What the fuck?

By the way, since you asked, I'm feeling better, thanks. Nyuk nyuk nyuk.

I just got back an hour ago from a road trip / date in Sacramento. I met an awesome woman and made a friend. (You can't manufacture sparks, and none were happening naturally, but all in all, I'm more happy than disappointed.) We went to a nightclub last night and danced and viewed the scarily-endowed car wreck which is the stand-up comedy routine of porn star (and my alleged doppelganger) Ron Jeremy. Nothing like having drinks, talking to and dancing with a woman for the first time while there's a videotape of copulation in heinous close-up on the big-screen TV.

It was a speedy drive back to home base, though I'm exhausted from the round-trip, in particular a horrendously circuitous and jam-packed drive to Sacto last night. But now I'm home with a knot in my gut. I'm homesick for a place I've never lived in. Not a locale per se – though the Seattle where Melysa lives is the closest thing to it, and getting a glimpse of Kizzy's world in Sacramento puts it in the front of my mind. It's more a longing for a feeling of community, a tight circle of friends, a way of living that harkens back to college. Having pals around the corner, drinking and dancing, running into friends all over the town where you live. It's not necessarily something I've experienced on a consistent basis, even in college, but I could see the way one can belong wherever they travel in their day, and suddenly I envy the simple joy. Lord, this makes no sense, does it?

Somewhere along the way, my friends and I have lost the thick-as-thieves feeling, I think. I put out an invite to my friends for the Las Vegas trip, and the reaction I've gathered has been a mass hedge at best. I don't know who'll go; I don't know if anyone will go. I know a lot of my friends are going through tough times, but I can't help but feel like a reject if I end up by myself on that trip.

I'm also feeling regret for the life I'm living compared to what I'd like to do. I got entrenched in a lucrative job and kept myself from pursuing what I truly love. I live well, and I do derive some pleasure from what I do, but I can't help but feel sometimes like I've missed the boat. It's a matter of simply doing what I desire, be it writing or acting or dancing or being social, but why do I feel inert, or paralyzed with fear? Somewhere in me, there's still the likable fat kid who's felt out of place and "other" by degrees. I've been told I'm a good and talented person, and possibly even a desirable person, and I still feel unworthy and unconfident. What can I do to foster the positivity, to put myself out there and enjoy my life to its fullest? Consider me vexed, and right now, afflicted with waves of indigo emotion.

My deep thoughts for the week:

The Velvet Underground is a pretty damn good band. I first heard (and was knocked out by) Lou Reed's New York in high school, and then I went out and bought a few of his more druggy-angsty albums in college (you have to be in a certain mood to listen to Berlin, like suicidal), though Magic and Loss got me through the death of one of my best friends. A classmate (whom I had the most outrageous crush on – sigh) turned me on to the Velvets. And then I graduated. I woke up the other morning and said to myself, "I want to listen to the Velvet Underground." So I put White Light/White Heat and Loaded into my car stereo. Blasting "Sister Ray" on my lunch break is about as subversive as I get nowadays, but what the hell, it's the little things.

I live near some truly breathtaking places. Went up to the Sonoma coast yesterday and visited Occidental and Bodega Bay, then went inland and stopped in Napa briefly, on a very nice date. (Update: 9 responses so far, and my head is spinning.) I can't wait till my birthday; the weekend before, my family and I will spend a couple of days in Napa. I even secured dinner reservations at the universally-renowned French Laundry. Then the weekend after my birthday, me and some friends will be debauching in Vegas. A good way to cleanse the palate of the Napa weekend with the bourgeoisie. What the hell, it's my 30th birthday.

Melysa has the most ingenious new year's resolutions. While I wait for my undercover superhero cape to be One-Hour Martinized, my own resolutions are all pretty mundane, I guess – though I think resolutions are just crutches ready to be broken at the first opportunity. But I did put in an order to get theatrical headshots run off, so I will be auditioning for theater (and hopefully voiceover and maybe on-camera work) this year. And it's time for me to get a demo tape done for voiceover. Getting an agent as well will be a priority. And, oh yeah, not losing my day job. (Acting is my first love, but it won't quite subsidize my car loan payments.) I will learn something new in the web world, or continue to use all my tech books as paperweights and doorstops. I will write more, and not just in this wanky blog. I've been invited to write for an awesome webzine, I've got a few ideas, and provided the folks at the 'zine like them, I'll be a published writer for the first time in a few years. My social life is in the midst of Frankenstein-like rejuvenation (quick personals update: 8 responses now, a couple of dates this weekend, one next weekend). I'm contemplating international travel, something I've never done. I will, most assuredly, move out of my family's house – an old resolution chestnut I have repeated every year since around '96, but dammit, I'm turning 30 next month, there is no choice. (My friends insist they will stage an intervention on my birthday and drive up in a U-Haul truck, ready or not.) I want to get outside more; I miss the beauty in Marin, like Muir Woods and Stinson Beach and Point Reyes. I will read more and feed my creative side more. OK, I think that's enough. Yeesh.