A Summer Wasting
Since I left Scotland in May, either (1) because listening to one thing on a loop for weeks on end is just a tendency I seem to have adopted, or (2) because something on a very superficial and obvious level of my subconscious wanted to hear ANYTHING Scottish, I've listened to little aside from Belle & Sebastian. In the car on my way to work, as I fall asleep every night, while I read, waiting for planes -- in short, in all of my quiet moments, Belle & Sebastian filled the silence. Much of it just seems to play at the same speed my days have done -- a languid, listless, almost contented, slightly optimistic, almost restless melody. And perhaps hearing the same tracks so many times each day compounds that feeling of circular, humid lethargy.
When I was in Britain, one of the things I thought I missed about America was our "24-hour culture." While there are still very good reasons to miss the presence of WaWa, I was under the delusion that our 24-hour conveniences amounted to more than midnight roadside hoagies and bad diner coffee. So many nights these past few weeks, it's been 1:00am and we've been looking for somewhere to go, something to entertain us, somewhere to rent a motherfucking DVD, and to no avail. Yet, these have been my best moments. A joke in a rave in a car in the dark, driving aimlessly with the Americans I still love, then 3:00am tea parties, watching Entourage with my friends (or in one instance, for some inexplicable reason Narnia with my brother). These weeks have been drinking Pat's Blue Ribbon Beer in the basement of some new acquaintance just because it makes dancing easier and the night longer, or perhaps just because it's thematically appropriate; sushi and shopping; video games with my dad. There isn't much to say about these types of days -- so languid, so indulgent, only good because you know they can't last and that there's another life waiting in the space of weeks. And so, as the lyric goes in this "era"'s most emblematic of Belle and Sebastian songs (which is emblematic for obvious and predictable reasons, I admit), "A photograph of myself / Is all I have to show for / Seven weeks of river walkways / Seven weeks of staying up all night..."
Even still, I have very few of those, but here they are, representative of moments that have made nearly three months of listlessness totally worth the wait:
Gambling with my grandparents on the Indian Reservation:
Walking a mile on the side of the highway through Hamilton New Jersey with my family because the train station parking lot was full when we went to see Spamalot (HILARIOUS, by the way). And realizing, in the course of a train journey, that my brother is perhaps, nearly as much of a poseur as I am (or as big a poseur as that zit on my forehead):
Going with my cousins to see the horrible film shot in our grandparents' retirement village in Florida. They, dressed marvelously as old people, I a bedraggled mess, having forgotten our matinee movie date:
So many times out to sushi and long days shopping and chatting and dancing to Pharrell in the car with the love of my American life (orange as she is), spending days just like we used to wish we could. If for nothing else, that time alone was worth having come back for.
Taking Pictures in the parking lot of the Red Robin like it was prom because, who knows when we'll see each other again:
And perhaps, as the highlight of the entire summer, Motherfucking Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane at midnight the day it came out. The buildup was almost enough -- Elizabeth, Mikey and I spent an entire week making Snakes on Planes jokes and Snakes on Planes songs in anticipation. And then the movie, if possible EXCEEDED expectations. It was the perfect bad movie, overacted to the perfect degree, and much like everything I say/write, right on the cusp of sarcasm while still kind of being sincere. And the audience was CRAZY. Clapping and hissing and screaming and throwing plastic snakes at the screen! We left the theatre giggling and it lasted for hours. I don't know when since returning to America I've had that much frivolity or laughed that hard.
It doesn't tell a very good story or look like it amounts to much, and while I can't say I'm sorry to be leaving soon, I still feel like MY SUMMER WASTING was most worthwhile.
When I was in Britain, one of the things I thought I missed about America was our "24-hour culture." While there are still very good reasons to miss the presence of WaWa, I was under the delusion that our 24-hour conveniences amounted to more than midnight roadside hoagies and bad diner coffee. So many nights these past few weeks, it's been 1:00am and we've been looking for somewhere to go, something to entertain us, somewhere to rent a motherfucking DVD, and to no avail. Yet, these have been my best moments. A joke in a rave in a car in the dark, driving aimlessly with the Americans I still love, then 3:00am tea parties, watching Entourage with my friends (or in one instance, for some inexplicable reason Narnia with my brother). These weeks have been drinking Pat's Blue Ribbon Beer in the basement of some new acquaintance just because it makes dancing easier and the night longer, or perhaps just because it's thematically appropriate; sushi and shopping; video games with my dad. There isn't much to say about these types of days -- so languid, so indulgent, only good because you know they can't last and that there's another life waiting in the space of weeks. And so, as the lyric goes in this "era"'s most emblematic of Belle and Sebastian songs (which is emblematic for obvious and predictable reasons, I admit), "A photograph of myself / Is all I have to show for / Seven weeks of river walkways / Seven weeks of staying up all night..."
Even still, I have very few of those, but here they are, representative of moments that have made nearly three months of listlessness totally worth the wait:
Gambling with my grandparents on the Indian Reservation:
Walking a mile on the side of the highway through Hamilton New Jersey with my family because the train station parking lot was full when we went to see Spamalot (HILARIOUS, by the way). And realizing, in the course of a train journey, that my brother is perhaps, nearly as much of a poseur as I am (or as big a poseur as that zit on my forehead):
Going with my cousins to see the horrible film shot in our grandparents' retirement village in Florida. They, dressed marvelously as old people, I a bedraggled mess, having forgotten our matinee movie date:
So many times out to sushi and long days shopping and chatting and dancing to Pharrell in the car with the love of my American life (orange as she is), spending days just like we used to wish we could. If for nothing else, that time alone was worth having come back for.
Taking Pictures in the parking lot of the Red Robin like it was prom because, who knows when we'll see each other again:
And perhaps, as the highlight of the entire summer, Motherfucking Snakes on a Motherfucking Plane at midnight the day it came out. The buildup was almost enough -- Elizabeth, Mikey and I spent an entire week making Snakes on Planes jokes and Snakes on Planes songs in anticipation. And then the movie, if possible EXCEEDED expectations. It was the perfect bad movie, overacted to the perfect degree, and much like everything I say/write, right on the cusp of sarcasm while still kind of being sincere. And the audience was CRAZY. Clapping and hissing and screaming and throwing plastic snakes at the screen! We left the theatre giggling and it lasted for hours. I don't know when since returning to America I've had that much frivolity or laughed that hard.
It doesn't tell a very good story or look like it amounts to much, and while I can't say I'm sorry to be leaving soon, I still feel like MY SUMMER WASTING was most worthwhile.