In the club

I told young blood periodically during his first semester of college to do good in school and to do even better at rubbing elbows. I don’t think it ever dawned on me when I was in college that it was all about the schmoozing and the relationships, the networking, the getting and being in the club. My mother was too busy dying to ever have a chance of really imparting this knowledge on to me and its attendant skill set, so my default was to try and get good grades, which I didn’t really do that very well, either. I guess I almost didn’t complete college according to the village and that it took that same village to get me to finish, but like a lot of things from those traumatic days, I really don’t remember a lot.

I think young blood gets it, though. As much as any know-it-all nineteen-year old can after just one semester. He made friends. He pledged and made a frat. He might even live in the house next semester, which is atypical for freshman unless they’re really well liked. Young blood finds out soon. Hell, young blood even shagged his student advisor. She’s a junior! How’s that for rubbing elbows.

(And I wasn’t gonna slip that in somewhere in here?)

I digress.

I’m very maybe in the third quarter of my life, homies. Any day now I suppose is fair game. This next time off, then, I’ve decided I’m going to tour some spendy social clubs and very possibly join one. With any luck, young blood will get to join me in as many boujee affairs as possible to get good at being in the club.

I see us now. We’ll seersucker in the spring and herringbone in the winter. Just a rough man of letters and the sea, and his young blood still carving out his own path.

And won’t that be fine.

-tmc