April 27, 2002

    Instead of spending another weekend as an ascetic, I took Chris up on his offer to go to Six Flags this weekend.  My textbooks can, in fact, be left unattended and trusted not to burn the place down.  I dedicated my Friday afternoon to writing a paper for extra credit.  Getting a B that could have been evaded with little effort won't ruin my summer, but I'll feel better knowing I tried.  The test is not until Wednesday... that's ten bookstore hours during which to study.  There's nothing like an hour-long car ride to make me feel compelled to have fun.

    It was a nice enough day, and worth getting up early.  The trees lining the highway, however, were ostensibly more yellow than they should be.  Either they have all come down with a nasty case of jaundice, or we still need rain.  If I can wait until tomorrow, so can they.  Chris and I just talked about unrelated stuff; cars that won't let you get lost, cats, dogs, guinea pigs, injuries, and the perks of season passes.  After attending the park twice, your season pass is paid for.  I decided there was no sense in not purchasing one. It's worth it, and too little of my money has been invested in leisure activities.  The line to get it processed, have some thirteen year old girl take my picture and retrieve the card took longer than the line to pay fifty bucks for one entry, but that was never intended to be the fun part.

    We went on the Twister, a ride that flips you upside down and stops just long enough for all of the change to fall out of your pockets.  Fun.  The Scream Machine was close by, and that was our next endeavor.  Chris was anticipating pain, if not minor whiplash, because experienced more than his share the last time went on the ride.  After the first loop or two, I determined keeping my head in one place was the best way to make sure it stayed comfortably attached to the rest of my body.  It was exhilarating in its bumpy, twelve-year-old-established-roller-coaster way.  The signs I read while standing in line informed me of the seven loops.  What came as a surprised was the huge smile plastered on my face in the photos they try to sell you after the ride is finished.  It actually seemed genuine, as my smiles scarcely do these days.  It was not forced out of magnanimity or obligation.  I smiled and meant it, and smiled again when I realized the phenomenon's still possible.

    The seemingly endless line for Nitro was expected, and we were prepared to wait.  About halfway through came an announcement: they were experiencing minor technical difficulties.  If we wanted to wait on line, we could. If not, we should exit the way we came in.  As the impatient and clairvoyant ones made their way down the steps and back through the maze, we assumed it meant we would get to the ride faster once it was up and running again.  A few minutes passed, and an empty car raced along the track.  Another one was climbing a hill, and abruptly stopped.  The announcements were repeated, more people didn't want to be in an idle line with no hope of moving until they left it, and the car stuck at the top of the hill did not budge.  Determined to experience the world's tallest (230 feet), fastest (80 + m.p.h.) steel roller coaster, we waited for skilled coaster doctors to do what they did best.  The line kept shrinking.  My knees began to ache.  The next announcement confided that something was wrong with the track.  By the time we got to the front of the line, we were told the wait would be fifteen minutes only.

    Liars.  

    They took it back, kicked out all dissenting guests, and closed the ride.

    As we waited to embark on several cheap rides on the way over to Medusa, I began to ruminate on just how much it takes to entertain people these days, and how little it means.  Four minutes spent roaring along four million tons of steel doesn't compare to a pen and a blank sheet of paper.  A hulking mound of metal is infinitely more expensive and less valuable to society than a glue stick and a pair of scissors are to me.  What people consider amusement is elaborately constructed and cluttered in these parks.  Candy-colored structures promising little more than an unnatural somatic jolt and ephemeral rush of adrenaline just may represent those supporting minds forced into the molds provided by capitalism.  Walking away from the Boardwalk with a plush neon dolphin means you have accomplished something.  And I wonder why I am alienated.

    Recently, I have opted out from situations in which physical stimulation is wrenched from every sense organ.  The syntax between bursts of intensity can only overflow with lethargy, and the sluggish silence of waiting.  I repeatedly felt I was the only one the whole damn line waiting for the right moment create something timeless.  Are social misfits the only ones endowed with a capacity to amuse themselves surpassing that of venues existing for that purpose?  Perhaps amusement parks are no place for introverts.

    ...And yet I got a season pass.

    While waiting online for Medusa I saw Luke and Ashley, people I used to loiter with back when loitering was cool.  I tapped Luke on the shoulder, but he didn't see me or didn't want to.  Although I am sure it is nothing personal, it seems symbolic of many of my interpersonal relations.  Failing to make an impression, to be heard, to be seen or acknowledged frequently occur because I let them.  No one can buy anything with my two cents when they are hyper-inflated in my head.  I don't talk because I can hear myself just fine without distorted cadence begetting gross misinterpretation.  

    Few things are spontaneous when having fun has to planned and paid for.  

    I have come to question the nature of fun.  My Dad must have had a ball growing up, and now he's got something growing in his throat. He stops talking when he's in pain, his eyes narrow, and all he can do focus and hope to breathe it out with a deep exhale.  Sometimes he wonders aloud why it has gotten worse (Is it the full moon? The change of seasons?), knowing nature is more forgiving that scourge of conventional treatment.  Acceptance of his situation has yielded dramatic lifestyle changes.  Supplements, vitamins, and homeopathic remedies are carefully regimented by the hour.  Still, I wonder what present good can palliate decades of smoking and drinking?  How do I go about expressing feelings I have no words for?  Are these pains in my throat real or conjured out of sympathy?  Can I be blamed for cutting out distractions and trying to be perfect now that my health allows it?  

    Feeling helpless is unavoidable, and I wonder what I can possibly do to make things easier on everyone who cares.

    This has become the most honest entry I have ever written.