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2005-04-10 21:15:39 (link)
What did we do Friday night? Some were on their way to a show. Perhaps they were dining out with loved ones. Perhaps they were digging their tunnel to get out of prison with their rock hammer (Sorry, I’m watching Shawshank Redemption right now). All I know is that at 8 p.m. on a Friday night, at least three men in their twenties were reading Far Side Collections of various years while at a Barnes and Noble in Eagan, Minnesota. How do I know that? Because I was one of them.
Not only that, but we were all dressed alike. Polo shirts, jeans, glasses and unkempt hair in the fashion that the kids keep these days. I looked up and made eye contact with both of them. In case the moment didn’t dawn upon us beforehand, we were now fully sentient that we were somewhat intellectual young males wedged in a corporate bookstore, reading comics of our youth on a weekend night while trying to avoid the disheartening reality that we, in fact, were somewhat intellectual young males wedged in a corporate bookstore, reading comics of our youth.
So I ran. I ran real, real fast.
Well, being a hefty gentleman, it was more like a spirited shuffle out of the suburban bookstore. But it was panicked in nature, as I proved by knocking a middle-aged woman and her teenage daughter into the discount cookbook rack during my flight. I
didn’t really understand why I was doing this. But then again, ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊMike Jones used
neither did the hard-working employees of Barnes and Noble, the ÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊÊ to get down
poorlady or the police that arrived on scene twenty minutes later.
As I waited the cops out from the Dairy Queen across the street, I finally understood why I freaked out in such a matter. If you could go back six years ago, to the 8th of April in 1999, I would be doing the exact same thing. Wearing the same Old Navy ensemble. Reading Gary Larson. Trying to evade the indomitable conclusion that I was a very unimaginative human being when given a vehicle, some cash and an evening to myself.
I think that’s at the heart of the turbulence we call post-grad life. Once you finish your education, everyone tells you that your life will change as you know it. You hear it from everyone who graduated or left before you. So you prepare for it. You brace for the impact. Hell, you even close your eyes and expect to see your whole world differently when next you open them.
But when you open them, you find out that you’re doing the same fucking thing you were doing in high school and college. Hanging out until something better comes along. And when that thing comes along, you move until you get bored there as well? So is that what life’s all about? Hopping from job to job, place to place, lover to lover, until your legs can’t take it anymore and you settle the last place you land?
Aside from the comfort of the chocolate chip cookie dough permeating my mouth in all its Blizzardy goodness, I felt pretty bummed. Even if I move to Madison, Milwaukee, Mali or Moscow, would I ever be happy? Maybe it’s the ice cream headache talking, or the fact that the police are coming my way, but I’m going to finish this tomorrow.
Tomorrow :
You know what? Maybe I was just bored with life and creating pretentious notions of fear for no good reason. I went to the Guthrie Theater for a rousing (a-rousing. Get it?) adaptation of “As You Like It”, and then went home and got drunk while watching Family Guy: Season 2 with my bud, Charles. So maybe it’s not about hopping from one thing to another, but trying to do as many things as you can no matter where, when or who you are. Shit, this is sounding like a Doogie Howser journal entry isn’t it? Well, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders, Screw Flanders.
by Mike Jones
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