Living in a college town means a few things: always being able to buy an Alma mater sweatshirt at any gas station, having an endless supply of foam "we're #1" fingers and looking forward the mass exodus of flip-flopped, pop-collared, cocked-hatted frat boys at the end of every May. Once commencement commences, I sigh in relief knowing that for the next two months, I won't have to listen to any more "Abercrombie and Fitch on Parade" conversations about how many beer bongs and keg stands that dude did last night as I wait in the check out line at the super market behind a pack of young men pushing a cart full of Doritos, red solo cups and cases of Miller High Life. I am equally thrilled that I don't have to watch eighteen year old girls at target pick our which furry throw rug to buy for their dorm room that will most likely get them a date with whichever aforementioned upperclassman-purchasing-beer they have their eye on.
But last night, I waltzed into a bar frequented by the college crowd and was shocked to see it almost empty. I don't mean a noticeable decrease in attendance, I mean it was damn near ghostly. I felt bad for the band. Then were good too. I didn't know who they were or anything, didn't really care, I mean, I went there to get a little tore up and then verbally abuse strangers. It was sad though, a couple or two would periodically get up and dance to their Texas-themed rhythms, the small crowd would clap at the end of songs, but that was it. I was saddened to witness this lack of drunken participation. But just before last call, I was relieved to see a flock of mildly overweight young ladies in excessively thin summer dresses and spike-heeled shoes march in. "Thank goodness" I thought, as the last one, in Daisy Dukes, a camouflage tank top and cowboy boots stomped up to the bar, "I was worried the drummer wouldn't get any head in the bathroom tonight!"
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