2003-04-30 - 1:30 a.m.
Sometimes I think I fall in love with albums way too easily. Take a look at my stereo anytime over the last four days and you'll find the Interpol album in there. It's that I listen to albums until I can't listen to them anymore, like they're citrus that I squeeze the life out of to get every last drop. That's an elaborate metaphor, to be sure, but it's true. I just can't get enough of it. It's so sad and New York and elaborately lush.
New York. Got an email from Deb today. Thanks for the good wishes and congrats on the scholarship, she said.
Talked to my dad while I was sitting on the toilet this afternoon. It's funny, our conversations. Sometimes they flounder, but as soon as we hit upon something that both of us can talk about (read: baseball, writing, newspapers), we let fly. I guess our relationship, in that way, is like all the relationships I have. We talk about a list of things we can both relate to. It's just that with my dad, since I don't see him as often as my friends, it takes a little longer to settle on comfortable ground. He's a funny guy. A good writer, too, and I respect and admire those things about him.
I picked up Hunter Thompson's `Hell's Angels' yesterday and have been racing through since. It's funny what four years mean for a 26-year-old. I remember getting bored around page 100 when I read it 1999, but I'm loving it now. And I thought I had a solid head on my shoulders back then. I'm so receptive now to what he's trying to do in this book. It's a story about a motorcycle gang, yes, but it's a sociological study, too, about the why and the how of motorcycles in 1960s America. There are as many statistics and explanations as there are descriptions of chain-beatings. He's really not gonzo at all in this book (though I'm pretty sure he is later).
Had a really good, fruitful, fun phone conversation with Rutledge today. Our friendship is in that flowery, nascent-but-exhilerating stage. Bridgett's moving into a building next to mine. She still has my book. I'm thinking of whether I'll be seeing her this summer. All signs point to probable.
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