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).

Whorelando

I love my good friends to pieces. Sometimes that means that we do things that we ordinarily wouldn’t do. Some would call this peer pressure.

I knew inevitably there would be the day where I would have to trek down Wall Street with Lauren and Rachel in order to keep friendship alive. After all, Lauren went to Independent Bar with me once, which led to a dance floor clothes swap between me and a friend (no, he is not missing teeth- he had something in his mouth... I don't remember what though), driving to find me an IHOP so I could eat pancakes in a drunken stupor but only making it to Steak N Shake, and me leading Lauren to the Winter Park Chamber of Commerce instead of my apartment… Which is by UCF. To this day, if I dare mutter the words, “Just trust me, I’ve got this,” I think Lauren will rip out my vocal chords. There are many more details to this story but that, children, is for another time.

Wall Street can be summed up in the repetitious “Ass and Titties” that I hear blasting over and over on the speakers. With jams like these, how can one not get laid in a place like this? No wonder so many people flock. Its the Orange Blossom Trail of Downtown Orlando. Demographically speaking, I would fit in here with the majority of post-college professionals. But my nights out don’t revolve around reliving Spring Break 2002, so I feel a little out of place as I try to order a drink. I see a bachelorette party scamper past, followed by a smaller group of guys. Its something that I notice here: larger groups of girls, and guys with a few wingmen at their side. After all, when going for a pack of margarita-filled corporate-world women its best to hunt like a lion.

I’m feeling spunky in my fresh threads from Dechoes that I bought earlier: a Ramones t-shirt that I got giddy over because in all of my years of loving punk I had somehow managed to never own a Ramones t-shirt. Pair it up with the skinny jeans and Converses I wore to work, and it’s a fun way to spice things up amongst a crowd of aging frat and sorority members that call Wall St home. My friend Kevin tells me he’s sure that the shirt will get me lots of ass, but I laugh it off. And just when I think I have thwarted the boys from lion-hunting me from my pack of ladies, I feel a hand on my shoulder and see Lauren’s Look of Uh-Oh.

Enter Mucho. Mucho is a boy I had a very brief fling with. He happens to work at Mucho, so for anonymity’s sake we shall call him as such. I try to keep my love life (or lack thereof) out of this site… But since we are talking about bars that will get you laid, it seems only fitting. Of course Mucho and I cover all of the topics: How Have You Been, I Haven’t Seen You Around, and of course Do You Still Have My Number. We talk for a few more minutes after making sure we have a way to contact each other, and he says he’s heading over to Finnhenry’s. He says to call him later, with the cute twinkle in his eye that a few months prior made me desperately want to hand over my panties.

I feel like I get an A+ in Running into an Ex Fling 101, but when I look at my phone I realize that I must have slept through Handling Texts from Unknown Numbers Workshop. I see the number and the little “Hey :-)” that goes along with it… And I have a feeling this is from someone that I used to know and deleted their number for very good reasons. I send the obligatory Sorry-New-Phone-Who-Is-This text and wait for a reply. Its Jason. And since he has no roots here in Orlando, so I have no other way to describe him, he shall remain as such. And his number did get deleted from my phone because when you mix alcohol with feelings stemming from a guy falling off the face of the Earth after you had some great times together, the outcome is generally disappointing. He’s hanging out with friends. I say I am too. He doesn’t disclose where. I do. He says that he doesn’t know how long its been since he’s been there, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Lauren diverts my attention from my text messages and we belly up to the bar for a second round, which takes about 5 tries since we find a bar, can’t get in, find a bar, can’t get served in a timely fashion, etc. Some nice boys make room for us at The Other Bar, and this naturally leads to conversation. But I soon realize that these are wingmen. And they, with help from a wingwoman, are introducing me to the bachelor in question. He likes my Ramones shirt. He looks like an accountant type and says he’s from Winter Park, which means I don’t see him as a threat when he follows the R-A-M-O-N-E-S across my clavicle with his finger. He is fairly tipsy, says he has a crush on me, and asks what bar I’ll be at later. I’m sure I won’t run into him again, and I feel a tinge of sadness as Lauren takes my hand.

Lauren leads me away back to the crowd that we left behind, and as we find Rachel and her 2 friends from Rollins I hear “Shake That Ass” by 2 Live Crew coming from Slingapours. Instantly, memories of Fall Semester 2005 overcome me and I’m hunting for a stage to dance on. Slingapours does not disappoint. And after I tell my story of how I got 2nd place in an ass-shaking competition at Mako’s back in the day, I feel a wave of somber wash over me as I start counting how many years ago that was. Before I get too worked up over how I’m not a co-ed anymore and how I’ve packed on about 30 pounds since then, Rachel saves the day and comes over with several Jager Bombs- the perfect drink, since we’re surrounded by men not too unlike those found in My New Haircut.

We still have an hour or so to kill, so we spend our time dancing to more sex-driven top 40 rap and finding bathrooms. I’m finally to the point where Lauren has since stopped questioning me if I’m having a good time, and I close out my bar tab to keep me from drinking anything else before I have to take the wheel. The texts from Jason have longer and longer pauses between them until they stop coming all together. I send out a friendly ‘How’s Finnhenry’s?’ text to Mucho, but I don’t really care when I don’t hear back from him and I don’t beat myself up over the fact that I shouldn’t have texted him to begin with. As the high of Wall St wears off, I feel sobriety- and myself- come back.

While walking Lauren to the bathroom, I see a woman stumble out, dressed to get laid with her short dress and heels. I see she brought a friend with her from the bathroom- a 3-square trail of toilet paper attached to her additional 4 inches. I smile to myself and let her keep walking.