September 22, 1996 Sunday
Not a lot really happened at the Hub last night. Ainsley worked the downstairs for a wedding reception. Holly Andrews was there too, helping her. I could only dance with Ainsley a few minutes before beginning my own work. Something about having to always be moving, either from table to table, collecting empty bar bottles, or going downstairs for fresh Budweiser cases or ice, means I’m always moving. And it’s perfect for this kind of surgical situation, where you can say something quick or witty on your way past. It makes me think that if a rule was made that all dates were multiple, fifteen second interactions, I think they would go much better, and people would look forward to them more.
Arlen, the owner, has the rotating regional country bands that play here perform the “Macarena” once a night. They line-danced to it. I watched in still-shock at the horrible culture clash. But they line-dance to anything.
Before the night was over Ainsley and I decided to go together, separate from Hoke and Holly Andrews, to the Homecoming game on Friday, after we eat with them in Peoria. I’ll drive.
On not such a good note, I seem to have misplaced my glasses. I’m going to go back to Edelstein, taking the forty-minute trip there, and look for them outside today.
Also:
- I’ve sent my application to Western Illinois University
- I bought our Homecoming tickets
- Lance said everybody in Farmington is calling Davies “Shaggy.” I wonder where he’ll move next?
- That’s all I wanted to say.
Days ’til Homecoming -8
It was the best of times…
No One Will Believe You 