On dissapointment

These past few days had the potential to be the greatest days of my young, trivial life. But, like the my own grade seven self, it turned out to be an example of depressed, wasted potential. I set up false gods, and I was rebuked, my temple crumbled around me.
A defining characteristic of Greg is his tendency to set up idols, to get stuck on certain people and topics, like a passionate broken record. (now the interesting thing about defining characteristics is they are completely up to the definer. I claim to be fan, but when confronted with greater fans, I shake my head in pity, like a guy speeding on the highway: everyone slower than him is a paranoid granny, and everyone passing him is reckless. - I get passionate about things, but not that passionate, that's all I'm saying.) And this week almost saw the coming together of three of my personal planets. But, somehow the stars got crossed, and tragedy ensued.
I should clarify. To say that three of my jags almost came together makes it sound as if Micheal Jackson somehow resurrected Pierre Trudeau, both dressed up like Dick Tracy, and performed on the Daily Show. This wasn't the case, and those are old examples, as any real Greg fans would know. All one of me. Although to be fair, that would be a show to watch.
I had met a fellow from HarperCollins publishing, and upon telling him my favorite author was one of his, he agreed kindly to give an advance reader's copy of Michael Chabon's new novel, The Yiddish Policemen's Union (may 2007). I metaphorically peed my pants. and literally i think i managed to only let out a few fanatic drops of urine.
Next, I had tickets to a filming of the Colbert Report for Monday, and the plan was to go to New York with some friends over the weekend and come back to the Toronto in time for the Justin Timberlake concert, which I had theoretical tickets for.
I did in fact receive the book. And it has been delightful, challenging and comforting. But my plan to read it on the road while i travelled the stretch of highway, floating from one fantasy realization to another, fell apart. It's sad that the whole world doesn't conform to my whims, especially university schedules and custom officers. My friends couldn't make the trip, which made my going to the Big Apple economically unfeasible, and the tickets with which i would witness the return of Sexy to T.O. were stopped at the border and UPS-ed back to their source.
Hopes are dangerous. Apart from not living up to its potential, there was nothing necessarily wrong about this week, but because of the disappointing string of shattered possibilities, the last few days kind of sucked. So why hope?
Now, I know not going to see a former teen idol shouldn't be the cause for me to write off a cardinal virtue, but it does illustrate the risk involved. The same risk that comes with love, and faith. Maybe that's why those virtues are apparently so important, they have the potential to cause the greatest personal pain on the flip side of their salvation.
Also, I know my desires were trivial. They weren't life changing, I hope. And because of that, there is no real sympathy. Being a fan is a personal endeavor, regardless of what legions matching men stacked into a stadium, or screaming women at raising their hands at the dancers on stage might believe. We worship en mass, but the devotion is personal. And as such, it is a personal hurt when that devotion is compromised. No one can really, truly empathize without a hint of feigned pity that comes off a bit patronizing. And maybe if my idols weren't so momentary, the empathy would be more real. The empathy, I hope, matches the crime. And a concert and show doesn't last all that long.
And when Jesus comes back, tickets to that show won't be lost in the mail. Now, I just need to find hope for that.