Tuesday, January 27, 1987. 10:53 p.m. When worlds collide, headaches follow.
Sorry, nothing even slightly, vaguely, infinitesimally exciting happened today.
No, really. Work was uninteresting, after work was uninteresting, sleep was uninteresting.1Alright, I’m just guessing that sleep will be uninteresting. We’re talking boring here.
Briefly, for the sake of posterity, here are the lowlights:
I got up
I dressed, ate breakfast and left for work
I came home
I talked to Mike on the phone
I washed dishes and cleaned up
Brook came over and worked on his play
I watched (with brook) Moonlighting (a rerun, strangely).
I went to bed
And now, goodnight for real.
Log off: 11:20 p.m.
Supplementary note, 12:09 a.m.:
Okay, seeing Tiny Tim being pelted by snowballs during the New York Giants Superbowl Celebration was kinda fun. Those fans, ya gotta love ’em!
This is, as you can see, not a particularly memorable entry, but it is short, which is why I’ve included it until I can see if there’s any kind of text recognition software that can convert my stunningly neat handwriting into electronic form. Also note that the footnote was originally presented with an asterisk and was written in all caps vertically on the left side of the page. I’m going to re-read more of this journal, to possibly gain insights, but mostly to see how funny I was as a young adult. I hope I don’t disappoint myself.
Alright, I’m just guessing that sleep will be uninteresting. We’re talking boring here.
Here, for your amusement, is my entire journal entry for January 24, 1987. I was 22 years old. As the journal was handwritten I often scribbled footnotes at the bottom of the page or in any other available space. I have attempted to mimic the effect here as best I can.
The most amazing thing about this and so many of the journal entries is how insanely thorough they are. It seems if I sneezed, I wrote it down. Also, do skates come in different sizes than shoes or do feet keep growing into your 40s or what? Because there’s no way I’d fit into a size 7½ these days (I wear size 8½).
Saturday, January 24, 1987. 11:33 p.m. A bad night is better than no night at all.
I blissfully, though (oddly) somewhat guiltily, slept in till around eleven this morning¹. After I got up I moved around the apartment lazily, carefully ignoring anything that needed to be done (laundry, dishes, etc. etc. and especially etc.)
Finally I sleepwalked to Pacific Centre, browsed for awhile and came home around five p.m. I ate a gourmet bachelor’s meal (Kraft Dinner and sausage) then went to the Youth Group meeting, even though I knew there was a skating party and that I probably wouldn’t go and would end up just sitting at home alone with nothing to write about.
But some people did show up, including Alex, who had obviously forgotten it was the skating party tonight². After a bit of talk and an umbrella demonstration courtesy of Don, five of us piled into Wayne’s scary old car and headed off for the Kitsilano Arena, secure in the knowledge that we were all fairly inept on ice skates. I didn’t wear a seatbelt (couldn’t find it) and that’s usually when I’m in a car accident. Tonight I lucked out and we arrived safely.
After forsaking my shoes and donning a pair of 7½ skates, I took my first few steps on the ice. I didn’t fall. Good. Now if I could maintain this consistency for two more hours, I’d be fine. I glanced over to the metal pushy things (hell if I can remember what they’re called) but decided I was approximately 15 years past the age where you can still use them without suffering through extreme embarrassment. Fortunately I did not fall during the entire evening. I almost hit the ice a few times but tried to disguise my slip ups as dramatic flourishes. I was not very convincing.
Wayne fell. So did Alex. Oddly, they both fell (at separate times) right in front of me. Am I a jinx or was it just a coincidence and they were actually so nauseated by the AWFUL music on the PA that they just plain fell over in disgust? (The music was 90% of all the country music you never, never wanted to hear.)
After some square dancing on ice (featuring a bearded man in a large dress similar to a can-can dancer), we abandoned the rink for the lounge upstairs. Much to my chagrin, no one, save for Peter and Wayne, from the group stayed. I stayed — for a few minutes, then decided to trot down to West Broadway to catch the bus. Lo, there was Alex!
We rode the bus together and walked a couple blocks up Davie, to where we had to turn off to get to his place. We talked about the group and he told me how it was difficult fitting in because he’s not very outgoing. That’s a problem (?) we both share. I asked him if he had any plans on doing anything. He said no, which was fine because I didn’t really want to go to a bar or similar establishment. So we went our separate ways and here I am thinking (and writing) about him.
A part of me (yes, I’ve set up a great joke for all the perverts out there) is attracted to him sexually but mostly the attraction is deeper, more substantial, something wildly profound like that. (author’s note — 25 years later I can verify that if you reverse the types of attraction listed here you’d have a more accurate picture) I haven’t found out anything about him yet that I don’t like (which is the quickest way for the bubble to burst. Imagine meeting someone you really liked only later to discover something downright putrid about them — such as they smoke or go to the bars a lot, two things I’d put on my list of “turn-offs”, right after nuclear war and static cling). But it’s too early to get a clear picture so I shall say no more (and besides, this isn’t supposed to be a diary. I’ve already divulged WAY TOO MUCH personal-type stuff. Tomorrow it’s going to be nothing but financial reports and stock market predictions).
RANDOM NOTES: I’m liking Gaudi more and more. It may be APP’s best album since Eye in the Sky. My laundry is threatening to slither out of its bag and attack me, so I’ll do it tomorrow. Also, the Great Canadian Dishes Saga will be concluded. Watch as Mr. Fork and Mrs. Knife go for a naughty dip plum-naked in a sink full of dirty utensils. Thrill to the excitement of plates clinking together underwater!
Hmm. It would appear I’ve run out of viable subjects to discuss. Perhaps I’ll say goodnight now.
Log off: 12:23 a.m.
¹ this sentence deserves some sort of award for being so hideously, horrifically and otherwise badly structured.
² I had asked him previously if he was going and, as Mike crudely put it, he wasn’t exactly “shit hot” on the idea. I discovered he had not skated for 13 years moments before we hit the ice. This, perhaps, explained his lack of unsuppressable excitement.