Rage incident at the Doug Fir

From the journal, 7 June 2008.

Doug Fir has the uncanny ability to terrify me with its opportune people-watching. Regardless of ridiculousness, anything seen on more than two people per evening will indeed become a [fashion] trend. Tonight it is fanny packs. No, sadly I am not joking. Thick, contoured belts with pouches. I've seen three, so it is upon us.

I am asymptotically reaching a freak-out point. I knew-- I f*ing knew-- that she'd be here. I've thought about the possibility for months. I thought I saw her in the [back bar] corner. That, and I'm coming off such a bliss full week. There is no yin but there's a yang; no shadow without light; no day but for night. [ed note: I didn't mean to make that rhyme]

Lest I lay it on too thick, I'm sitting here hating on a troupe of hippy girls. I thought that I had gotten over this particular prejudice & embraced the dirt, but there is... something... about these particular specimens-- which means that my rage at the east coast version is deep and justified.

From my journal, written in the back of the car during the drive from Port Angeles to Crescent Lake.

Deep in the secret heart of me unfinished stories from the past bubble and simmer. The ones I don't often tell and rarely pick to examine. So many of them now are dim from dust. Distant tales of nearly a decade past in a city on the other side of the world, starring a character I hardly recognize, as myself.