Earning my Fair Share/ Celebratory Youth

Some nights I roll into bed feeling like I don't deserve eight hours of rest. Take for example last Sunday. I woke up late and stayed in my pajamas for a few sedentary hours while I read "The Nanny Diaries." 

(...Side note: the owner of a local used bookstore lent me "The Nanny Diaries," free of charge, after I mentioned my profession. We talked for a while about the books I had picked up ("Night" and a reference text) and she, for some reason, decided that I was fabulous. When I told her that I only had checks on me, she said that she was the owner and though they usually didn't accept checks she had an affinity for me. "I just love ya and I want you to have these books!" All this to say, I was flattered that she trusted me to return merchandise ["The Nanny Diaries] I did not pay for and concluded that though this particular book was not something I would ever pick up on my own accord, I needed to read it as a sort or grateful gesture...)

After I peeled myself from the couch, I managed to shower and get dressed in order to crash a mild Easter gathering at which I sat and chatted for a few hours with people who had consumed a fair amount of cheap wine (Jesus would have too if he had been with us in the flesh). It was there that I learned about the appetizing delicacy known as "soil" as well as a simple recipe for beets which I tried tonight for dinner. Que Delicioso! When I came home, I spent several more hours on the couch glued to cheesy pop-fiction, until I succumbed to an evening nap. I woke up in darkness, ate dinner, and went to bed feeling like time on the mattress was just another activity of the day. It was something to do.

I remember reading someone's blog a while ago which said something like "I want to go to bed exhausted every night, knowing I have lived fully."

Yesterday was record-store day and I woke up early (unheard of for a Saturday morning) so that I could go the Easy Street's "Coffee with Dylan" and preview Bob Dylan's new record. I spent a while (unsuccessfully) looking for "Two Suns" and came up with a Cold War Kids disc of live performances. Do I need to mention that I also pre-ordered Dylan's new one? J- met me and we went back to my apartment to cook breakfast. Cooking food together is something we do often. I like having a friend who shares my dietary preferences and flavor palette. We haven't cooked a bad meal to date, as far as I'm concerned. 

Stuffed with tofu-scramble, we went to Sonic Boom to see "Say Hi" who were energetic, fun, and put on a great live show  (despite the cramped quarters). I have liked them since the musical awakening of my sophomore year in college and felt a nostalgic connection as I watched them perform on a tiny stage in a glamorously crowded and sweaty record store. It was magic. At the show, I kept making eye-contact with a familiar face. I could not place where I knew him from and part of me thought that my mind was confusing recognition with lust. He was, well, better looking than a tofu-scramble. J- and I were standing outside of Sonic Boom for a few minutes after the show and I saw the guy again. He waved, but I shied away and did not respond and we left. Missed connection. Damn. Why didn't I wave back and ask him where he and I had met? I still can not figure out where he is from.

Our next mission was to find an low-budget tennis racket. Let's be honest: when it comes to rackets, size does matter. Goodwill: We only carry badminton-sized rackets. Value Village: We only carry rackets from the 1700s. What's it Called: Go away; we're not open.

We, slightly disappointed from the fruitless racket-search, headed back to Easy Street to see Moondoggies. I was pumped to see them, but after the first song I sensed that they would have rather been somewhere else. Maybe they are low-energy performers, or maybe they are too hip to rock out, but either way I was slightly let down. We should have gone to see Vetiver. Maybe I am being pretentious. It's just that I find the trendy, 20-something hipster-angst, veneer-of-perpetual-boredom to be distasteful. I wear my fair share of black clothing, boots, and oversized sunglasses, but am not above showing my teeth and laughing at elevated volumes in public.

Twenty minutes and two mini Mighty-Os later, we met a few friends back at my apartment to watch "Vicky Cristina Barcelona." I love when my friends come together. Every one of them is unique, intelligent, strong and opinionated. Many of my friends have disparate ideas and hold deep convictions, yet I still perceive unity and a genuine respect for one another despite differences. Sometimes when I am in a gathering with my friends I like to detach myself for a moment and view the scene from a third-party party perspective and admire the fact that such seemingly mismatched people are able to connect and love one another. It is beautiful...

11 came unexpectedly and after a few late-night, restful minutes J- and I trotted towards the Egyptian to see the final midnight showing of "Christmas on Mars." The preview consisted of hard-core pornography (I'm not exaggerating) and J- and I thereby reached a new level in our relationship. "Thank you, Egyptian!" The movie was not that great and some of the sounds were offensive to my sensitive auditory senses (and I don't care if that was the point; at 1 a.m. I do not want to suffer high-pitched frequencies for the sake of art). 

As the movie spun on, I sunk further into the padded, folding theatre seat and thought, "I can't wait to sink into my mattress," and for the first time in a while, I meant it and felt it. When I was abroad, I felt this way every night...

It was a day for music, art, friends, love, air, life, joy, and divine exhaustion. And it was good...