Well, good people. My birthday week was terrific. There were visitors and presents and cakes sent through the mail and drinks and dinners and parties and lots of laughs and good times and special unexpected gifts like the strike not happening as of this second at least and Robert Downey Jr. being arrested again and my finally seeing the Molly Shannon SNL Anna Nicole Smith sketch and my comedy group getting back together after a six month hiatus and today I should be scoring a tape of two people on Chains of Love having sex, caught by the infrared camera in the bedroom. As for real gifts, I got a new Giants hat and a great game called Wise and Otherwise, which just fucking rules, and a few books and a four disk Coltrane set and a shitload of Legos and pj bottoms and 2000 pieces of paper documenting the birth of an incredible friendship. I got cooked for and entertained and told stories to. I learned that my sister is coming into town and maybe even moving out here and I got to play host to some good new friends. It has been a great week.
One of the funniest things that happened lately was my discovery in an old box of the journal I kept when I was twelve years old. I read it out loud to a friend, after vowing not to leave anything out, and quickly became insanely mortified over what I read. I was the weirdest little guy, man. Every entry is about girls. Every. One. And with a different girl every day that I liked. And as my friend pointed out, my entries were very much like the ones on my website. I start with a greeting, sometimes. I talk. Tell stories. Then I end up with a version of the Happy Song Corner, where I basically say the time and what song is playing on whatever radio station I'm listening to at the time. And man, did the radio love it some Culture Club and Lionel Ritchie back then in 1984.
Anyway, after much deliberating, I've decided to share some of my twelve year-old diary with you guys. I'll just post various select entries. Some names will be changed to protect the young and maybe the famous (a couple of my friends from that time are famous -- it's funny to read me talking about them back then), but mostly I'm just going to put it out there and let you all make fun of me, because now being a welfare baby, I figure I owe something back to society.
So, here's the first entry. Enjoy:
Jan. 12th '84
Ok, I have a lot to say: I'm in Mrs. Levin's class in Columbus. I'm in Robins and Blagg (a theatre group for kids) in the high group. I now hate Susannah and forget all that I said about her. I've liked a lot of girls in the past. I liked a girl named Bronwen Belekamp at camp. Who reminds me of Ann Jillian. I've also liked Felicia at Caz (a hippie Arts camp in the Bay Area) and also at Caz, Mindy.
In my school I've liked Jesse? for about 2 days, Nishi Wing, which right now I like a little and in my class I liked Amy Tinner, Sarah Whisler (about a week) and finally, still, sence about Oct, Tanya Lower. I don't like Tom, Rufus, or Toby any more (friends of mine).
The radio, KITS, is playing "Wrapped Around Your Finger" by the Police.
Don't tell me you don't know what love is,
when you're old enough to know better.
When you find strange hands in your sweater.
When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote,
I'm a man with a mission in two or three editions.
And I'm giving you a longing look.
Everyday, everyday, everyday I write the book.
Chapter One we didn't really get along.
Chapter Two I think I fell in love with you.
You said you'd stand by me in the middle of Chapter Three.
But you were up to your old tricks in Chapters Four, Five and Six.
The way you walk.
The way you talk, and try to kiss me, and laugh,
in four or five paragraphs.
All your compliments and your cutting remarks
are captured here in my quotation marks.
Don't tell me you don't know the difference
between a lover and a fighter.
With my pen and my electric typewriter.
Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal.
I'd still own the film rights and be working on the sequel... speaking of
which. Alright. Alright. I'm willing to admit it. Every day I admit it to
myself: I have a problem. I do. But this time I'm totally innocent. What had
happen was I was sitting at my house working on lines for the finale when I
got a call on my cell from Joe Rogan, who said he was in Culver City and had
been Scooter-jacked and was now on foot and lost and scared but then he
did some funny impromptu material about crime which totally had me laughing.
So anyway, I just drove down to help my buddy out when I too got
car-jacked. So next thing I know I'm walking down some alley and yeah, of
course they're going to think I'm under the influence, because I'm fucking
Downey, man. It's a witch hunt, I tell you. I have no idea how that
baggie got in my pants, though. That's a fucking mystery, but when you think
about how a bunch of dudes without bulldozers built the Pyramids, compare
the baggie to that and it doesn't seen so farfetched to think it just sprung
there or fell into my pants now, does it?