We were making predictions last night over pints of fresh brewed-on-the-premise beer at Copper Creek. The topic: scarves. Who of the people we knew would be most likely to wear a scarf. And not wear it with that joking hey-look-at-me-i'm-going-out-in-a-scarf attitude (which, I can only imagine is similar to the hey-look-at-me-i'm-going-out-in-basketball-shorts-and-a-polo-shirt attitude), but just randomly show up ready leave for downtown with a scarf draped around the neck and everyone in the room cocking their head and narrowing their eyes thinking is so-and-so really wearing a scarf before ensuing with an onslaught of insults.
So we sipped the Kolsch and the I.P.A., and discussed the topic. Who we ended up deciding on didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now. Because five minutes after we stapled the Scarf Discussion shut, Cerny walked in with a long and slender piece of cloth constricting his neck.
Scarves are not what this article is about. During our pre-Cerny discussion of potential scarf bearers, a certain trend emerged:
All of the people we contemplated were from Civy.
The importance of this revelation lies in its existance as a microcosm to the sad and awful truth. It represents the gradual deterioration of what once was full of energy, kegs, and (at least) flip cup. The sad and awful truth is this:
Civy is soft.
How did this happen? How did parties that lasted until five or six in the morning; parties culminating with a final handful inventing drinking games on the go in order to finish the keg; parties that would be packed with people we barely knew cheering on Maddog as he would breakdance in a puddle of water; parties that my brother would call and ask about to see if he could bring his friends to (they had heard, though some sort of fruit-laden vine, that Civy was the place to be); how did these parties become ten or twelve of us sitting around betting on reruns of GUTS while waiting to go downtown?
There was a time when people used to go to Civy instead of going downtown. When regardless of what time of the day it was, there was someone drunk--or at least drinking--at Civy. There was a time when gravity bongs were made on the whim, and pinata fiestas were a regular occurance. There was a time when kegs flowed like wine.
But that time, the Golden Era, as I call it has made way for another time, with different morals, different ideals:
The McSanderson Era.
(p.s. Chuck Norris is lame)
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