Turning thirty.
On the eve of my thirtieth birthday, my firm had a Cubs outing for its summer associates. Although I had a brief that I had to turn around that morning, I managed to catch the last third of the game because of a rain delay. The game itself was lame—Maddux gave his typical post-Braves era quality start (6 IP; 4 ER), and the Cubs lost without so much of a peep in the later innings. This summer has lacked the hedonism of last, mostly because last year's interns were all burgeoning alcoholics, and best of all, promiscuous. So the after-party in Wrigleyville wasn't much of an after-party, and I bailed around 6:30. The year before, by contrast, I rambled around until 10:00, ate a burrito in the hope of sobering up, hopped in a cab home, puked my burrito, showered, and drove to the airport to pick up Claire. So this year was a bit more sedate.
During my walk home, I decided to swing by the comic book store adjacent to Shiroi Hana. They've been marketing a 125 issue lot of X-Factor for the last year. Not surprisingly, no one's bought it because: (1) most little kids don't have the money, or the vested interest, to buy a bunch of comics which likely pre-date their birth; and (2) most adults have self-respect. I, on the other hand, don't give a shit, particularly when I'm drunk. Even the hipster with the buddy holly glasses manning the counter gave me a funny look; I shot him a look back which hopefully conveyed—"what the fuck's your problem; I'm not the foolio that works here."
The issues that I bought were published from 1986 to 1996, which was nine to nineteen for me. X-Factor was the first real comic that I followed religiously. The first issue that I ever bought was #4, on a post-church Sunday afternoon at "Catfish Town," Baton Rouge's ill-conceived circa-1985 main street rejuvenation project. We had gone to café du monde and I was flush with a sugar rush from several beignets. I think my parents were reluctant to buy it for me because there was a (somewhat) scantily-clad hei ren in leather on the cover. But they did, and the rest is history. Ten years of comics turned out to be heavier than I thought it would be. After triple-bagging them, I struggled home on the el, stopping along the way to pick up Claire in the loop (who incidentally gave me the same look that comic book store guy did).
Reading them again was odd. I hadn't remembered how obsessive I was as a kid, when I read and re-read a single issue dozens of times during the thirty or so days between one month's offering and the next. Jonathan Franzen wrote an essay once about his father's alzheimer's disease, and the physiological basis for human memory. I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do remember that it was neat and that he used the science as post-modern allegory. Long story short, you'd be surprised to learn the extent of the stupid shit that you remember, or at least think you remember. As I sit here today, I'd have to look up the rule on the number of interrogatories you can serve in federal court, even though the issue has routinely come up in the four years that I've been a practicing attorney. But I still have vivid memories of certain comic book panels which I haven't set sight on in fifteen years. What the fuck. It wasn't so much the actual memory of those images which stirred me, but the sentiment that they evoked. I can't really articulate it well, but if pressed, I suppose I'd call it something trite. They just made me really fucking happy in a way that's alien to whatever satisfaction it is I derive from life now, as an adult.
The pub crawl the next day was a bit of a letdown. I didn't hit as many bars as I intended to, and the endeavor wasn't nearly as nostalgic as I imagined it would be. Most of this was due to the number of people that tagged along. In ten years, I'll likely streamline the group so that we can more realistically comport with my one bar, one drink, one hour schedule. Claire and our first-born child will suffice. By the time 10:30 rolled around, I wasn't particularly drunk, but I had a massive headache and needed a nap. On Sunday, Claire surprised us with a sailing charter. It rocked. I later went online to check out lessons, but there's apparently some unspoken exclusive rich white people mafia when it comes to sailing. The cheapest I found were around three grand for 20 hours of instruction, which is not reasonable.
After less than a week, I can't say that being thirty or being back on the wagon is particularly fun. I've been plagued by an immature compulsion to throw off the bourgeois chains of my current life, quit my job, and do something that makes me really happy. Which is just about the stupidest shit I've ever thought in my entire life. As for sobriety, watching other people drink makes me really nervous. I don't know if that's some sort of dt precursor, but it's weird.
During my walk home, I decided to swing by the comic book store adjacent to Shiroi Hana. They've been marketing a 125 issue lot of X-Factor for the last year. Not surprisingly, no one's bought it because: (1) most little kids don't have the money, or the vested interest, to buy a bunch of comics which likely pre-date their birth; and (2) most adults have self-respect. I, on the other hand, don't give a shit, particularly when I'm drunk. Even the hipster with the buddy holly glasses manning the counter gave me a funny look; I shot him a look back which hopefully conveyed—"what the fuck's your problem; I'm not the foolio that works here."
The issues that I bought were published from 1986 to 1996, which was nine to nineteen for me. X-Factor was the first real comic that I followed religiously. The first issue that I ever bought was #4, on a post-church Sunday afternoon at "Catfish Town," Baton Rouge's ill-conceived circa-1985 main street rejuvenation project. We had gone to café du monde and I was flush with a sugar rush from several beignets. I think my parents were reluctant to buy it for me because there was a (somewhat) scantily-clad hei ren in leather on the cover. But they did, and the rest is history. Ten years of comics turned out to be heavier than I thought it would be. After triple-bagging them, I struggled home on the el, stopping along the way to pick up Claire in the loop (who incidentally gave me the same look that comic book store guy did).
Reading them again was odd. I hadn't remembered how obsessive I was as a kid, when I read and re-read a single issue dozens of times during the thirty or so days between one month's offering and the next. Jonathan Franzen wrote an essay once about his father's alzheimer's disease, and the physiological basis for human memory. I don't remember exactly what he said, but I do remember that it was neat and that he used the science as post-modern allegory. Long story short, you'd be surprised to learn the extent of the stupid shit that you remember, or at least think you remember. As I sit here today, I'd have to look up the rule on the number of interrogatories you can serve in federal court, even though the issue has routinely come up in the four years that I've been a practicing attorney. But I still have vivid memories of certain comic book panels which I haven't set sight on in fifteen years. What the fuck. It wasn't so much the actual memory of those images which stirred me, but the sentiment that they evoked. I can't really articulate it well, but if pressed, I suppose I'd call it something trite. They just made me really fucking happy in a way that's alien to whatever satisfaction it is I derive from life now, as an adult.
The pub crawl the next day was a bit of a letdown. I didn't hit as many bars as I intended to, and the endeavor wasn't nearly as nostalgic as I imagined it would be. Most of this was due to the number of people that tagged along. In ten years, I'll likely streamline the group so that we can more realistically comport with my one bar, one drink, one hour schedule. Claire and our first-born child will suffice. By the time 10:30 rolled around, I wasn't particularly drunk, but I had a massive headache and needed a nap. On Sunday, Claire surprised us with a sailing charter. It rocked. I later went online to check out lessons, but there's apparently some unspoken exclusive rich white people mafia when it comes to sailing. The cheapest I found were around three grand for 20 hours of instruction, which is not reasonable.
After less than a week, I can't say that being thirty or being back on the wagon is particularly fun. I've been plagued by an immature compulsion to throw off the bourgeois chains of my current life, quit my job, and do something that makes me really happy. Which is just about the stupidest shit I've ever thought in my entire life. As for sobriety, watching other people drink makes me really nervous. I don't know if that's some sort of dt precursor, but it's weird.
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