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"Expedition through the Promised Land"
an article by the elusive J.Ro.
At the breaking point of 6 to 7
p.m., this place becomes an organized collaborative of
hormonal anticipation for the hard day’s night of throwing
back assorted spirits and the occasional 17th
century English novel. It’s the sign of another generation of
kids growing up in their wealthy suburban, pseudo-catholic
condos or for some, their dirty duplexes with their abusive
stepfather. This nameless crowd communed every weekend to
share in the overflowing sentiment that grips everyone on
these late evenings. The girls and boys from proud moms and
dads that will soon build our governments and stock portfolios
all crowd around each other thinking themselves as adults.
In this bar of dueling pianos and screaming bartenders
assemble the in-betweeners of a bitter age complaining: “My
parents just don’t get it”. This is the nameless mass of
Brians and Stephanies pledging some meaningless Greek acronyms
and suffering the beautiful conversations of senseless daily
menusia. I see a booming harmony of caricatures from the cast
of next week’s entertaining chapter of generic reality
television. They courageously face their seemingly poignant
psychodrama of their best-friend’s boyfriend or last night’s
hook-up. It’s worth bringing in a nutty Australian guy to
analyze the dignified mating customs of the North American
social slave. They are experts at walking past and throwing
glances. They sip their sugary, over-priced tonic but who
cares? As long as they don’t recognize themselves or their
lost principles by 3 a.m. they’ll slam down as many
five-dollar bills and slam back as much yagger-meister as they
possibly can. The pheromones rise up into the rafters of the
tavern and dance with the smoke of cool Virginia slims. These
are animals alive with pleasure and Motorolas in their
pockets.
Corporate
coffee shops sprout up with the same surprise you show crab
grass growing out of a garden of daffodils. You would ask:
“Where did that come from?” and you then you find out that it
offers a bold yet savory caramel machiatto with clever words
of wisdom on their 100% recyclable cups. You and your sorority
girlfriend then meet up with Burdines Brenda and Abercrombie
Abby to once more tear down those pesky inhibitions.
Cynical?….
Yea, I might be.
Hypocritical?…..Most definitely.
Nobody in
their right 18 year old mind turns down the delicious
anonymous sex from a 123 lb. Capricorn brunette studying…who
knows what. We are at the bottom of a sales pyramid where real
Estate sells to Macys who sells to us the promise of a better
Friday night through low-cut stone washed Dungarees. We sell
ourselves on the open market of loneliness with the sole
promise of callused emotions and trampled morals. After all,
who needs morals in an age where Ortho-tricyclin takes care of
you better than your dead-beat dad? My friends wait for me at
my table. Captain Morgan signals for me to come over to where
Jack Daniels is talking to Sam Adams about the hot English
major in the corner and I don’t know her name but she will
nonetheless be putting her bra back on in the bathroom of some
unknown gentleman with highlights and pennyloafers. These will
be the mercenaries heaving in the next age of disgruntled
youths looking for a good time in the pants of the next random
stranger. A reborn Soddom and Gamora shows its true grayest of
colours. My visit to downtown Gainesville was a vast learning
experience.
- J.Ro |
