It occurs to me that I didn’t write about my latest trip to Clemson. I graduated from the university, lived there three-and-a-half more years, and visited as much as possible over the the next few years. It’s always been neat to see the town and university change—stores changing hands, or locations, at least one new building on campus each year, and so on—but this visit was different.

The night I got to South Carolina, my buddy Chip and I went to the best hole-in-the-wall tavern in Clemson, which is Nick’s. The routine is simple: we go in, order pints of Woodchuck, drink, and laugh at the signs that forbid clove cigarettes—not because either of us smokes, but because we had a mutual acquaintence who chain-smoked cloves and was probably responsible for getting them banned from Nick’s.

We usually see at least one familiar face at Nick’s. Not this time. We asked around, and they’d all moved away: this one to Charleston, that one to New Mexico, and so on. In fact, the only person I recognized the whole night was one particular bartendress who, two or three years ago, drunkenly cussed me out after completely misunderstanding a story I was telling (which was about dealing with high school students). The lack of poison and spittle in my drink indicated that she didn’t remember any of it.

The next day, most of my best buddies from college converged on that quaint little corner of South Cackalacky. We had dinner at Keith Street Café in Clemson. We spent the next couple of hours wandering around downtown Clemson—which is basically two streets. A lot has changed on those two streets.

…

The best bookstore in Clemson, or for thirty miles around, was the Newsstand. The owner was a guy named Stephen, who resembled an aging hippie: he spoke softly, he was skinny, wore a beard, and had long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. He seemed to know everything about everything ever published—nothing was too obscure. If it wasn’t in the store, he’d have it to you in less than a week. He was better than Amazon.

The last time I saw Stephen, he didn’t recognize me, and he seemed to have trouble recognizing Chip (who had worked at the Newsstand and had been one of its best customers). He was diagnosed with Pick’s disease, which is similar to Alzheimer’s, and he died in early 2005. The lady who inherited the store kept the place running for about a year and then shut it down. It’s now a wine bar.

The only private bookstore left in Clemson is McClure’s, which is relatively new. We stopped by in hopes that some old Newsstand people worked there. Nope. I asked the owner if she had bought the Newsstand’s inventory. She said no, and also that she didn’t sell newspapers, magazines, journals, or comics. That place sucks.

…

Eight or nine years ago, there was an internet coffee shop on College Avenue called the Wired Café. I visited often because I was friends with the owners and most of the employees. At first, it was pretty successful because their computers were faster than most computers on campus, and the menu was pretty good—they made my favorite sammich of all time, the “Eat Me.” Turkey, honey-cured ham, cheese, lettuce, marinated tomatoes, and God-knows-what-else on a warm, flaky croissant. It was heavenly. They also made a coffee drink so strong that it hospitalized one girl with caffeine poisoning. It was a great hangout while it lasted.

Anyhow, about a year after they opened, the university spent bazillions of dollars on new computer labs and faster connections, and the Wired’s computers weren’t all that impressive anymore–especially since they were usually monopolized by gaming geeks. The owners decided to remodel, free up some floorspace by getting rid of the computers, and planned to reopen as a regular coffee shop. Since the old name would be obsolete, they’d call the new place “356” because it was located at 356 College Avenue. Clever, right? (I had suggested “Damn Fine Coffee,” but I’m not sure the city would have approved the name.)

It never reopened. The owners lived out of town and couldn’t stay on top of the people who were supposed to remodel the place. They let the lease run out, got rid of the equipment and furniture, and never got back into the coffee business. In 2001, someone else rented the space and opened a successful sushi bar.

Walking past that place, some good memories started to flood back—friends, music, dates, arguments, arguments on dates, chess games, kicking out perverts who were looking at adult websites while children were in the café. Unfortunately, those memories were dammed by a storefront window a few doors down.

A bar/restaurant had three silver stickers in its storefront window: a stylized “3,” a stylized “5,” and a stylized “6.” I convinced myself that I had misread at least one of the numbers, but after further review it turned out that this place—located at 366 College Avenue—really was called “356.” Bad enough the café-‘twould-have-been-called-“356” never reopened, but the mind-boggling stupidity of deliberately putting that name on the wrong building stung.

…

Not every change was depressing. For instance, University Ridge, a downtown apartment complex I used to live in, had burned to the ground in 2004 when some genius left a candle burning a little too close to a shower curtain. The next year, they rebuilt it, plank-for-plank. It looks exactly the same, except for a darker stain on the wood.

Also, there’s a parking garage downtown now. Yippee, parking garage, right? Yes, it’s ugly. But it’s also a heckuva lot easier to park downtown now. It would have been a useful thing to have available back in the day.

My favorite change was on the west side of College Avenue at Edgewood Avenue, where you’ll find a new plaza named for Catherine J. Smith, a former mayor of Clemson. It reminds me of the university’s Amphitheater and Reflection Pool, except of course that it’s much smaller. It’s a nice place to just sit and talk, or have a picnic, or listen to someone strumming a guitar, or simply go blank and watch the water.

…

We drove down Route 93, past the dike where we’d gone sledding my freshman year. That year it had snowed heavily enough to close the university for a day or two. The first night after classes were cancelled, a bunch of us took turns sledding down that snow-covered dike on an inflatable life raft, a cafeteria tray, and a big piece of cardboard wrapped in two plastic bags. The only difficulty was dodging several capped pipes that stuck out of the ground.

The highlight of that night occurred when a buddy and I were carrying the raft back up the hill just as my then-roommate came flying down on the cafeteria tray. I didn’t like this particular roommate too much, so I swung my end of the raft around, lifted—and we clotheslined him with the raft! It was awesome.

I realize that simply writing “it was awesome” does nothing to convey precisely how awesome it was to see the cafeteria tray slide the rest of the way down the hill without him, and him silently rolling down after it, and him thinking it was all an accident. But it was awesome.

In retrospect, the only complaint I had against that roommate was that he was obnoxious. He was tame compared to my later roommates. He wasn’t a slob, he wasn’t a cutter, he had neither a strumpet nor a trollop for a girlfriend, and he didn’t own a gun while abusing antipsychotic medication. Karma’s vindictive.

…

None of my friends live in Clemson anymore, or even within half an hour of it. The people I would visit there aren’t there anymore. If the old gang wants to get together, it’d be easier just to rent rooms in Greenville or Anderson; both are right on I-85 and are closer to where any of us lives.

Of course, this didn’t occur to me until I left the Clemson Days Inn to return to Jacksonville. Aside from the night before freshman orientation in 1993, I’d never stayed in a hotel in that town. I’d always stayed in dorm rooms or apartments or rental homes. But this time, I had to stay in a hotel. Granted, hotel rooms are usually nicer than college town apartments tended by twentysomethings, but the point remains: throughout my visit I felt like a tourist in a town that had been home for so long.

3 Responses to ““As leaving some grand waterfall, We, lingering, list its roar—””

1. aabrock Says:
   July 20th, 2007 at 7:51 AM. Ah, memories. Thanks for an update what’s changed; I haven’t been there in a long time (2001 was the last visit through I think). But I am almost glad in a way not to see what it has become, because I would rather remember it the way that it was. I could close my eyes and mentally navigate the entire West side of campus (i.e. the “cool” side)….Cope to Sirrine to Riggs to the library, back up the path past Calhoun Mansion to Harcombe and finally back to Cope room 200. Good times. Though I never clotheslined someone with an inflatable raft; I vented all of my rage through Robert’s Super Nintendo.

   Shame about the Newsstand closing, I can’t imagine a Friday after class without stopping by to get comics, cards and whatever interesting book happened to be on the clearance table by the front door.

   Time to go to Google Earth and pull up some campus pictures, just for nostalgia’s sake.

2. Doctor Hmnahmna Says:
   July 21st, 2007 at 7:30 AM. I’m sure “Jockey J.” thinks he can get from Easley to Clemson in less than 30 minutes, but hey.

   And Robert’s SNES did make a special guest appearance during the get-together. I still suck at Mario Kart.

   By the way, Clemson has continued the tradition of inscribing the names of all the graduates into sidewalks around campus. Several alumni of “Carroll’s School” found them after you guys left. I found yours and mine, but didn’t think to look for too many others. Our bricks, including the classes of 1996 and 1997, are just outside the new Hendrix Student Center, near the high-rises.

3. VDV Says:
   July 22nd, 2007 at 11:23 PM. I forgot to write that I won a MarioKart tournament, edging Robert on the Rainbow Road!

   Now I have to go back and find my brick.

If you would, please e-mail me your AP scores. The school seems not to have them yet, and I grow impatient. Thanks.

Happy 231st Birthday to the United States of America!

…

I’ve always felt a bit of pity for John Adams. He is the most boring and overlooked of the Founders: during the Revolution he was an unglamourous Ambassador, he never owned or slept with any slaves, he couldn’t write as well as Jefferson, he didn’t kill anyone or die in a duel, he was fat, obnoxious, balding with poofs of hair on either side of his head, and had a nagging wife. Hopefully, recent biographies will help to spice up his image.

I bring him up on this day because no matter how much our respect for this man grows, he’ll always be the guy who made these two quickly-proven-wrong predictions regarding the Fourth:

First: On July 3, 1776, the day after the Declaration was adopted by the Continental Congress, John wrote to his wife Abigail that

The Second Day of July 1776, will be the most memorable Epocha, in the History of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated, by succeeding Generations, as the great anniversary Festival. It ought to be commemorated, as the Day of Deliverance by solemn Acts of Devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews, Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other from this Time forward forever more. [emphasis added]

His confidence in American victory was admirable–especially that early in the war–but he should’ve waited to see when the celebrations would actually take place.

Second: His dying words, uttered July 4th, 1826, were “Thomas Jefferson survives” or “Thomas Jefferson still survives” or “Thomas Jefferson lives—Independence forever!” Whichever quote is accurate, Adams was wrong. Jefferson died earlier that day at Monticello. Oh well.

Imagine opening a newspaper in early July of 1826 to find that John Adams and Thomas Jefferson had died not merely on the same day, but on the fiftieth anniversary of the Founding itself. I’ll bet that as much as any event in our history ever had or would, the occasion of their deaths heightened the American sense of being watched over by what Jefferson called “Divine Providence.”

For your consideration, I offer a dull anecdote involving an old buddy, henceforth called “The Mole.” He’s hosting a soirée in Maryland in August, and called to talk me into driving 800 miles to feast on roasted pig. I told him I have some work-related commitments that might prevent me from going, and that after having been out of town for the last half of June, with another week-long trip planned in July, I didn’t know whether I’d be up for yet another long haul in early August. He said he understood, but that he now had a new reason for me to attend.

The Mole’s girlfriend had asked if he had any single friends who would be attending the pig roast because her cousin, who is single, would be attending. He said he might, and called me.

Right away, I was ticked off. The Mole knows that I hate being set up on dates. In fact, it’s Rule Number Four in my book, which he should have learned 14 years ago on the first day of Viscariello Friend Orientation.

Why no set-ups? Two reasons. The nice version of the first reason is that I have the best idea of what’s good for me, other people don’t. Second, I have found matchmakers to be insufferable.

And yet, here was my old friend saying, “I know how you feel about set-ups, but…”

I figured he was trying to score points with his girlfriend by asking me to meet her cousin. So, being his pal, and being by nature a forgiving person, I used my other cell phone to remotely arm the autodestruct mechanism I secretly built into his house, and let him go ahead with his pitch.

The cousin had an unusual name–let’s say, “Coolina”–which led me to ask whether her parents were hippies. The Mole said they were too old for that, which led me to assume that they were actually beatniks. Of course, I was joking. Names really don’t matter to me, aside from the Three Forbidden Names (see “Rule Number One,” My Book, pp. 15-71).

But the Mole went on to describe Coolina in such a way that I had to remind him that he was trying to talk me in to meeting her rather than out of it. To wit:

• He said that she was blonde—I prefer brunettes. De gustibus non est disputandum.

• He said that she was 36 or 37 years old—which is a coupla years over my upper limit.

• [PERMANENTLY REDACTED.]

• He said she lived in New York and loved it there—I refuse to live the vortex of myopia that is New York.

• Worst of all, he said she had no kids and wanted no kids—which is a blatant violation of Rule Number Three (My Book, pp. 106-124).

In short, he had described a woman who would be absolutely perfect for me only if every day of the rest of my life were Opposite Day. It was as though the part of his brain melted by his love for his girlfriend were the part that remembered anything about me. I would have been offended, but I understand perfectly well that love makes us do stupid things.

I typed the DETONATE command into my other cell phone, and held my thumb over the Send key. I told the Mole, “If I can even find time to drive 800 miles to your party, I’m doing it to hang out with you and my other friends, not to try to hit it off with some woman who meets none of my criteria. You’re asking me to break my rules—rules you know. Rules that work. I realize that you’re trying to do your girl a favor, but what’s she going to think when I show up and there’s absolutely no attraction between me and her cousin? Won’t she get pissed off at you? What are you thinking, Mole?”

The Mole said, “Coolina works for [a major multinational bank]. She’s a vice president.”

I said, “I’m there.”

3 Responses to “Protected: Rule Number Four.”

1. Doctor Hmnahmna Says:
   June 30th, 2007 at 4:47 PMActually, I think Rule 4 is B.S. Especially since a blind date is how Mrs. Hmnahmna and I got together. Don’t knock it until you try it.

   If you want to stop off here before making final approach to the Mole’s lair, you’re welcome to do so.

2. VDV Says:
   July 1st, 2007 at 11:49 AMRemarkably, there are only three problems with your comment:

   1. Tried it. Knocking it.

   2. Dr. Hmnahmna liked blind dates, therefore my dislike of them is BS. There’s got to be a name for this fallacy. “Egocentric”?

   3. Blind dating worked out fine for you, but was a disaster for your wife. Ba-dum-CHING! Thank you, I’ll be here all week, please tip your waitress.

   My rules are for me, not for you. For instance, Rules One (concerning names) and Two (classified) would also not apply to you.

3. gatorbob Says:
   July 5th, 2007 at 7:40 AMIt’s been a while since the Gator was on the dating scene, but let me add my rule of thumb – take a look at your date’s record collection. If she’s got Miles Davis – Kind of Blue, propose on the spot; if there’s any Ramones or AC/DC’s “Back in Black,” there is certainly potential, but if there is any Michael Bolton or Kenny G., grab those pants and start running….