Splish Splash

Richmond. Home of the free and land of the wtf. I know, I know every major metropolis (if you can call this one as such) is shelter to a slew of ill adapted adults. I guess that’s why NYC never sleeps. Nonetheless, in my brief 25 cents on the dollar term have I lived in such a place. Albeit surfacing on a third year here I have enough witness to lay claim to the oddity. I’ll stop the melodrama here suffice to say that as places go, insert round peg into rectangle. But you know what? It’s growing on me.

As a historic city I am remiss to feel any sense of wonder. I think it was Robin Williams who called this place the biggest collection of second place statues. True as it is, I don’t think anyone really cares here. They may get a second look of the Stonewall Jackson statue via illegal left turn on Monument Ave or know their house was built before the model T. Other than that anything old gets renovated for the VCU kids to claim squatters rights to or has a plate attached to it confusing some into thinking every address starts with 1900. Some visitors have found splendor who look for it but the average fan rat or church hill-ian is none the wiser. This isn’t for shame but I think places like Charleston, Savannah, and other various southern relics have a sense of history so thick you can almost transport yourself. I guess some here do get baked enough though to Bill and Ted themselves into something similar. Oh well, more on the eccentricities.

Milwaukee may be it’s birthplace but Pabst Blue Ribbon, ahem, Peoples Beer of Richmond has it’s second home here. My foray into this delicious beverage started in college but Natty was king there so I lay misguided. Here however the stuff is in every sketchy market to bar that still has a license. The higher end establishments may not be wielding a basement chalk full of PBR kegs but they know better than not have some stocked. One’s reasoning may point to a vast majority of us being cheap or still weening off the taste of so called shit beer but to most it’s something that will soundly get you trashed that doesn’t have the first ingredient being water. I wish I was being paid to say this by the way, hell I’d take free cases for it, but my sponsors probably only lie in future group meetings. The only other explanation I could muster for our taste for the metallic aftertaste is in the general oddness of this city’s inhabitants.

For sake of dissecting all it’s 2000 parts I’ll stick to my understanding of the city district. I’m sure the cookie cutter of most suburbs would fit for Short Pump, Midlothian, etc but my observations have limited access in my 3 mile trek to and fro work and bar tabs littering Main and Cary. One caveat before start however is that I don’t mean to just call out the hobos and “scene”, scene. There are plenty of people here who are well adjusted and behaved. It’s not about that. It’s the where’s Waldos that pop up in almost any situation. For instance, I’m driving home from work for lunch and the ever present goon on a moped is trying to maintain speed to my left. It’s a city so I understand the demand. What I didn’t get was the low hanging peace sign he gave to the other vesphole riding towards us going the other direction. Really? Since when did the Hells Angel’s use stunted crotch rockets. As I’ve said there’s many stories I can recount in my last three years but in also mentioning my proficiency for boredom I’d rather not. It’s just that while living here I’ve had a moment at least once a week where I’ll laugh my ass off at someone all the while exclaiming a what the fuck without notice. So as odd as this city is and as much as I’ve cursed it I actually love the entertainment. So thank you buck naked man doing the Sasquatch walk down Rowland or jack ass randomly jogging at 1 am. This pabst’s for you.