Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Mortified

I have spoken before about my love of the Alamo Drafthouse, the place where most of my paycheck ends up each month. Well, last week Mike and I attended an event at the Alamo that I have been dying to see for at least three years -- "Mortified." According to the official website, "'Mortified' is a comic excavation of the strange and extraordinary things we created as kids. Witness adults sharing their own adolescent journals, letters, poems, lyrics, home movies, stories and more."

People, this is comic gold. I don't know what compels the human race to document our most embarrassing years in pen and ink, but thank god. Because when it is unearthed again many years later, it is pure, mildly uncomfortable entertainment. Kind of like "The Office" meets "My So-Called Life," but REAL.

Lucky for those of you that missed last week's show, there is another one this Wed., March 10 at the Alamo downtown. And for those of you who live in LA, your next local show is Wed., March 17 at King King. Yay yay!

At any rate, I've been inspired to dig up some golden literary nuggets from my own past to share with you here. The below diary entry is dated July 18, 1993:


Dear Diary,
Hi. No, wait. Howdy, hello, hey! I'm really happy. Today we got back from 2 weeks vacation at Newport Dunes. It was
cool! I'm writing because I need to record a very important date in the history of my life. On Wednesday, July 14, 1993, at the age of twelve, I got my first boyfriend. His name is Jeremy Elting. He has medium-brown hair, gorgeous deep-blue eyes, and freckles. He moved to Newport Beach from Utah. He is fourteen years old. We did not kiss or hold hands, but we hugged good-bye. It is my hope that we will stay in touch, and close, by mail and phone. I miss him already.

Love,
Becky

I was clearly delusional, and I'm sure this boy had no idea that hugging me one time made him my boyfriend. You may be surprised to learn that we did not stay close through the U.S. mail, so he was spared from my dramatic love letters recounting our magical hug in painstaking detail. Additionally, I just tried Googling "Jeremy Elting," and he appears not to exist. Perhaps my one true hug was wise enough at the ripe age of 14 to give me a pseudonym and dodge any possible stalking via the postal service or landline telephone.

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