Category: ultrapersonal

Now that it’s been a year since my first online journal entry, I thought I should take a moment to pause and reflect about what I’ve gotten out of this little experiment. (Those of you who know me better will be think, and rightly so, “Pause and reflect? Day-um, Sparky must have a BUTTLOAD of work that he’s procrastinating about.”)

Overall, it was a good idea to start it. I’ve never been very disciplined about keeping a journal, although I’ve been partial to the idea ever since I first read Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy. The decision to post the entries on the web site has been a good motivation for me to keep writing. Not only do you people keep nagging me if I slack off, but the feedback I get encourages me to keep going. It’s also been a great way to make lots of new friends, which has probably been the best part about it.

My original thought for the journal stuff was for it to be a way for people who knew me to keep up on what I was doing so I didn’t have to write so many similar e-mails. As fate would have, almost no one I know reads this regularly, and it’s become a tool for new people to get to know me a little better. That’s been a nice surprise, and it’s helped get me over some of my inherent shyness. I’ve found myself meeting people who already know too much stupid stuff about me for me to worry about making a good (and possibly misleading) impression. Hell, this sort of shameless self-promotion has even gotten me laid a few times. God bless technology!

My writing has also gotten a hell of a lot better. Writing more often has made it easier for me to control my voice and sharpen my skills. The journal writing has gotten closer and closer to the way I actually speak and think, and my paying attention to that aspect has even helped me with more formal writing, which I’ve been doing more and more for work.

Why all this introspection? Well, aside from marking the anniversary of this journal, I’m also beginning preparations for my 30th Birthday Blow-Out Shindig. Yes, it’s true, and you’re all invited! Details to follow, but if you have any desire to boogie with Sparky in his spacious Williamsburg loft, make sure to keep your calendar free. Details to follow.

I get lots of compliments about my spacious loft in the ‘hood and the veritable museum of crap that I keep inside of it, but my secret shame is that I usually hate being such a pack rat. There’s no way that I could live in a smaller apartment even if I wanted to. I have already managed to discard truckloads of thrift-store clothes and furniture, old books, records, stacks of unused paper and art supplies, shoes that seemed cool for about a week, etc., but there always seems to be more lying around or more coming in. I get very sentimentally attached to a lot of my things, or I think that I ought to maintain my own reference library of books or source material for mix tapes or collages. I have lots of neat things, but it’s a real pain in the ass.

A lot of the time, I just wish I could be one of those glamorous minimalists who can live in a modest apartment filled with nothing more than an elegant little futon, one or two achingly beautiful Eames chairs, and a thin, futuristic laptop (perched on a long, otherwise empty desk made from a slab of something interesting with spindly metal legs attached) for good measure. I want to own about 10 pieces of beautiful, versatile clothing, and 3 pair of shoes at the most. Maybe a few Polaroids of frolicsome moments pinned to the wall for decoration.

Even that laundry list seems like a lot when I look at it. The irony, though, is to have so few things would probably mean spending enough money on them that each wouldn’t deteriorate immediately. I could probably sell my warehouse full of stuff here and invest in that new life. I probably wouldn’t be able to afford the rent on a place nice enough that I wouldn’t need to camouflage the structural defects with knick-knacks, though. The trouble is, if I got rid of everything, I would go crazy from the recurring instinct to wander over and look for the box of old photos or that old book with the crazy picture in it. Or I’d want to make someone a card with that old paper and some of the little plastic toys in that other box. Or I’d tell an anecdote that could only be illustrated by that one…Oh well, you get the idea. If I ever have the clearance sale, just promise you’ll keep in touch in case I have a relapse and need access to all the toys.

Note to self: The very friendly Asian woman who runs the grimy laundromat down the street and speaks no English should not be trusted to wash those expensive, richly colored dress shirts that you can’t afford to replace right now. There is no ancient Chinese secret being used there. Only cheap bleach.

Old habits die hard. No matter how old I get, or how much poise and self-confidence I have, I still have these occasional relapses to my high-school social instincts. Meaning that a lot of the time when I find myself around the cool, popular kids, I become a shy, awkward, babbling, grade-A loser. Why must the simplest things sometimes be so difficult?

It’s a very modern, very Internet-enabled thing to have someone break up with you via e-mail and AOL IMs, but it doesn’t feel very savvy. It still sucks.

I was waiting for this one to happen, but I’m still sad. And yes, I feel dopey for being sad, since I was expecting it, and since nothing had even gotten serious yet, but still…

Despite what you may think, things are not very glamorous here in the Rumpus Room. After reading Tim’s theory that we designers work in incredibly pristine areas, and then going to look at the impossibly sexy Apple G4 Cube, I took a look at myself and my desk. This is the sad truth about why I don’t want a webcam recording me (not for the squeamish):

• I sit here in boxer shorts, black socks, and a Hanes t-shirt, because I never bothered to put other clothes back on after stripping off my office wear today. My eyes were hurting, so I’m wearing my glasses which are held together with a dab of hot glue in one of the hinges. sexy!
• I am slaving away at my old and dusty PowerMac 6500, which rises out of a heap of junk on my desk. I have just enough room to place a glass of Coke and a plate of cheese and crackers to have for dinner while I work. The pile of junk includes a stack of bills I am ignoring, marked-up proofs of a few jobs I’m doing, bunches of Polaroids, all the mail I’ve gotten in the last two months, and nail clippers to use during long downloads. sleek!
• I have a stool made from a bicycle seat next to my desk chair. The stool prevents me from walking over the weak spot in the floor that is about to collapse, because I don’t want to step in the dirt floor below the rotting plywood. Glamorous!
• I look over the top of the laptop I use for all of my porno…er, journal-writing, and I see a pile of previously worn pants and shorts growing on top of my dresser. This is next to the pile of dirty laundry on the floor, which sits there because I haven’t removed last week’s clean laundry from the laundry bag yet. That is sitting in the middle of the TV-watching area, by the Chinese take-out menus. sophisticated!
• I can hear the whispers of the dust bunnies as they grow in size, strength, and number. Send help if you I ever disappear altogether. Swanky!
• And I don’t even want to get started on the biological disaster area that is my kitchen.