I'm doing my damnedest to get tickets to the July 28th Mariners game in Seattle against the Minnesota Twins, but I'm not having any luck. Kris and I will be up at the game on the 27th and we'd like to spend the night and see the day game on Saturday. Unfortunately, the second game features the Ichiro Suzuki bobbing head doll giveaway and it is way sold out. I've been looking at eBay for tickets, but pairs of tickets in the left-field bleachers are going for $120.00! I'll have to think about that one.

I feel much better this morning. My allergies are still present, but I'm not as tired as I was yesterday. The combination of much sleep and the use of sore-throat spray was effective; I am semi-well rested. Perhaps I can last the entire day.

While browsing inessential.com, I found a link to a great rant about Microsoft's proposed smart tags. (Other info on smart tags, some ranting some not, can be found here, here, here, and here.) Also, I found this weblog entry especially clever and amusing.

Several months ago, I bought a CD off eBay containing every episode of Frontier Gentleman in mp3 format. (Forty-one episodes in 1958 -- you gotta dig John Dehner!) Unfortunatley, the files were created with some woeful sampling rate (64 kbps?). My portable CD/mp3 player won't play these poor quality files. I'm contemplating converting the episodes to wav files and then back to 192 kbps mp3 files.

My love of old-time radio is one of my best-kept secrets. I have a smallish collection of shows on CD, mostly "best of mystery" or "greatest comedy shows" type collections. I don't get to listen to them often because Kris isn't as big a fan as I am. Some of these shows are great, surpassing anything on television...

It's funny the nostalgic reveries I can bring upon myself. They happen less frequently than they once did, but they are still a presence in my life.

The trigger for such a reverie can be small: a song, a smell, finding myself in some fogotten location. The initial memories are nearly always happy, but blend with melancholy as the fugue state progresses. In the end I am nearly always moved to write, often a letter that never gets sent.

There are four or five primary sources of nostalgia for me, all of the women who were, at one time, close friends.

Foremost among these is Heather Butler. Heather was a briliant girl (and I imagine she is now a briliant woman), talented, artistic, spontaneous. Heather was progressive for the time and space in which I lived. She was the first feminist that I ever knew, though I did not recognize her as such until college. She loved music and art and theater. When I knew her, Duran Duran and Marilyn Monroe were two of her favorites. Even now, I cannot watch Some Like It Hot (one of my favorite films) without being struck catatonic over memories of time spent with her.

Heather went to a different high school than I did. I only saw her at church functions (I was still religious in high school) or at times that we planned to be together. When I was with her I felt challenged. She was so intelligent that she was able to push me (and the others around her) to think in different ways. In my life now, Pam is the person that most closely approaches Heather's intelligence level (actually, Pam is smarter). With Heather I did strange things that I couldn't do with anyone else: we spent a Saturday morning knocking on doors asking if we could audiotape people's cows; we sang John Denver songs (poorly), recording them on tape; I let her dress me up as a woman (well, makeup and wig anyhow); we dreamed dreams.

I don't speak with Heather any more, but not through any choice of my own. I lost touch with her after college. While we were still living in the apartment (so 1992 or 1993), I saw her last. She came over one Sunday over Christmas break and we listened to 80s tunes. Then I went over to her place and watched Green Card with her family. That was the last I saw her. I've wanted to re-establish contact, but have been told that she doesn't want to be friends with the "married J.D.". I've done something to upset her, though I'm not sure what. Most likely candidate? I was never a good letter-writer and failed to carry my weight in correspondence.

Another person that is a common focus of my nostalgic reveries is Heather's cousin, Kristin Kauffman. I knew Kristin better than Heather; we went to the same high school and were able to do more things together because of our proximity. Kristin, too, is intelligent. She's witty. But she's quieter than Heather, less bold. She is a thoughtful person, down-to-earth, a good friend. I maintained my friendship with Kristin through college, but after school she and I both got married and our lives naturally took separate paths. I still see her several times a year, but it's been ages since we had any sort of real talk together. She has two young boys now, and they take up most of her time, I think. Also, I think that her husband, Roger, is uncomfortable around me and Kris (for whatever reason). Occasionally I'll try to talk with her at some get-together, but our lives are very different now.

The person that causes me the most sadness (and the one that brought on this nostalgia that I'm feeling tonight) is Tara Deutsch. I knew Tara during my senior year in high school (and possibly my junior year). Tara was bright and funny and enthusiastic. She was "cute", the very prototype of cute. I had a crush on her, I admit, but I could not help myself. When I went to college we continued to correspond. Just now I found a letter to Heather (that I never sent) in which I describe seeing Tara at a football game. Why does this cause me such grief? This was the last time that I saw Tara alive. Soon after she tied of some sort of heart failure. I was shocked -- absolutely stunned -- when I heard that she had died. She was young young young. How could this happen? I keep her letters and read them from time-to-time and it makes me happy. And then sad.

The other two people that cause nostalgic reveries are Amy Ratzlaf and Kim Kropf. I dated Amy in college and consider her one of the best friends that I ever had. We still get in touch with each other every year or two and have breakfast or some such, but I don't really know what's going on her life. Amy is a fantastic person and I hope that she is doing well. Kim I see all the time. I have less cause to feel nostalgic about her, and when I do succumb to the memories, they're all pleasant and never painful. I see Kim quite a bit still. I could call her right now and it would be quite natural, whereas if I called any of the other people I've mentioned (especially Heather) it would seem odd, it would be awkward.

It is actually because of Kim that I even chanced upon tonight's reminiscences: it is her 30th birthday on Saturday and her husband, Sabino, asked me to share some memories of her (embarrassing memories, if possible). So, I'm digging through all of my old letters in search of material that will cause her to blush. Boy have I got some juicy stuff!

There are other people with whom I long to re-establish contact. Chief among these is Mitch Sherrard, a friend from high school. But I'd also like to resume ties with a couple of friends from college, too: Jim Osmer and Kris Becker.

I guess this is the price of aging. Those with whom you were once close may grow distant as their lives diverge from yours. It's bittersweet. It's bittersweet.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2005 — Sunny Sunday   We passed a slow and lazy weekend, the kind I love so much.

2004 — Moving Day   Thanks to all twenty-two of you who helped make this move so easy, and to the three of you who helped on previous days. We appreciate it more than you could possibly know.

— Peeling Wallpaper   Yesterday was very productive. With the help of friends, we moved another vanload of boxes; we finished stripping wallpaper in the dining room; we began stripping wallpaper in the study; we moved potted plants.

2003 — Please Please Please   In so very many ways I was a typical angst-filled teenager of the mid-1980s. I never bought all the way in, though: I didn't like The Smiths.

2002 — Crow in the Road   Can animals become suicidal?