Ethnicity. of Elven kind
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The happiest day of my life to date.
Tuesday. 11.13.07 7:55 pm
The morning of November eleventh slipped its silent alarm under my eyelids, rousing me from a dreamless slumber. The sofa bed creaked and groaned as I stretched and twisted my body, freeing myself from the Sandman's warm embrace.
Blinking stupidly and rubbing my eyes, I came remember what was in store for me that day: I was going to see, and meet, the brilliant minds behind the cosmic force that puts gasoline under my creative fire. I was going to be within an arms reach from Coheed and Cambria.
My heart became an errant mexican jumping bean. I felt it bouncing inside my chest, knocking against my ribs like a xylaphone. Somehow, I pulled myself out of bed and into the shower.
Eons later, my sister and I were on our way to Golden Apple Comics in LA. With each passing second we got a few feet closer, and with each passing foot I grew more and more aware that the chicken burger in my tummy was a horrible mistake.
The next thing I knew, we were in a monsterous line that wrapped around half of the building, and half of the surrounding block. As the line inched forward, my palms grew increasingly sweaty, and I had a wonderful case of the tremmors. It was all I could do to keep myself from hyperventilating, puking, passing out, or a charming mix of the three.
The only thing I was thinking about was what the hell I was supposed to say when I got up there. What could I say? What does someone say to the man that affirms their artistic visions?
Luckily, Ashley has a way with spoken word. She helped me articulate what my heart wanted to say. I practiced it again and again in my mind until I had it down. Focusing on that actually took the edge off of my panic. I daresay I was even a little...calm. That is, until we turned the final corner and entered the comic book store. I craned my neck over the ocean of bobbing heads, just to make sure they were really there. Sure enough, all four of them sat ina line behind a glass counter. Mike, Chris, Claudio, Travis. My heart dropped from my throat to my toes in that instant. I felt very cold, and my teeth started to tingle. I had brought with me a record sleeve for them to sign, and a picture of Claudio I was drawn that I wanted to give him as a gift. I held them both tight to my chest, because I knew that if I didn't, I would drop them with my shaking.
It's a very curious and disgustingly unfair thing how the universe processes time; one spends an eternity waiting for a monumantal event that only lasts 20 seconds.
As I made my way up to teh glass counter, every involuntary bodily function was made voluntary, and it took an extreme amount of concentration to walk, breathe, blink, and talk at the same time. I handed off my record sleeve to Mike and Chris with minimal trouble, save for the building of a bubble of pure, unadultered mirth at the pit of my stomach. They handed the sleeve back to me, and I took a step to the right, keeping my eyes to the floor. My breathing slowed, all blood fled my face, and my heart belonged to a drum circle.
...there he was. Claudio smiled at me, and all I could do was laugh in a strange, throaty sort of way and extend both the record sleeve and the drawing in my violently shaking hands.
He signed the sleeve, and accepted the drawing graciously. My sister asked him if I could have a picture with him, and without hesitation he leaned over the counter, and she snapped it. He handed the sleeve back and I managed to squeeze out a thank you in the same odd, hearty-sounding voice that entirely not my own. Durring that exchange, Travis must have signed the sleeve as well, because when I got it back it had four names on it.
I hate to admit that as I stood in the wake of the realization of a distant dream, the bubble that grow steadily in my tummy suddenly burst, and a few tears found their way out.
Wednesday. 10.24.07 3:52 am
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