I almost felt a buzz before even stepping through the revolving doors at Gainesville Regional Airport. We had been talking about this trip for weeks, my return to the old college town, and we anticipated an orgy of crazy times for my weekend stay. It had only been the old college town for a little over two months, but in that time the state had survived four hurricanes, I had begun taking grad school midterms, and the Red Sox had won the World Series. In other words, there was already a world of difference from when I had left.
We knew it would be absurd to think we could exceed the adventures of Florida-Georgia 2003 (when without us saying a word, a friend merely looked at my friends and I standing over him at 5:30 am and remarked, You guys are fucking crazy), but that didn't mean we couldn't have fun trying. This is what was professed the eve before Florida-Georgia 2004. My declaration that I was "going to explode" when I escaped the stresses of grad school life for the weekend. McSuck (my best friend back in Gainesville) annoiting an "Anthony gets a Georgia girl" night. Actually considering a post-exam night at a pub as a "warm up" for the weekend.
But no matter how much hype you put into a weekend, you can't force the good times to achieve a predetermined level. It doesn't work like that; saying this year will be as crazy as last year doesn't make it so. You need a little luck, some open opportunities, and positioning to react to those opportunities. That's how most of college's greatest moments come about: a combination of right place, right time, alcohol, and a mystery variable.
In our first 15 minutes at The Jacksonville Landing, I sensed that I was being put in the position of being personally responsible for making the good times happen. If I hadn't found a girl to talk to within 10 seconds, my friends would direct me to a group of girls and stare at me awaiting a verdict. I'm very rarely (can we actually say never?) in active girl-hunting mode. This is not how I work. It's not me. I had come to Jacksonville to do more than meet girls. My idea of a crazy weekend was combining the effects of 32 ounce beers with bumping into old friends, coming back to Harrisburg with a few long-term stories, not finding a place to sleep until 3 am, and yeah, meeting a Georgia girl.
And once I shut out the urgings of my friends and went about things in my own way, I found my good times. My alcohol tolerance was rebuilt in 2 days. I bumped into old friends (one time, literally) , ramming chests, screaming inaudibles, and playing catch-up in 5 seconds. For stories, among the long-term contenders are the I've been here since Thursday! guy; my normally calm friend belting out a ridiculously long Irish folk song in the middle of the Landing; the drunken Thursday! guy driving a golf cart with a half pitcher of beer in his hand, proclaiming I drink from a big cu-cup!; finding shelter in a rich, gated neighborhood (I didn't know her nor her parents) and being treated to an eggshell mattress, breakfast, and lunch; the Marilyn Monroe dress; and drinking Miller Lites, eating a hot dog, and watching the Patriots-Steelers game as Air Force One flew by. They were good times that were only missing a Gator victory and a cute Georgia girl.
But there's always next year.
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