rental phone

As I sit here at 3:50 in the morning listening to Westside Connection, the ultimate in fake gangsta rap, I guess it’s all ok.

35 years ago sometime this week, Star Wars was released. I didn’t see it that weekend. I was six years old. I did see it however before the year was over.

My parents were, I guess, pretty damn cool when I was really young. We took the station wagon to the drive-in theater to see it. I remember seeing a few movies there. The Empire Strikes Back was one of them. So were a few Disney movies.

Maybe dad wasn’t so much a shit? Actually, I don’t remember him being there. I don’t remember mom being there either. I do remember sneaking in with my sister driving at some point. And since she was just 5 years older than me, I couldn’t have been less than 11 years old. “Get under the seat,” she’d say.

Ha.

I do remember watching Star Wars there. Sitting on the roof of the car. Just being fascinated by it. Honestly, few things over the years have had that effect on me.

Walking into my dorm room at UVA for the first time. That did.

Seeing a girls vagina for the first time. At UVA, in Lambeth dorm, second year. I, luckily, was so damn nervous I couldn’t even think about getting a hard on. So, she left. I was told that she asked one of my suitemates if he had a condom on the way out. No wonder.

Seeing a shooting star, at the age of 19, for the first time. That sticks out.

So does walking home with Rannette one day in high school. Sophomore year. Why that was the only time we did it, I’ll never fucking know. I guess she had a reason.

My first date with Sharon. I still vividly remember dancing with folks at some frat house. Me, doing things I’d never do. It’s why I think she was so special for so long. It passed, that feeling. But it took a long, long time.

My first kiss with Emily. Way before we were ‘dating’. I kissed her on the head. After she’d got second degree burns on her chest and head going to the beach with me. She didn’t remember it happening. And that made it somehow more special. And I guess to this day, makes it more special. Dream-like quality and all….

Seeing Alisa walk into the bar for the first time. Those boots and that attiude.

Talking with Adrianna outside of the State Press before we were dating. Her watching me. Me watching her. Eventually leading to that kiss. What a strange kiss, but magical.

The empty boxes of beer behind me when Alisa and I kissed for the first time. First time, second date.

Emily and I’s first kiss. In my room. Green sheet. Bad blinds.

I remember things that I shouldn’t and don’t remember things I should.

Fuck. I don’t want these thoughts. But I don’t want to toss them. They will lead somewhere, eventually. Because they have to.

My first interview as a reporter. It was on the phone. I was awkward. It sucked. I don’t have a copy of that story. It ran in the Charlottesville Daily Progress sometime in August of 1992.

The first one for real? On the ASU track team.

First scary interview? Carie Courty. Arizona State gymnast. Scary because I was a dork. She was hot. That was it.

Favorite story I covered? Chasing Bill Frieder the day he got shit-canned at ASU. Another one of those I shouldn’t have been doing it stories, but I was in the office when it broke, so it became my story things. Some days, those were my favorites. Even when they caused friction with the “Beat” guy.

I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever feel that thrill again. I haven’t written anything for publication that would get a byline since January of 2009. It is now May of 2012. That’s a long time. A long fucking time. It’s the kind of gap that employers go “well, why didn’t you write?” Well, fuck you. I’ve been writing every God damn day. Well, not every day. But damn close. Notepads and blogs and shitty briefs in your sacred fucking newspaper. Briefs that the guys you pay twice what I make don’t see as important. Until the next morning when they see them there and say “um….thanks for getting that in.”

That’s three days in a row that I’ve ended at exactly 750. I don’t know if that means I’m tapped out, or something is trying to tell me something.

It’s all good. And goo.

Speaking of…I heard Sonic Youth on the free XM radio today. I hadn’t heard anything from Daydream Nation in years. It felt dated. Like me, I guess. Who wants it? Not us. Except on 90s night on alternative radio.

How about alternative print guy night on the internet. The night when all the “modern” bloggers go the fuck away with their links and references to American Idol and Twitter. Instead, you hear about Ronnie Lane and actually standing in line for a movie, hoping you got a ticket, instead of ordering it online and printing it out at home or even using you fucking I-phone to just scan some bar code.

Fuck you.

Technology.

I’m old and it shows.

And you don’t care. Even though you’re old and hate it too. Or young and don’t know any better, but would feel the same way if you had just actually rented a fucking home phone. For almost 20 years. At $9.99 a month. Damn it mom, did you really do that?