Oooh Suburbia. You are so good to me. Even when I cut you down behind your back. I didn't mean the things I said, really I didn't.
As you may not know, my old pair of black-suede Birkenstocks were retired after the semi-successful frisbee-golf tournament Thomas and I had back in September. This means that I have been without Birks for-- wow-- six months. That's half a year without the comfort of overpriced German craftsmanship enveloping my feetsies. And frankly, I didn't really notice. I'd taken them for granted after so many months and years of wearing them, and I thought, well, maybe it was time to move ahead to more sophisticated footwear in college. Winter came soon, anyway, so my only options were close-toed.
But then, the prodigal son returned to the mother ship: Abbadabba's. Atlanta's best kept secret. I bought a pair of brown suede Birkenstock sandals and put them on before I even got back into the car. The change was immediate and immaculate. That cool breeze on the tops of my toes, the hard-soft sole that gets slippery with foot-sweat, the melifluous ka-lap of cork on pavement: all reminiscient of Alpha-summers and sometimes Alpha-winters (if you wore pants long enough to cover the tops of the feet). I have never worn Birkenstock sandals at college. This was the missing piece, the incompletion made complete. Boy and Birk. Together. The way it should be.
Was that a really poorly-written faux-ode to shoes, well-meaning sentiment, or an endorsement, just now? Oh, let's just say it all of the above.
Anyway, that was only a slice of suburbia that I immersed myself in Saturday. It also included driving an (embarrassing) BMW convertible, getting a (grande brownie) Starbucks Frappacino, going to (sweet, sweet, sweet) North Point Mall, getting my (expensive graduation) watch fixed by the Quick-Fix man who part-times as the department store Santa Claus, making an impromptu trip to Best Buy to purchase a CD I didn't need with money I don't have, dinner at the Hut, Gina-cookes (Clarke, 3 seconds!), DVD BATTLE ROYALE, and Laura shakes juice funny.
Is suburbia, as so many people insist, a Matrix, an imaginary world? This is what I used to believe. But frankly, I see now that Hyde Park doesn't really feel any more real than suburbia. It just has fewer Starbuckses. Which, as a socio-economic gauge, seems to say a lot about the community.
(I have used the word "socio-economic" on this blog three times in the past month, I think. This is because it tastes good to me.)
Anyhow, yesterday wasn't all that great because I did some stupid things. But I stuffed myself at Pampas, the Brazilian steakhouse. (Actually, that "but" suggests the two are related, but actually they are mutually exclusive. See? I fooled you! With language!) I need to stop second-guessing my parents' thoughts, basically, and stop feeling guilty that I'm hurting their feelings when I'm not. My guilt always ends up getting in the way and tripping other people, you could say.
I have so far picked up two job applications, which I think is a good pace. They are for Abbadabba's and European Coffee, both of which will never hire me. But it's fun for a while to imagine that I will get a hip post-GenX summer job and work with embittered but wizened and tattooed art school dropouts. It was a dream, always a dream. Now I hit the grocery stores.
So I've actually been blogging on my laptop and I was planning to transfer them to this computer to upload, but it turns out my laptop doesn't have a hard disk drive. Huh. And like hell I'm going to waste a CD on a burning text documents. So you'll all have to wait until I return to Chicago.
...Which, thankfully, is still very far away; no offense, twenty-eight-feels-like-nine-degree weather.
As you may not know, my old pair of black-suede Birkenstocks were retired after the semi-successful frisbee-golf tournament Thomas and I had back in September. This means that I have been without Birks for-- wow-- six months. That's half a year without the comfort of overpriced German craftsmanship enveloping my feetsies. And frankly, I didn't really notice. I'd taken them for granted after so many months and years of wearing them, and I thought, well, maybe it was time to move ahead to more sophisticated footwear in college. Winter came soon, anyway, so my only options were close-toed.
But then, the prodigal son returned to the mother ship: Abbadabba's. Atlanta's best kept secret. I bought a pair of brown suede Birkenstock sandals and put them on before I even got back into the car. The change was immediate and immaculate. That cool breeze on the tops of my toes, the hard-soft sole that gets slippery with foot-sweat, the melifluous ka-lap of cork on pavement: all reminiscient of Alpha-summers and sometimes Alpha-winters (if you wore pants long enough to cover the tops of the feet). I have never worn Birkenstock sandals at college. This was the missing piece, the incompletion made complete. Boy and Birk. Together. The way it should be.
Was that a really poorly-written faux-ode to shoes, well-meaning sentiment, or an endorsement, just now? Oh, let's just say it all of the above.
Anyway, that was only a slice of suburbia that I immersed myself in Saturday. It also included driving an (embarrassing) BMW convertible, getting a (grande brownie) Starbucks Frappacino, going to (sweet, sweet, sweet) North Point Mall, getting my (expensive graduation) watch fixed by the Quick-Fix man who part-times as the department store Santa Claus, making an impromptu trip to Best Buy to purchase a CD I didn't need with money I don't have, dinner at the Hut, Gina-cookes (Clarke, 3 seconds!), DVD BATTLE ROYALE, and Laura shakes juice funny.
Is suburbia, as so many people insist, a Matrix, an imaginary world? This is what I used to believe. But frankly, I see now that Hyde Park doesn't really feel any more real than suburbia. It just has fewer Starbuckses. Which, as a socio-economic gauge, seems to say a lot about the community.
(I have used the word "socio-economic" on this blog three times in the past month, I think. This is because it tastes good to me.)
Anyhow, yesterday wasn't all that great because I did some stupid things. But I stuffed myself at Pampas, the Brazilian steakhouse. (Actually, that "but" suggests the two are related, but actually they are mutually exclusive. See? I fooled you! With language!) I need to stop second-guessing my parents' thoughts, basically, and stop feeling guilty that I'm hurting their feelings when I'm not. My guilt always ends up getting in the way and tripping other people, you could say.
I have so far picked up two job applications, which I think is a good pace. They are for Abbadabba's and European Coffee, both of which will never hire me. But it's fun for a while to imagine that I will get a hip post-GenX summer job and work with embittered but wizened and tattooed art school dropouts. It was a dream, always a dream. Now I hit the grocery stores.
So I've actually been blogging on my laptop and I was planning to transfer them to this computer to upload, but it turns out my laptop doesn't have a hard disk drive. Huh. And like hell I'm going to waste a CD on a burning text documents. So you'll all have to wait until I return to Chicago.
...Which, thankfully, is still very far away; no offense, twenty-eight-feels-like-nine-degree weather.
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