Fell asleep last night in a state of depression at the thought that life will suck and that I can't get into any of the colleges I've liked so far, although Harry did a wonderful job of laughing at me and cheering me up when I attacked his optimism as delusional.

I get really cranky at night, and really upset when I think about college too much, and my family's history, which I'm learning more about, is pretty depressing on both sides. But my attempts at realism are just a guise for my incredibly high personal standards, anyway. I guess I should learn to deal with that.

Anyway, I woke up late the next morning with blind puffy eyes (been wearing glasses for the last few days) and my parents started grilling me, so I told them the whole story and they agreed that I'm a bit delusional myself. So I showered, shaved, and donned man-clothes (well, gay-man-clothes) and stalked out in beat-up boots to take back my city, with Ginsberg in my pocket for support. Now there's a man who faced everything and came out laughing. What thoughts I have of you tonight, I thought, and almost missed my stop.

H. and I just lazed around, did errands, napped and had a sweet, quiet day until I tried to take him to a concert. He was sick and couldn't really walk. It was Ray Davies. (Y'all should know who that is, but if you don't, think "Village Green Preservation Society.")

The thing about Harry is that he doesn't make an effort to be optimistic, noble or moral--he just is. I don't know if he was born that way or was raised well or if it's just magic, but he really is what he seems to be. He knew how tired he was, how much his foot hurt, how much I love concerts, and how excited I was about this one, and said "V, I love the music, and I'd love to get some from you and listen to it later, but I really just have to go home and take some painkillers and go to sleep. Have a really great time and tell me about it tomorrow, okay? Promise?"

I figured that if he was leaving me on a Sunday night, he must really be in pain, and that there was no point in torturing him. So I promised to enjoy myself, and it wasn't very hard. Ray's energy was boundless. He played until he'd soaked his shirt through in v-shaped stains and had a dark ring all the way around his right arm, and then he went offstage and returned in a fresh shirt a few seconds later. Sweat and spit sprayed every time he sang and he never paused for even a second. You'd think a guy in his sixties would be losing his voice, but he sang better than anyone I've heard in their twenties, and his band was incredible. He was also very sweet and personal with his fans. His daughter came to sing with him and he announced her engagement for the first time. The crowd was lively and kind and sang along to every song, much to his delight. I found myself knowing all the words. He joked around and talked about his past and kept everyone laughing. When it got to "low-budget," he pranced around demonstrating the fictional too-small shoes and pants, tugging at his balding hair and grabbing his ass ("arse") to cheers from the audience. He did the robot. He handed out VIP tickets to something or another to people who claimed to have seen all three of his shows. People threw paper plates with song requests at him and he played them. He passed out set lists and picks to his stage managers when he left and told them to distribute them randomly. (I got a pick by a stroke of good luck, and a paper-plate-airplane.) Then he came back and played "Lola" and the entire place shook. Nobody wanted to leave after it ended. It was one of the best shows I've ever seen, and that's saying something.

In the middle of the show, my dad leaned over to me and said, "You're not going to believe what I did today, V. I bought another guitar." We already have five guitars, two keyboards, drums and a ukelele, so this was completely unnecessary. "It's a Yamaha acoustic." We already have a Yamaha acoustic. "It's got a crack on the bottom that needs to be fixed." We've already fixed a guitar with a crack on the bottom. "What did you pay for it?" I asked. "Seventy bucks." So I didn't say anything. It's not much of a price to pay for something that really makes you happy.

When I saw it, I knew right away that it was worth it. It's a beautiful guitar, infinately superior to our other Yamaha, with book-cut natural wood and ivory insets around the sides. The crack will be easily fixed, and the tone and low strings are incredible. It's a guitar to dream about.

Sorry for the boring post. Will write something deep later. It's been a long day.