Nostalgia is Poison
From time to time I visit old friends’ social media accounts. There are a few people I haven’t been able to track down, but for the most part I can get a picture of how people are doing without the drag of actually having to talk to them.
A couple folks just never caught the social media bug (looking at you, Matt) and I have considered reaching out more directly, but I always run out of steam before I actually pick up the phone.
Honestly, some of those folks are better off in the rearview mirror. And I suspect some feel the same way about me, too. But the idea of a White Trash Family Reunion still rattles around in my brain.
Either we have a great night, trade a few stories, and move on with life happier for a moment of interpersonal nostalgia…or we trash some innocent venue, beating the hell out of each other and traumatizing our kids and spouses.
Most of us are right around 40 now. I’d like to think there’s good news enough to pull off a night of pleasant diversion, but people get – and stay – bitter for reasons best left buried. Stephen King wrote “I Never Had Any Friends Later On Like the Ones I Had When I Was Twelve” but he left out the part about how deeply the friends you have when you’re coming of age can wound you.
The friends I have today are supportive, challenging, and recharge my spirit. I leave my visits to Vallejo, the lounge, and the Lime Lite feeling like life is good.
But that draw to revisit the trailer park is strong.
DJ’s Bar is long gone, and Tex hasn’t been behind the counter at Little Brown Jug in twenty years, but every once in a while, I think about the drama we ginned up at Just For Kicks and Aldo’s Pizza and I miss it.
Somehow, I never quite make it when Big Hat Days rolls around. The Class of ’97 reunion was a Hard Pass. Other than Billy’s funeral there’s only a handful of times when I could be troubled to go east of Willow for someone other than a blood relative or for BC’s Pizza.
It’s a little like the music we listened to in those days. We thought it was awesome in the heat of summer, but Quad City DJs sound like clown shoes in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Twenty. Maybe digging the skeletons out of the collective closet is less attractive in the light of day.
I think maybe next time I sit down and blather at myself for 500 words I’ll just tell the stories that made us all blow up.
Of course, names must be changed to protect the innocent. Perspectives must be shifted to avoid displeasing spouses and offending coworkers.
Where do I start?
A Proposition at Lyons
Misunderstandings Through a Bedroom Window
The Rat & The Ticklish Babysitter
Naked Billiards
Dr. Jones & The Gun: Parts I & II
Oh Lord, all my old stories look like the set-up to a porno. But most of THOSE stories just started with… Nothing. It just happens. Sex is magic.
Goodnight.