours screwing with it last night – it just involves hooking up three wires inside my PC case, and doing a little soldering, but no luck. I suck at soldering – it frustrates me to no end. By the time I gave up on the project, the apartment was a disaster, and I spent almost another hour putting things away. I’m wondering how many people will be killed during my “simple” water pump swap on the VW tomorrow. I’m thinking of doing some of the work on Saturday, then going home to calm down for a while and finish the job on Sunday. It’s 11 bolts, only 11 bolts, but I’ve got to drain the damn antifreeze first. I wish I had my own garage.
Virginia came over last night and we saw Men in Black. Did I write about this already? During the film, Kim Gibson called and I had to wave her off and promise to call her back today. I thought she had fallen off the face of the Earth – she was living with her boyfriend, and the last time I called, the number was disconnected. She’s in my address book like 28 times – home numbers, work numbers, pager numbers – I don’t know what the fuck’s what. I thought about calling her parents and asking, but I’ve already done that once in the past and I don’t want to repeat it. So she called, and she was at home – her and the boyfriend are living with her parents, and she’s still getting married this summer.
Fuck, I’ve just realized I’ve been telling this story and it’s of nosignificance except to maybe two people on this planet, and neither one reads this. I guess I could go back to the beginning of 1993 and tell the whole story, but I don’t want any permanent, public record that would later piss someone else off. So I’ll shut up, and just say that it was good to hear she hasn’t fallen off the face of the earth, and I’m looking forward to giving her a call later tonight and exchanging the last 6 or 8 months of what’s been going on in my life.
Shit, a lot’s happened in 8 months. That’s 10/19/97 to present. All of the medical bullshit from last fall, a trip home, my first Christmas away from home, Bill moving back to Vincennes, new computer crap, the split with Karena, lots of writing, another car – and those are just the quantitative changes. There have been so many emotional changes I can’t even explain over the phone. Oh well.
I’ve seen 29 of the top 100 American movies. Whether this is good or bad is left as an exercise to the reader.
I never realized online journals had to have a huge apologetic introduction that tells people who know the journaler not to read any further. When the hell did this start? Why bother doing a journal if its anonymous? The whole anonymous, geocities thing seems a little too odd to me. When is the last time you’ve picked up a paperback novel that said “don’t read this if you know me?”
It’s been an unproductive evening. I had the aforementioned phone conversation with Kim, and we talked for a few hours. There’s an odd rapport between us, but I guess it’s good. I resisted talking about the past, but it eventually came up. I feel stupid talking to anyone about 1992 like it was 1952 or something, but I guess it’s inevitable. Within time, every person’s conversations turn into nostalgia and medical malady.
I have pictures I took one of the last weekends I saw Kim, in 1993. They aren’t of her, or me – I snapped some photos of my room at 414 S. Mitchell, before and after I packed up the last of my shit and moved out. My lease on my boardinghouse room there lasted until August, but I moved back to Elkhart in search of better work, and left the room vacant, along with all of the non-essential gear I couldn’t fit in Ray Miller’s mom’s stationwagon when he moved me back in May. On the 4th of July, I drove my mom’s wagon to get everything else, and while I spent the weekend there, I hung out with Kim for a bit. This was when I was dating Tanya, and she was in Tampa for the summer. I was still very much in love with her, and probably didn’t have second thoughts about it, but there was a weird vibe between me and Kim then. One night we went driving around in her car – she even let me drive – and went to Colonial Crest to see my apartment for next year. It was an eerie combination of eras, seeing the place where I’d spend the next year, spending time with her, sleeping in the room where so much had happened and that I’d soon never see again. I’m suprised I didn’t have an anneurism.
Kim had the disgusting habit of only listening to Billy Joel, something that got my second girlfriend a pink slip (among many other reasons). It’s odd that I still like the album Glass Houses in a weird, closeted way. It was one of the first pop albums my parents owned, so when I was 9 or 10, I played the shit out of it. I still have the entire thing memorized note for note. Don’t tell anyone.
Listening to Fear Factory right now, some heavy duty industrial-metal stuff. It brings back some strong memories from 92 and 93 – answering mail at Ray’s house that summer, listening to this, the Danzig EP, Gorefest, and the second Dismember album on his little CD player.
I’ve got a book to write. I’m sure I’ll be bitching about this water pump transplant tomorrow.