Heat.
"Today is Sunday." The phrase's potency has fallen since last I wrote. No longer exemplifies it the last step on the ladder to Monday each week. Now, it is merely the day on which I write.
The merry month of May draws to a close. Spring is over. Rising kinetic energy and vapor pressure of New England descend upon me with a vengeance.
Traditionally, springtime has marked the demise and decline of interest in my websites. The first Angelfire site, the Geocities site, and even this site always suffer with the drawing of summer. I solemnly swear that I will not allow this to happen again, though I acknowledge that my solemn swear bears less weight than the politician's promise.
I have a good idea on who reads this site - or at least I like to think I do - and most probably know everything that I have to say. As a result, this "entry" should not cater to the audience that wishes to learn but should rather serve as an outlet, a petit memoir for me. Memories never die, but meme will change, and I want to capture genetically whatever I can at the moment.
One of the worst feelings I get is the occasional epiphany in which I realize that my parents are right. My mom, countless times, has informed me of the importance of communication and my disability in the field. I have accepted, believed, but not learned. The itnernet's greatest characteristic is its ability to transfer information and to facilitate communication: Publicized communication, for the pen is mightier than the sword; business-related, for advertisements and applications are so viable on-line; personal, for a chat service links one with all of one's acquaintances on-line simultaneously. I've used all three liberally. Now, the lofty claim was that some things are not suitable to be passed through cyberspace. Apparently, to ask someone to prom via chat is tactless and taboo. God knows why, but everyone except me is of this mind. I'll remember to conform similarly next year.
I can't remember my exact thought process for the whole transportation issue, but it probably involved my instinct to resist change. The ten-person limo idea was scrapped for some inane reason, and the new alternative was the break into two limos. The news, unnerving in itself, pressed harder than normally it would, for not only did I receive it on a night of mass chaos on the internet, the lovely Cassandra also gave me an ultimatum of one evening - an evening already burdened with more serious teen drama. Unhelpful (but not hindersome) was the only other person whom my decision could affect, and she of course had no opinion whatsoever. By midnight, my answer was no. My nerves were frayed, but the decision was clear. Let the plebeians travel as a group, if that is their wish. Eventually, the situation left my hands entirely, as parents intervened. That my own choice to be independent led to the confiscation of antyhing resembling independence... That is the greatest irony.
With the same tone left the freedom to choose my path of the aftermath - or at least my will to exercise this freedom. With Asian parents centralizing the transportation issue, the plan of attending white parties afterward fizzled. The opportunity cost of 24 was clear as well: Robert's post-prom party. Fuck that, I thought, I'd rather 24 it up the next day, which, in my own defense, was true. However, However, some people took presumptuous liberties with my intended plans. When I told them even that I was considering not gonig to Robert's, accusations and guilt-instilling words plagued me. I reacall especially the word excuse used to describe 24. An excuse not to attend the party. Could anything have been more wrong an accusation? 24 is an ends, not a means to escape other socialities. However, I caved in to guilt and postponed 24 indefinitely...
The 24 Season 5 finale. It struck hard, painfully, with all the style that I have come to expect from the series, and then it was over. SEven months to January, with no episode to anticipate on Memorial Monday.
The weight of the situation eluded me, or rather, I eluded it. I ran home from Anandh's house Monday evening and passed Tuesday in total mental and emotional numbness... But the fact of the matter finally sank in Wednseday and Thursday... that there still was something to which I could and should look forward.
After a week of minimal sleep, I gained around ten hours of it almost at once, starting in the wee hours of Saturday morning. I rose to mental cloudedness, and by 11:30a.m., a dull pain that clutched my head was preventing me from playing the Ballade in A-flat even once through. I allowed my mother to perform her voodoo acupuncture, placing needles such that my piercings be beautifully, tragically similar to those associated with crucifixion. I chuckled, realizing bitterly that my cough was getting better even as the headache worsened. Another cold irony: Crucifixion kills by collapsing the lungs.
Dress and preparation started slowly at 4:30p.m., with the promise of a 5:30 pickup. I was still getting dressed at 5:05 when the call came, informing me that the arrival would now be at 5:15. The rest of preparation went a little too fast for comfort, including the mandatory snapshots/mugshots. I left late and hastily at 5:20. The photo session at Sue's house, despite my sincerest efforts to maintain composure, was utterly humiliating. Little ought to be said of my father meandering up my date's friend's front steps, demanding loudly and smilingly that I smile euqally stupidly. Meanwhile, the chauffeur smiled indulgently at the pathetic Asian outing.
The chauffeur is an interesting character. Large and loud, he has a penchant for multi-tasking: Be it talking to his passengers while changing lanes, writing while on the cell phone, or gesturing with both hands to show his enthusisasm - nay, passion - for cars and driving, he never made me fail to remember the Driver's Ed video, The Last Prom. The chap did airport runs almost exclusively, noting clients and calling his family shamelessly on the highway and in city or suburban streets. There was a moment of pure fear when I realized that I lacked my ticket; Tom heaved a huge exasperated sigh, and as I watched tensely for my father's arrival with the ticket, I heard the voice on the cell... "Things came up... I definitely won't be able to make it... I won't be home tonight, honey... There's an emergency situation..."
God-willing, Tom did not physically or mentally abuse me for my quarter hour of stupidity. Sorting and changing protocol like a high-crash-risk machine, he got the job done with embrassing efficiency. I apologized again for my superfluous stupidity and entered the Park Plaza Hotel.
'Twas a class act from the crown to the toetop; everything seemed red and gold and larger than life. I met Jane, would out "Hey Albert!", followed by Steege, who gave me the terrifying grin that he must give to all his track athletes before a meet. For around fifteen minutes, we searched the accomodations site for sight of food, even getting shut out of the area by a security guard, whose dutiful aura reminded me of Aaron Pierce. Eventually we came upon some recognizable bodies, and there was interaction... a chance to meet all the seniors, a chance to speak with fag civilly, like the old friends we are. The pomp and circumstance of it all was thrilling, though I must mourn the duration of "social hour." One hour is way too long not to eat.
Food was uninteresting. Remarkably uninteresting, in fact. I believe that it was intentionally neither exceptionally good nor at all bad, and it thus served its purposes brilliantly: It fed seven hundred high school students satisfactorily, and it prevented people from coming for seconds.
Dance? The music featured three groups: rap, rock, slow songs, of which rap easily comprised the majority. There was, however, one brilliant instance of Dancing Queen, requested for Mr. Green, history class legend. Later, Stairway to Heaven came way earlier than expected, but the Sweet Carolina finish was incredibly tasteful all the same.
The speak of my own antics is awkward enough in the first place, the circumstances forced upon me made it exceptionally so. Suffice it to say that white kids are much preferable to Asians when I'm trying to let loose.
There's more, but it's Monday, and I don't feel like typing it up. In any case, it was a blast.
SD
May 28, '06
Home.