More Nostalgia
I think back to my bachelorhood, that long-nursed self-sufficiency out of which grew a sense of heroism such that marriage felt feasible. Only a bachelor, ensconsced in his ritual relaxations, would have the confidence to get married. A married man is humble, understands his limitations, and would not be so bold. No wonder it is single men who marry.
I remember the Friday nights of yore, captainin’ the third seat from the back at Chubby’s, the rural bar in the sticks that could’ve been in a Billy Ray Thornton film. Walking into the joint was an overpowering experience – the mated fragrance of perfume and cigarette smoke, the pulsating crowd living for this very moment, this Friday night, so alive and alert! I claim my seat and frosted beer and the music climbs the walls and rolls the floors and envelopes my ears and women waft about, appealing to my reptile brain, and I sit contented and receptive, yes *receptive*! – not aggressively pulling or pushing or prodding, but captive, captive as the smoke smoulders and music mellows and women waft and the beers cast their benevolence. Chubbys incarnated the rural bar experience. It was like a novel I could sink into but better because I could observe in real-time and even be a character, to be *in* the novel.
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