Wilmington in December is like an old refrigerator. It's cold, but not too cold; you'll keep your juice there, but dairy storage makes your nervous. Visiting my college town is akin to finding a stack of Polaroids in an old wooden chest that I can step into and walk around for a while. The people in those photographs are gone but the spaces are still there, framing nothing but charming in their own right. The few faces that are still here have, like my own, adopted new and subtle differences. One such face belongs to my friend and former roommate, Bryan Boinott. He has graciously offered me the space on his couch for a couple of nights.
Bryan is one of those rare people who, having always wanted to be a rock star, may actually end up being one by sheer determination and an inability to acknowledge the odds. This excites me. I love meeting and knowing eccentric folk who's flagship quirks make them material for greatness. By my observation, "normal" people never aspire to anything but beautiful normalcy. That's a gift in many ways, but it's also fun to know people who have talent and drive that teeters on the edge of what's healthy for the rest of us. Those people will, if nothing else, always have good stories for telling over coffee -- or in Bryan's case, Gatorade.
This morning was music stores and sea-horses as we traveled around town in Tate's Jeep. It's fun to pass time by imagining the future. In this particular case, I think the futures we imagined had each of us in possession of new gear. Tate, a Fender Deluxe Twin Reverb, Bryan a new 88-key keyboard, and myself, well, pretty much anything I saw. I even wanted a clown fish from the pet store. For anyone who has ever wanted a new toy, is it not true that wanting it is usually far sweeter than actually having it? The only exception would have to be a Scrooge-McDuck vault of gold coins, complete with diving board. I'll only truly be happy when that is firmly in my possession.
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