Downtown University

I’m still in utter shock that its late May, and I’m able to sit here out on the balcony of my new place and enjoy the sounds of the city and the breeze that I’m sure is coming off of the cars whizzing by on I4. Downtown has been good to me these past 3 weeks I’ve been living here! Not only is it a 5-minute drive to work now, but I can have Pom Poms whenever I’d like! Their grits have finally become a staple in my diet, and not just at 3:30a after Jamesson and I shut down Midnight Mass at Backbooth. I can proudly say that I’ve taken a half a dozen Pom Poms virginities in the past 2 months. And I’d better stop thinking about it because I’m starting to crave a Fu Manchu like its nobody’s business.

The other great thing about living in the downtown area is that, oddly enough, it feels very familiar to me. My friend Elisa asked me the other day if I ever still thought about our times back at Stetson University, and the good ol’ days living in Conrad Hall. How could I not? The new condo reminds me of just that- dorm living. I have some person that lives above me that stomps around at all hours of the day. I see the girls walking out to their cars wearing clothes from the night before and their heels in their hands. We even have the same washers and dryers in the community laundry rooms! But its even more than the walks of shame and the slightly stale air that fills the under-ventilated corridors of the building. There is a pretty strong sense of community here. Not that I was ridiculously cool in college (not that I am ridiculously cool now, just sayin’), but it was pretty hard to go anywhere on campus or in the downtown DeLand area in general without running in to someone that you knew. By the time sophomore year came around, my parents had given up trying to have a conversation with me on my way to class because every 3 seconds in to a new sentence I was being greeted by a fellow co-ed. Even before I moved downtown, I already had a decent network of people in this area. Now when my friends ask me for a place to grab a bite to eat or a drink, I generally start out the reply with, “Well, I know one of the (servers/bartenders/barbacks/owners) of…”

The high rises are the dorms of downtown. You hear someone say that they live in the Paramount, View, Solaire, or Waverly and you instantly know that they must be an upperclassman or a very lucky freshman who’s dad was able to pull a few strings with Housing. You ask your friend if they lofted their bed and put the desk under it, or about the odd smells, when they tell you they live in the St. Regis. I even caught myself responding to my friends with, “I have a single,” when they asked if I had a roommate or not.

And what is the full college experience without the fraternities and sororities? The bars themselves do a pretty damn good job at filling that void. I hear girls walking by on the street saying in their bubble gum voices, “I’m a Bliss!” Wall Street is a random mixture of everyone, because they carpet bid. And, of course, the Animal House of Downtown Orlando: BBQ Bar, for sure, is the equivalent. But picking out which bar you’re going to rush is a pretty big decision- those letters are going to follow you and shape your social habits for the next few years until you move on to the next phase of your life. Choose wisely, and enjoy the next four years here (or however long it takes you to graduate).

Karma

I’m a firm believer in karma. Unfortunately, it always seems to bite you in the ass at the bar. Last night was no exception.

I made it out to BBQ Bar and its crowd of Indie Rock Boys and the Top 40 Girls who love them. It’s also the only place I've been to where you can hear Black Eyed Peas mashed with Rage Against the Machine... And it actually sounds good. Every now and then I feel the need to dance to some mainstream pop. Rather than go to a classy establishment like Tabu and risk getting some tool looking like he’s screwing me from behind on the dance floor, I’ll go where you never know if you’re going to skank to ‘Bro Hymn’ or get low to it.

Although I love the Ke$ha diluted enough for me to enjoy, the real reason we’re here (like many other people) is for the $2 Narragansett tallboys that Ricky Diamond will be double-fisting all night. I'll stick to my gin and tonics, only to be called out by the lone and hapless Jersey Shore lookalike that obviously wound up here as a cruel and tasteless joke. At some point in the night he must have asked the wrong person, “Where's a good bar around here?” Instantly I ask if he's from out of town and he plays it off with the line, “Oh I live here, I…um…Just don't get out too often.” I try to shake him with talk of getting back to my boyfriend on the dance floor. Hopefully he doesn't follow me because my ‘boyfriend’ is wearing a fuschia and turquoise Addidas track jacket, and a turquoise visor with matching faux alligator shoes all the while contorting his torso to a remix of MGMT. Dead give away? Yes, but this Jersey Shore kid looks like he needs to be let down softly. He had such hope in his eyes, and such eagerness in the hand that he place on the small of my back before I deftly stepped to the side 1.3 seconds later.

Perhaps I should have been a little more friendly towards Jersey Shore. Much like Independent Bar is to my gay friends on a Friday night, BBQ Bar is to my previous hookups on a Saturday night: all stored neatly in one location where I'm sure to find them passing by the dance floor. Great for if I'm looking for someone to chat with while looking for my friend that went AWOL, and awkward for the same reasons. Exit Ricky, enter Previous Hookup. We’ve all used the same awkward lines: “Yeah, thought that was you.” “Recognized the tattoo.” Last night’s was, “So how was the tour?” We were having the We-Haven’t-Spoken-In-2-Months conversation where we stood in the same place where we confessed we had mutual attraction a few months prior. And though I’m playing it off well and it went smoothly, I found myself furiously scanning the crowd for Ricky as I heard Previous Hookup say the he was going back to the front bar to meet up with his bandmate.

I end up finding Ricky chatting it up with a friend and we finish off the night dancing while I let my buzz wear off. I tally up the nights wins and losses to see if I at least broke even, and as I leaned against the DJ booth I looked down to see some wasted guy in his Express button down bent over in front of me, fist-pumping with fervor to 2 Live Crew and his rear end sloppily knocking me in the crotch with the bass line. Ricky Diamond looked over at me, two tallboys in hand, and said in for-the-win style, “Look! It’s your chance to f*ck a guy in the ass!”