There's this thing about the future that I'm bad about believing. In my head, it always seems like there'll be a moment "in the future" when you'll cross a finish line with your arms raised in victory, bright yellow tape clinging to your chest as you barrel through it, conquering that final obstacle.
As if every goal has a definitive moment, a time to pause then celebrate.
Despite the long, drawn out process of believing and acting in the faith that Macon not only can be cool but one day will be cool, I continue to think of it like crossing a threshold. Like today Macon sucked but then tomorrow we've reached our goals, defeated our demons and now Macon is totally rad. "Whew! Glad that's done now!"
No, it'll happen subtly, without our having really noticed it until we're taking stock and collecting knick-knacks for the Way Back When Museum.
Roger Riddle has stepped down from public displays of rocking the ones and twos. He went out with a bang and there was no way I could miss what might be the last time I ever get to one of my favorite people perform. Favorite and among the most influential in my little life here.
The problem with going in like that, with that mindset, was that I was primed for nostalgia and its way-bad misdirection. Though I don't go out to the bars expecting to write about it later, I did choose to sit on the sidelines like before, watching and taking notes, mostly mental.
(Not that I'd have to write down something as easy to remember as "There are a lot of frat guys here" or "Why is everyone dressed like they just came from a meeting with their banker?" or "That guy must've come from a post-grad clam bake in Cape Cod.")
The Hummingbird ain't what she used to be, which might be good if you squint your eyes and tilt your head. It isn't the place you'll find me getting drunk, dancing badly and behaving worse, but way back when, there weren't as many people present either. A bar could go broke like that. Not a concern of theirs anymore, apparently. I hear it's pretty full every weekend now.
This weekend, my group was completely outnumbered, the best of them out where Nigel's hand-painted hummingbird picture used to be, waving their metaphorical freak flags, doing their little dances, making plans to make a little love. Meanwhile, a steady stream of pastel-clad college kids trickled in from the back patio, past Riddle and his dancing minions, to the bar and back, sometimes as they engaged in a scrum or two.
Isn't this what we asked for? Didn't we indiscriminately say we wanted the "college crowd", which in this case seems to be constituted of dudes who keep golf visor companies in business and the chicks who settle for them.
This is what a college town looks like, right?
Not that there's anything wrong with the kids that were there (I used to absolutely LOVE polo shirts, braided leather belts, tucking my shirttails in and wearing socks with my sandals... seriously, I did) but what became apparent to me is that there's got to be more than just coaxing the college crowd out to get plastered.
I mean, get plastered but realize there's an art to that sort of thing. My friends and I perfected it.
Sitting there with a table full of people once considered most likely to cause troublel, walk out on their tabs and somehow still be likeable, I suddenly felt an overwhelming amount of empathy for Hank Williams, Jr. He'd grown used to a life where all his rowdy friends were coming over (because they were ready for some football) but now, as he famously sang, these same rowdy friends have settled down.
Except I am settled down now too. (Mostly.)
There and then, I wanted my youth back, but just for a second, and only because I didn't trust those college kids with it. There was no rage in them, no restlessness. Yeah, they get mad and get in fights but that's all ego. We had a bunch of hurt feelings and weren't those more interesting? We got drunk and went exploring, using alcohol as anesthesia so we could pull back the layers without feeling it too much. We were curious and pissed off, and ignored, crying out in the wilderness like John the Baptist, making wishes we weren't careful about only aware of the mistake now that the headman's plate has been passed around.
Bah.
I shouldn't be so negative about it. I should be more open-minded. I'm just getting old. And I'm tired. It's after 1am. Past my bed time.
Besides, some of my best friends were in a frat.
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