Waxing nostalgic.

I was 15 when my older brother gave me a copy of Aaron Cometbus's "collected works." It was easily two and half inches thick, filled with xeroxed pages of intimidating punk subculture.

"Read this and anyone over 21 will think you're at least 28," he said. So I did. I carried it around everywhere, underlined and bookmarked the bits I found poignant or amusing or particularly relatable.

Remembering one of those quips an hour ago, I flipped through the book again, and found all those things 15-year-old me had thought were so important. I used to relate to the feelings of social ostracism and alternative youth subcultures; now I relate to living in the half-hipster, half-slum neighborhood and scraping by on ramen and spare change. The notes on World War II dated three years ago that fell out when I opened to the first page, however... still over my head.

I wish I had the time to read this book again, underline everything I find germane now and compare and contrast, find out what sticks through high school and college and what was just me being angst-ridden and punkish. I want to write retroactive notes to 15-year-old me and tell myself how true some of these things will be in a few years.

This is probably my favorite thing I bookmarked:

"Portland. It started as a bad mood and slowly grew into a city. One big surly sprawl of mean spirits and bad luck. But you know, Portland is okay sometimes, just like a bad mood is okay sometimes, like when you have a good reason to feel shitty. A good day in Portland is like that, like the way you feel when you're in a bad mood for a good reason. It's sort of relaxing in a way, because everything is nicely focused and clear and there are reasons why everything sucks.

Look, there's the boarded up building that used to be a diner where I used to sit and watch my ice cream melt while waiting for the girl who was flaking on me ... She was the reason to be in a bad mood in Portland, really the reason to be in Portland at all, and now I'm in a badd mood without a good reason. Ah, Portland.

Portland, a sightseeing tour. Look, another hipster. Dodge, another lecherous scumbag. Avoid, the overzealous cops on bikes. Oh wow, another bridge. Beautiful or mind-numbingly boring? It's hard to tell. Can a city itself be against you, and if so, is bad luck in a city that loves you going to work out better than good luck it a city that hates you? I mean, is the worst luck in Berkeley better than the best luck in Portland?"

The irony of my moving to Portland years after reading this is made better by the fact that it was written in the mid to late 90s. Ah, Portland indeed. Some things really never change.