On 20 Years

I graduated High School in Iowa.  I went to that school for the final semester of my Senior year for reasons that are complicated and way too lengthy to go into here.  I went from a class of 400 to a class of less than 40.  I left that town in Iowa four days after I graduated, and I never looked back.  I never heard from any of my classmates, and was ultimately left in limbo as far as High School reunions go.  The one I went to for all but a semester crossed me off their list and I suspect that reunions in Ida Grove, Iowa consist of running into each other at the Pizza Hut every other week.

I had a tight knit group of friends in High School- the one that I went to for all but a Semester that is. There were about 7 or 8 of us in the group, and four of us that I guess really composed the spoke in the center.  Three of us have the same tattoo, a small paw on our left forearm just below the elbow; a handmade mark that took a couple of times to perfect.   Looking back on it now, I'd absolutely do it again, given the opportunity.

We were brothers, tight together, would bleed for one another, stand up against the world for one another, and we did anything and everything together.  We laughed together- wow did we laugh, and we weren't afraid to cry in front of one another.  They were my Brothers and oh, the stories I could tell!

I feel in some ways like I knew those guys better than anyone else in my life, and I think that for a time that was absolutely true.  Its scary when I think about how short that time in my life actually was- we started to move apart at 20, which means that I knew Rob for 8 years, Dante for 6, and Bill for only 4 before we headed to all points in the compass.  Life you see moves us forward and we forge ahead- damn the torpedoes!  Girls, adventure, school, opportunities, love take us to places that we never think we will see.

We were maybe 21 or 22 when we last all got together, and we would have been 25 or 26 when I got married and Bill and Rob stood beside me at the altar.  Bill and I kept in touch, but I lost track of Dante a long time ago and Rob drifted slowly away until we didn't hear much from him either.

So call it 20 years.  20 years before Facebook, opportunity, and I'm guessing alcohol on all fronts brought us back together.   A quick post to Bill asking if he wanted to see Van Halen, a like by Dante, a quick tag of Rob, and the next thing you know flights are being booked, concert tickets are being bought, and plans are being made.

Having never been to one short of one for my wife's family where her Dad bought us Amaretto Sours (ick!) even though we were underage, for me there’s something romantic about the idea of a reunion. There are innumerable movies that glorify the idea- Jeremy Piven in Gross Pointe Blank hitting a roach, pounding the steering wheel and exclaiming to John Cusack, “Ten years!  Ten fucking years!”. The same Cusack whispering solemnly with his old compatriots of the sacred,” Great white buffalo" in Hot Tub Time Machine.  They are a time to reconnect with our past, to see people that we don't normally see, to reminisce, and to bask in the glory of times long since past.  

Twenty!  Twenty Years!

Similarly, there's a fair amount of trepidation that surrounds a reunion.  Time can be cruel.  We tend to, well, swell is probably the best way to put it over the years, and youth is much much more fleeting than we would like.  Reunions are equally a time to witness first hand the ravages of age; the increased waistlines, the receding hairlines, the corrective lenses, the lines that worry has brought to brows.  They are a time of self reflection, to see where our peers are and to measure ourselves if not our lives against theirs.

That balance of emotions is damn complicated.   I had about two months before we got together to run through them all as well as the longest damn two hour flight of my life to get out to Denver to consider it all.

The trepidation was gone the second I saw Bill and Dante at passenger pick up- big ole shit eating grins on their faces and bear hugs at the ready.  It was the same when I saw Rob strolling up the sidewalk to the brewpub where we were all waiting, larger than life and seemingly without a care in the world, just like always.  We were all different- different sizes, shapes, voices, amounts of hair- yet we were exactly the same.

Much time was spent catching up and reminiscing- who we are became just as important as who we were.  As time went on, we found that more was said in silence than in words; the ability for that to be to me was a comfort, really, as opposed to being awkward- for I enjoyed simply being in the company of my friends, in observing mannerisms long forgotten, in the sound of voices and of laughter not heard in so many years.

Youth in a way seemed to be restored once the machismo was tossed aside and the aching limbs, heads and bellies were forgotten.   There is a curative effect for just a brief period of time as the mind if not the body traverses back through time and allows itself to revisit where it came from- the bad, the terrible, but mostly the lots and lots of good.  

When the time came for goodbyes, handshakes, hugs, and thank you's, there was no sadness.  We'd spent our time together and it was time for us to return to our lives once again.  No promises were made to do it again, lest they not be kept for reasons beyond our control.  I don't want to wait another 20 years though; if nothing else, I suspect that 80 year old David Lee Roth will be completely insufferable (the 60 year old version is bad enough).

Our friends are our family when we are young, and if you are lucky enough to have friends that are like brothers to you, then you are very lucky indeed.  The blessing of spending a few moments together later in life is one that should never be discounted and must absolutely savored, even if you all don't exactly age well like a fine wine.  

Bill, Chris, Rob, and Dante

Now I think I'm going down to the well tonight 
and I'm going to drink till I get my fill 
And I hope when I get old I don't sit around thinking about it 
but I probably will 
Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture 
a little of the glory of, well time slips away 
and leaves you with nothing mister but 
boring stories of glory days 

-Bruce Springsteen, Glory Days, 1984

On One Night In Minneapolis

Hot town, summer in the city

Back of my neck, getting dirty and gritty

Been down, isn't it a pity

Doesn't seem to be a shadow in the city

All around people looking half dead

Walking on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head

But at night it's a different world

Go out and find a girl

Come on come on and dance all night

Despite the heat it'll be alright

-Summer In The City, The Lovin' Spoonful, 1966

The City has not been kind to my wife, and by extension on a couple of occasions, to me.  Oh, I've gone solo into the depths of Minneapolis on numerous occasions, closing the bars down once or twice and pouring out into the streets covered with police at every turn, some mounted on horse, and emerged unscathed save for a hangover every now and again.  

But my wife, not so much.  Her first introduction to the city was a late night at a nightclub with a friend she'd made at school.  A case of mistaken identity led to my wife being punched in the nose, the cops being called, a 4 AM call to me frantically trying to find her way home, and a 5 AM trip to Denny's for breakfast and commiseration.  

A couple of years later, at a Chris Cornell concert in a downtown theater.  The group next to us consisted of two older women and a girl that was maybe 12 years old who kept standing on her chair to see.  This infuriated the group behind them, which was probably about six people, three guys and three girls.  The girls of the groups exchanged words more than a few times, and the altercation became more and more inflammatory as the night dragged on.  I was getting annoyed, and my wife was just on the periphery of the action as she was in the seat next to the girl that was causing all the ruckus.  

Things finally peaked when a camera was knocked out of the hands of one the girls behind us, sending it flying and hitting my wife in the head.  You could feel the tension rise, and as I turned around to see what was going on one of the dudes was heading straight for my wife, ostensibly to retrieve the camera, but looking pretty mean and aggressive nonetheless.  I shoved my wife aside, stood in front of him, and stared him down.  "Enough.  Enough,"  I said as a my eyes bored holes into his.  I'm not going to lie, I knew it was three against one, but I just didn't fucking care anymore.  After a long 30 seconds, the dude said, "I'm cool", and my wife handed him the camera while I continued to hold eye contact for a few seconds longer.  I swapped seats with my wife, gave the 12 year old girl a half hug, and went back to watching the show.  

As the show wound down, I asked my wife, "am I about to get my ass kicked, or what?" assuming that the troops behind me had had time to regroup and realize that they actually held the advantage.  "No, they're gone".  We started heading for the exits, feeling pretty good about ourselves, when my wife promptly walked straight into a stair railing, causing some pretty good bruises.

So yeah, we kind of avoid downtown Minneapolis, particularly at night.  

But time does move on, and the occasion to go downtown came up again.  On top of a concert that had been postponed since February, we'd booked a hotel room for the evening several months ago, forgotten that we'd booked it, and remembered yesterday, after the cancellation period had expired. A frantic search for dog shot records and boarding, some procrastination and last minute chores resulting in us leaving half an hour later than I wanted to later, and we were off.

It started off a little rough.  My wife's GPS capably guided us to the proper exit, then promptly and frantically insisted that I keep right, keep right, keep right KEEP RIGHT, GODDAMMIT, which I did.  And drove straight into a parking garage for Target Field.  Right after a game ended.

After what felt like an interminable time later we extricated ourselves from the garage and realized that the GPS had in fact lost its mind after it tried to send us down Nicollet Mall.  I finally took it upon myself to find the hotel, pull up and hand the keys to a guy I hoped was actually a valet.  (Is it just me or does anyone else have visions of Ferris Bueller every time they give their keys over to a complete stranger?)

We checked in and took a brief tour of our room, suite actually; the Marriott had upgraded us to a top floor, two story room out of the goodness of their hearts I guess.  It sounds way cool, and it was, but  the reality of it was carpet and architecture straight out of the late 60's.  Think the Brady Bunch staircase and that's pretty close.  

It was past time to get to the show, so we hit the pavement and started walking the six odd blocks to the venue.  My goodness!  The humanity!  The people!  The vibrancy, the life, the steamy sidewalks, the smell of food, the promise of cold drinks!  Why hadn't we done this sooner?  We both walked out of that hotel exhausted.  We entered the club invigorated.  And a little dehydrated.  

The show was great, the apps tasty, the drinks strong.  We left the venue feeling rejuvenated.  The sun was down now though, and the crowds had thinned somewhat.  We passed a young hipster who'd found an 8 foot tall pot and had taken it upon himself to bang on it in spots with a stick, presumably looking for that perfect rhythm.  We worked our way around a group of three Rastafarian who had taken the sidewalk for themselves, and I found myself thinking that here I was, in downtown Minneapolis, with the lady that doesn't have good luck in downtown Minneapolis.  Mentally, I made sure my wallet was in my front pocket, checked that her purse was across her body, and fretted briefly about the watch that I'd chosen to wear.  We passed several more lurkers holding the sides of buildings up with their backs before I spotted the first roving gang of the evening.

They were dressed all in black with painted faces and spiky heels, and there were probably half a dozen of them, in all shapes and sizes, but mostly in their early to mid 20s and fairly slender.  They moved aggressively, seemingly intent upon making it to their destination and spoke to one another loudly and incomprehensibly.  One of them wore a sash and what appeared to be crown or perhaps a tiara; I presume that this must have designated her as the leader.  They walked three and four abreast, and were in a word terrifying.  Thank God they were all going the opposite direction of us as we passed two more identical groups in the mere six blocks between the club and the hotel.  

We were still a bit hungry so we popped in to a new trendy Italian place conveniently located next door to our hotel.   The only seats available were at the bar, so I chose the closest ones and waited for my wife to return from powdering her nose.  Upon her return, she asked that we move.  She knew what I knew but had forgotten, you see.  My original spot placed the doors squarely at our backs, never a good spot when you're a marked man.  

As we sat and ate a wonderful meal and drank tasty cocktails, I watched the street.  I counted no fewer than four more gangs, all in identical black garb, roaming the streets freely, seemingly with impunity.  I don't mind telling you that I was a little scared.

It wasn't until we arrived at the hotel that I realized my mistake.  As we headed into the revolving door a rival gang, easily numbering a dozen began to head towards the other side of the door.  While possessing similar painted faces and spiky shoes, none of this gang was wearing black, opting instead for reds, blues, pinks, and purples.  They paid no attention whatsoever to their surroundings.  And then they saw me.  And saw that I was wearing black.

They madly rushed the revolving doors, immediately accelerating them unbeknownst to my wife who I was crammed into a single section of the door with and who by this point was both quite tired and not a little tipsy.   She made it out unscathed, only to find her way blocked by the remnants of the horde that hadn't made it into the doors yet.  They slowed her just enough to block my exit, and I fell straight into their trap.

Fortunately I'm a tough dude.  When the door shut on my heel I merely glared and growled, startling my wife and getting the girls to finally move out of the way.  But the damage had been done.  

The throbbing has slightly abated, and the bruising is minimal; this is due less to the nature of the injury than to the fact that it is tough to bruise me.  

But the lesson once again has been learned.   Stay the hell out of downtown, man.  Stay the hell out of downtown.  

BONUS ROUND TIME:

The history of a few common euphemisms, although a couple of them sound a little suspect:

http://able2know.org/topic/56250-1