First, this.

Here I am on the other side of the day, which was not as hellish as it looks on paper. Work was about as stimulating as work gets, it being a new project with new people and new content and new criteria. We trained all day long. They�ve devided the massive main room of the building into smaller cubicles accomodating about fifteen people each, which really makes one appreciate the simple genius of those puce-colored fabric sound baffles. I took a look around and conducted a quick census of my cubicle: five people in their twenties, including myself; eight middle-aged people; two older retirees; and one MILF. I sat next to a guy about my age whose attitude about the whole affair seems about the same as mine; we exchanged cynical snorts and skeptical glances throughout the training. We had two trainers, both women; one was young, surprisingly normal, and articulate, the other was an older woman named Eileen. (The name Eileen always makes me think of my late aunt and the sizable inheritance she left me, which I subsequently squandered, and the fact that I would have been named Eileen had I been born a girl.)

Tomorrow at two p.m. Mark is going to bid in my stead on a snare drum on eBay. It�s a Starclassic Maple snare with a suspension mounting system, and the price is extremely reasonable. Although it doesn�t look as if cost is going to be as much of an issue as it has been, because after work, I called Interstate Music and applied for their �Players� Club� charge card. Five minutes and one social security number later, I was approved. I hung up my phone feeling the Faustian thrill of a new endowment, the tacit permission to go fucking nuts with my consumption habits.

Of course, it�s all for a good cause. It�s all within reason. But I can now buy the high-end drums I want and not have to secure a loan from my parents or sell eight items on eBay. I can get a set of transparent-laquer, natural-finish maple drums and brand new Zildjian A Custom cymbals. I�ve said this all along, but if there is one area of my life in which I can be extravagant, I guess this should be it.

And during one break, while I was looking at the roster of scorers, I was pleasantly surprised to see Phil�s name on one of the lists. During lunch I saw him outside, and though we are non-smokers, we stood next to the other non-smokers and enjoyed the chilly weather while we caught up. He�s hoping he�s going to flunk the qualifying set for this project so he won�t have to work at there anymore. He�s been living in the country with Christine, avoiding excessive contact with other people, and, as he admitted in a half-conspiratorial, half-embarassed voice: �I�ve been pickling my brain with alcohol.� We discussed where Neil has gone (the Bay Area), where Wes has gone (North Carolina), where Mark still is (here) and how we ended up like this. We were heading back into the building at the end of our lunch and I just looked at him and said, �It�s scary where we�ve ended up.� And I didn�t want to sound too defeatist, but how the hell did this happen? I think back to high school, to ten or even five years ago, and I reasses. I consider this:

30 October 1992

After sitting around Phil's house for a while, we went to KDIC and pillaged their vinyl library, where I discovered many swell old Genesis albums. Then we went to Bob's. Last night after the variety show Wes and I went to Eric's and watched cartoons. ... The four of us saw Singles last night. I love my best friends.

and I feel gripped by an ache that I refuse to chalk up to standard-issue �back in the day� nostalgia. But I guess it still is. I print my high school memories onto an entirely different mental contact sheet. But I still find myself saying �look at us now� as Phil and I head back into jobs we hate. We had something wonderful once. We really did.

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