It was 7 p.m. Monday evening, and I was injecting Dr Pepper into my veins and popping M&M's like they were candy, after that whole Daylight Savings change threw me out of whack. I mourned the loss of the late night hour -- the circles under my eyes disturbingly reminiscent of Calvin Klein's heroin-chic fashion ads from the early 90s that burst the juice-boxes of family values advocates. Alright, who am I kidding? I was mourning the fact that I still didn't have one of those off the shoulder Jane Fonda tops that all the girls wore out over the weekend.
Yet there was no time for such frivolous thoughts. It was PVT, prime viewing time -- when herds of first-year boys who drank their milk just like mama told them had just left the dining hall to peruse the library. Be careful not to confuse this with PTH, prime tanning hours, because the repercussions of that time mix-up cause a pasty complexion that might scare small children.
Speaking of children, I noted how the first-year boys who entered the library were intriguing specimens. Yet in an attempt to develop pudge, a status symbol of maturity and wisdom, many had actually developed remnants of muscle tone. They ran, they leapt, they had an ardor for obedience and the plasticity of Play-Doh, but most importantly, they fetched Mrs. Martin when Timmy fell into the well.
Granted I'm almost 23, but that night in the library, as I Googled "shop Jane Fonda shirt," I had fantasies. I fantasized about the way one of those 18-year-olds would adoringly gaze into my eyes if I bought him Fifa Soccer for PlayStation and a case of beer. You think that's the caffeine talking don't you? No. I'm talking. I'm talking about a revolution. That line, it sounds so... familiar.
You see, Elizabeth B. Stanton may have lead the suffrage moment, and Sandra Day O'Conner may have been the first female Supreme Court justice, but Demi Moore is truly the paragon of modern women's liberation. She's given girls a voice that until now has been muffled. Now, at last without shame, babysitters around the world can close Harry Potter, switch on the nightlight and tell the tucked-in second grader, "You're a cute kid. Give me a call in 10 years."
Demi reports that even Ashton Kutcher still likes to be tucked in. And if he doesn't have his goldfish and juice snack at 3 p.m., he gets a little grumpy.
Now where does this talk of little boys take me? To Coupe DeVille's, of course, one of the finest law-abiding bars in America.
You see, Coupe's is the great equalizer where the young and the prepubescent share pitchers and partake in the revelries of their older counterparts. While the name Buddhist Biker Bar (say it three times fast) reeks of culture, it is Coupe's where the children come to play.
Now, I've seen some strange things happen at bars during the last four years, but what took place this past Tuesday night was completely unfathomable. I actually didn't even want to go out, but the warning bell went off when I began taking a liking to the British Broadcasting Channel and was intrigued by Conan's famed guests such as the rock, paper and scissor champion of the world.
Anyway, so we're waiting in line, and without warning the Coupe's bouncer started asking for two forms of ID. Yes I know, the horror, the horror. Contain yourself.
Sure there were feeble attempts by some first-year guys brazen enough to whip out their Smoothie King and Blockbuster cards, but the bouncer was a sharp chap and spotted the fact that the kid was one smoothie away from a free 20 oz. strawberry squeeze.
What had happened to the Coupe's motto: Liberte, Equalite, Fraternite? Never mind, that's France's slogan. But honestly, there were more imperative topics to ponder. Did firstyear boys like their eggs poached or scrambled? What were their thoughts on wheat toast versus the English muffin?
I do declare, there must have been something in the water in 1985.
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