The Richmond Journals
People kept cutting me off on the road tonight. Sometimes that happens, like when you’re driving around and the streetlights keep turning off above you. These cars just pull out right in front of me, like they’re trying to force me to swerve. Then there was this car that repeatedly pulled up right beside me. They had a Kerry 2004 bumper sticker. I thought maybe they were just being friendly, but it was probably that I had forgotten to roll my window up and they thought it was weird. It was cold outside tonight.
I’ve got a crush on this girl who works at Family Video. She probably doesn’t know, though, and wouldn’t guess—my last three rentals were Thelma & Louise, Farewell My Concubine and the first installment of The OC, which was for my sister. Probably not sending the right message there. I have this problem a lot, actually. The other day I bought the new Cat Power record, which is cased in neon pink. That was at Hastings, though, but the girl was kind of cute there as well.
Driving through Richmond at night, it feels like I’m in some 1970s movie. The Last Picture Show maybe. I don’t know, I think if you replace all the late ‘90s neon signs with something a little older, it would look a lot like the 70s. Maybe it’s just that I feel like I’m a really dull version of Jack Nicholson from Five Easy Pieces, returned to my family, half of the person I was when I left. Cut out the drama, the sunshine and the sex, and I’m Benjamin Braddock, aimless and fatigued. I should stop comparing myself to movies, but it’s there, the anomie and the bewildering feeling of being both on standby and out of control, the sordidness of post-adolescent confusion.
I bought a pack of cigarettes for the second time since I’ve been home. The first time, I woke up with an empty pack in my pocket, on someone’s poorly upholstered couch, wearing a Harvard alumni tie. I don’t know if I was just really generous the night before or just really stupid and destroyed 10% of my lungs. I have no idea how long that night was, but I remember trying to convince someone I was Larry Summers’s son. It clearly didn’t work as a pickup line, so don’t ever try to use it.
I’ve got a crush on this girl who works at Family Video. She probably doesn’t know, though, and wouldn’t guess—my last three rentals were Thelma & Louise, Farewell My Concubine and the first installment of The OC, which was for my sister. Probably not sending the right message there. I have this problem a lot, actually. The other day I bought the new Cat Power record, which is cased in neon pink. That was at Hastings, though, but the girl was kind of cute there as well.
Driving through Richmond at night, it feels like I’m in some 1970s movie. The Last Picture Show maybe. I don’t know, I think if you replace all the late ‘90s neon signs with something a little older, it would look a lot like the 70s. Maybe it’s just that I feel like I’m a really dull version of Jack Nicholson from Five Easy Pieces, returned to my family, half of the person I was when I left. Cut out the drama, the sunshine and the sex, and I’m Benjamin Braddock, aimless and fatigued. I should stop comparing myself to movies, but it’s there, the anomie and the bewildering feeling of being both on standby and out of control, the sordidness of post-adolescent confusion.
I bought a pack of cigarettes for the second time since I’ve been home. The first time, I woke up with an empty pack in my pocket, on someone’s poorly upholstered couch, wearing a Harvard alumni tie. I don’t know if I was just really generous the night before or just really stupid and destroyed 10% of my lungs. I have no idea how long that night was, but I remember trying to convince someone I was Larry Summers’s son. It clearly didn’t work as a pickup line, so don’t ever try to use it.
posted by Andrew at 1:46 AM
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