2001-12-24 :: 2:12 a.m.

some questions, no answers

Soundtrack: Radiohead, Amnesiac [Limited]

What is it about night driving that makes songs mean much more? How is it that, when inside an automobile on a wet road, the streetlights hanging smeared like so much Monet in the rear view, someone's selections on a mix tape amplify, enriched by the rain's white noise? I love driving at night on empty roads with the music on like you cannot know.

Why do I still occasionally have a grave sense of missing someone on the other side of the world? Why does the memory of that someone still come to me in between gin drinks, when I'm ordering the next one, in sharp drunken recollections of both miserable and wonderful moments? I could write an entire story based on the moments she never knew. I've been thinking about that. Memories. For better or worse, I do replay them quite a bit.

I've had my last interview of the semester (a followup to this one, making it a fifth round (and correction, it was LaGuardia, not JFK)). It was the first time I ever did a video conference, the far camera was framed badly, so they looked really distant, and I couldn't effectively read their facial expressions. I'm so fucking sick of interviewing, I can't even tell you. When I was wearing my suit this weekend for my cousin's Bar Mitzvah, I kept thinking of the companies that had seen each shirt/tie combination. I almost turned the entire weekend into a musical. Everything was a song. A song, or a fart joke. It's true: I'm six years old.

I wonder where the hell the semester went. There is now just one semester left to do all those things I'm supposed to have done by now. So, what. This is my last winter break. This diary is now two days past being two years old. What do I have to show for my efforts. I don't know. The batteries in my Discman need to get recharged, and so do I.

Gene Simmons had sex with about 4,600 women, according to the estimate in his memoir. He had so many women he took Polaroids so he could actually remember them. What can I say about that staggering amount of sex and that strangely Memento-esque memory-triggering system. "Jenny G. On top. Cincinnati May 14 '77."

There is so much. There is so much. There is so much.