Adapt or Stay Home

It is "Move In" week at Country Club College.  Every kid seems to have two parents, some grandparents, an uncle or aunt or two, and a couple of siblings with them.  It's important, you know, to make the kid feel. . . supported.  

"I don't like this room."

"Honey, you're right.  Let's go now and see the counselor.  There is no way you are going to perform your best in this environment.  They must have made a mistake, surely.  This has to be for a scholarship student or. . . maybe a janitor.  Don, you are going to have to do something.  Take care of this now please!"

My parents didn't take me to college.  They never even saw it.  I remember the night I moved all my stuff up in a U-haul trailer.  I hung out with my girlfriend as long as I could, then I drove up in the dark to the apartment I had fortunately found on my own.  I dragged my mattress in by myself around midnight and threw it on the floor.  College life had begun.  

I've been asking others if their parents moved them in.  Nope.  And yet. . . each and every one of them are doing that for their kids.  Listen to that, I say.  What?  Helicopters.  

Maybe it is making the kids better, more adjusted, but having been "in the business," I don't think so.  I taught at Country Club for a few years.  I had upper division courses, so they weren't "fresh."  But I think I have an opinion that is somewhat informed.  

I'm just pissy, really, because traffic around the college is terrible and I've been yelling at people to move their cars for days now.  

"What are you, a fucking idiot!!!"

Honk.  Honk.  

It does give me time to study the Country Club look, though.  There is a dearth of tats.  The shortest possible shorts for girls is apparently mandatory.  The "half moon" thing.  Most of the boys wear shorter shorts, too, just like my fashion friend likes, mid-thighs, with Nike socks pulled up full length above their low cut tennis shoes.  No high-tops.  Flip-flops, or the occasional Birkenstocks, too.  Long, baggy t-shirts for girls, tight t's for boys.  

It looks like they are all on sports teams.  They are a handsome lot.  I've been told that through a major grant from a family of European aristocrats (with whom I used to dine, by the way), they have become a one of the top dance schools in the nation.  

My god. . . that would explain much.  

So my little hometown becomes collegiate once again.  

As I have mentioned lately, I am trying to have more fun.  

There are many options.  Late yesterday afternoon, after leaving my mother's, I stopped to get one of those great mahi sandwiches at The Pig.  The afternoon was warm but there was shade and a wonderful breeze.  When the waitress came up with a menu, I said, "I know what I want."

"Great." She smiled.

"Are you ready."

"Yes."

"I'll have the mahi sandwich and. . . ."

"Oh, I'm sorry.  They changed the menu.  We're not serving that right now."

WTF!  My Rain Man kicked in.  That sandwich was so good, I couldn't understand how thy took it off the menu.   I glanced at the menu quickly and ordered some tacos and a margarita.  Shit, piss, fuck, goddamn.  

Adapt or die, I guess.  I'm going to have to learn to let go of expectations.  Maybe I'll learn to enjoy the Housewives of Factory City, too.  Ha!

I got a message from Q.  He has tickets to Burning Man at the end of the month and wants to know if I am coming.  I was surprised.  Didn't he just get back from Burning Man?  Like just?  It's hard to believe. My mountain climbing buddy is going, too.  His young wife, once a mountain hippie girl, is now a seriously invested BoBo and has him doing things I'd never imagine.  He's rented a camper and they will go into the desert for the first time to eat mushrooms, drop acid, and worship all the gods.  This is a fellow who wouldn't even drink when we went out.  Well, good for him.  Like most men with younger wives, he strives to keep up.  Healing herbs and power vortexes are now part of their lives.  The Ancient Wisdoms, you know.  All of them.  The search for enlightenment is a long process.  

I asked Q what his arrangements were.  He said he was staying in a tent.  

"You rich motherfucker.  Why don't you rent a camper?"

"I like the tent."

"Dirtbag!"

As cynical as Q is, I think he buys into the mysticism, too.  They build a giant temple where everyone goes to celebrate and grieve.  They leave photos of dead loved ones and build "ofrendas," alters of figurines and pictures and other sorts of talisman.  Some people get married there.  Then, in the end, after people have done drugs and prayed all night, they set the thing ablaze while everyone weeps together in brotherhood and love as all the offerings are set free in the spirit world.  

I know this because I watched a YouTube video on Burning Man last night.  I'm an expert.  I know everything without even going.  I'm sure I'd get so caught up in it all.  I'd end up performing a self-immolation.  

Or a self-deprecation as I am right now.  I am tempted to go just to see, but I am truly a skeptic.  I think I'd really enjoy a good drum circle, though.  

I'll ask Red today if she is going this year.  It might be fun to get Q and Red and my mountain friends together for a bit.  Alternative Lifestyles Collide!!!

Yea. . . that could be fun. 

Here she is with the wild iguana she picked up on the street.  It was so happy it bit through her hand and caused a dreadful infection.  Yea. . . it could be fun!

I should trash this entire post and begin again.  But I wouldn't begin again.  I'd simply trash this as I ought to.  But you know, I try to keep the Cafe open every day for those who need a place that is clean and well lighted for awhile.  It's all free.  You can stay as long as you like.  Sometimes there is music.  You can peruse the archives for minutes or hours.  I do sometimes.  It's fun. All in all, it's a pretty good cafe.  

I think I'll get another cup of coffee.  And so. . . until then. . . .