6/13/2003

IT LIVES.

Please update your links accordingly, all three of you.

6/12/2003

Moral dillema.

The new site is up and running thanks to Dean Esmay, but don't look at it yet, ain't shit to see. I can't decide whether I should go all-out with a new template, or stick with the old standard. Since it's on MovableType, though, and I don't know anything but the basest of HTML, I don't really know how to do either. Should be interesting.

6/10/2003

Pretty much everyone’s parents are divorced, it seems like, and like most problems it’s only going to get worse. I imagine my son coming home from his first day of school twenty years from now telling me about how they all had to share an interesting fact about themselves and one kid stood up and said his original parents were still married, and everybody was a shocked sort of quiet, and nobody talked to him for the rest of that all-important day, and I imagine telling his mother about this later that night on a long-distance call to Bermuda, where she’s having her honeymoon with her new husband Ricardo.

Since it’s the future, I will be able to smell how it smells on their honeymoon in Bermuda. Every movie portrays the future as full of holographic video-phones, but the movies’ vision of the future has never, ever come to pass. Which is why there will be smell-o-phones, not holo-phones. The home office where I ply my futuristic trade will suddenly fill with the scent of tanning oil and sea salt while I tell her the story of the outcast in our son’s class.

Halfway through the conversation my son will be on his way to get a glass of water and hear his mother’s voice through my office door, so he’ll knock softly on the door and of course I’ll let him in. She’ll say how much she misses him and he’ll say much the same thing, and she’ll ask how school went today and he’ll say good but he can’t wait for summer, because according to the terms of our divorce she’ll spend summers with him and right now it is very much winter where I live when I’m thirty-five.

Phones will have changed greatly, but guys named Ricardo won’t, he will be taller than me and more rippling with muscularity and vaguely Latino, and I’ll hear him enter the room in Bermuda as soon as my son leaves the room in America. I’ll have met him first at our Christmas party a couple years before this conversation, him being my wife’s personal trainer at the time. At the party, shaking his hand, I won’t have expected our statuses relative to the mother of my child to someday change this much. But maybe I should, it’s the future, and you will have been married to just about everyone by the time you hit the grave.

She will get up to help Ricardo with suitcases, and her head will bob towards the table with the phone receiver as she rises and sensitive futuristic instrument that it is, just for one second in my office a thousand miles away I will smell her hair.

We will exchange pleasant goodbyes, and I will hang up the phone, stand up, and go and clean the house, top to bottom, even at 11:45 at night, which is what forty-year old me does when he can feel his heart rebreaking.

6/09/2003

It was four AM, and if that Dashboard Confessional guy would've been there, I would've shot him through his goddamn heart. Through his guitar, into his ribcage with the more shotgun pellets the better. But he wasn't there, his music was playing loudly from an upstairs bedroom while I was downstairs on a leather couch trying fitfully to Sleep It Off. At first I'd had a blanket and a pillow, but Alyx and her boyfriend Andrew were curled up on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, and I was feeling benevolent, and warm. So I gave them the blanket first, then minutes later realized that I had the natural pillow of the couch, all they had was new carpet and each other's arms, so I gave them the pillow too, great humanitarian that I am. I tucked my bare feet in the couch cushions and went back to trying to sleep.

Borders are meant to be crossed. Limits exceeded. Records shattered. Toilets clung to. Kierkegaard said having a rule means you automatically have to break it, to prove you're alive. A clever t-shirt at my store today said "My drinking team has a wakeboarding problem." Another shirt said "Old No. 7." I just about wretched.


Matt Welch on blogging:

I was going to make some joke complaining about having to be on the record 24/7, but the truth is I’m glad there is historical evidence -- and lovely, at that -- of joyful days that my leaky brain is almost guaranteed to forget later.

Indeed. I just realized that, going back through my old blog entries, how many little things I would've completely lost if I hadn't written them down. Welch details a funny experience in Prague years ago he almost forgot, I'm talking about things that happened last week.


I'm going to the library tommorrow. What should I get? Please suggest below.


dcpierson.com will be up and running in a matter of days. My little blog-boy's all growns up. You're growns up and you're growns up and you're growns up.