01.17.04 - 9:59 p.m.

I've been re-reading Microserfs and, like all Douglas Coupland books, it fills me with a wistful sadness. Regret for being too young for the years in which the books were set, longing for places and moments never lived, and nostalgia for the memories of first reading the books and all the emotional turmoil of my youth.

It doesn't touch me as much in the later books, not because they're of lesser quality, but because as Douglas gets older, his characters age too. There's a lot more in All Families are Psychotic and Hey, Nostradamus! from the P.O.V.s of parents of adults and the opinions and revelations differ markedly from, say, Richard's first-person narration to his daughter in Girlfriend in a Coma. And I'm not ready or needing to deal with those issues yet -- I'm still identifying with the identity crises of the Oop! builders.

I wonder if I always will have that early '90s mindset. Like I wonder whether those polyester trouser and orthopedic shoe manufacturers whose ads you see in the Sunday Parade will eventually go out of business as their consumer base slowly disintegrates. Will they start mass-producing comfortable Dockers-style pants and bouncy loafers to cater to the boomers? Or will they steadfastly adhere to the clothing trends of the WWII generation and condemn themselves to obsolescence?

Every one of us is stuck in our own little time warp�Dad compulsively listens to the oldies station, for example. Is there a saturation point for our senses, where we just can't take in any more and whatever is happening at that moment becomes the memory touchstone for the rest of our lives? Is it a random neural explosion that makes us remember a certain moment as perfect or most meaningful above all others? I recall the first time I listened to Ten, and the night after the Indigo Girls concert, and a quiet Tuesday in the art gallery�all with complete clarity. Memory amazes me.