Classically Speaking

One of the defining moments of my teen years was when I was on PalaceVision. RPB, SV4, D, Jeff, and I -- aka the Classic Friends -- brought a sign to the Pistons' game that read "PISTON PRIDE." Alliterative, terse, not sentimental or cute, it was a success, and we were on the big screen not once, but a few times. Seeing myself up there was a young dream, and then when I did, I remember being surprised at how little, and a bit silly, and gleeful, I looked. We held the sign across our chests, and could barely keep it stable. We jumped up and down, clambered over each other, quickly exhausted our relative fame. None of us really had the poise to find the camera shooting us and look directly into its face, wave, point, or look cool. We were eager and star-eyed. The game had its honesty. The pleasure was simple.

After they won, we danced around the corridors of the stadium with our sign, making up little chants. "We got Piston Pride, Ho! We got Piston Pride, Hey!" .... "It's time for the Pride-a-lator...", etc

This past Sunday, we (minus Jeff) reunited for SV4's birthday and the Lions game. Now it's Fall. Sweaters are out. The clocks are back to losing time. Before heading to SV4's, I go for a run during which I stop to linger under a motherly tree with salmon-colored leaves.

We are all intact and healthy. RPB pimps scarf and blazer. D is Brazilian Lebron. SV4 wears a woolen sweater. He brings along the new Dabrye. The scheme is black, red, and blue. On the cover a fat toke hangs from Tadd's mouth. We listen to a song on the new Idol Tryouts about a fit black man and a fat white woman. I wonder, Could it be love?

This drive to Detroit, we've done it now hundreds, maybe thousands of times. In fact, RPB lived in the city for a while, I believe. You could describe this drive in so many ways. Today it's like watching a tragedy unfold on speedy time-reel. The city reveals itself to you from above, for the highways are partly underground. Floating ethereally above are the houses, burned-out and half-demolished, the Church's Chickens, Wonder Bread sign, graffiti streaks, steeple and skyscraper momentarily aligned. The rest, the street level, is invisible, as if it does not exist.

We talk about "The Real World" coming to Royal Oak (though they'll most likely call it Detroit), and how D is going to get himself on the show by effortlessly playing one of its women. We talk about MTV's new "Laguna Beach" and how much of a pleasure it is to watch young beautiful people be petty. (cf Matthews, "You have to learn not to apologize, a form of vanity.") We talk about the done-up woman outside The Fox who's wearing a Burberry shawl, and RPB comments on the likelihood that she is in her mid 30s, is single, and is a hairdresser. We discuss booze poos, and how a night after drinking your poo smells just a little bit different as you read that crinkled Car and Driver for the seventh time. Such are our young-blood preoccupations. We have good minds.

We don't have a sign, don't dance, and don't get on TV. We eat sandwiches, chicken fingers (which give me the poos later that night), munchies, and cake. The Lions lose again this time in a disheartening way, an overtime interception return for a touchdown. But our expectations weren't necessarily high, and our disappointment is sweetened by the company.

Because now we're dudes. Not boys. Dudes. Maybe boys in dude-outfits, or boys with dude interpretations, or dudes with boy perceptions. I guess we're somewhere in the middle.

SV4's Mom gives us all elaborate flashlights as parting gifts. In the past she's given us several other flashlights, as well as essentially my entire cabinet of socks. This flashlight is an upgrade. It's also a nightlight, as well as a psychedelic light show. When we drop off RBP and D, RBP lights up his gear in the night and does a little illuminated dance as we drive away. He's getting smaller, the light dimmer.

"Another story to add to our lore," I say.

"Our lore?" SV4 says.

"Our folk-lore."

Next time it'll be in The Real World jacuzzi.