My summers have always included a nauseating amount of “COPS.” Did I think I’d ever completely quit “COPS?” No. But I thought my summers would consist of less of it by now.
Probably the only thing that’s changed is that I watch the same amount of “COPS,” but with a six-pack of beer.
They go together like peanut butter and jelly, or peanut butter and chocolate. Pretty much anything with peanut butter.
Of course, nothing gets the adrenaline going like watching someone on the run getting tasered. But for most weeks this past summer, that was the extent of the excitement.
Maybe it’s the country music that still gives me such high hopes for summer.
Sure, I drive a Honda Civic and I’ve never milked a cow before, but its themes can still relate at times, like enjoying the outdoors and being thankful for what you have.
But things don’t usually play out the way they do in a Kenny Chesney song.
“No Shirt, No Shoes, No Problem?” Sounds like my anthem around the house, but not a song about my non-existent vacation to Mexico. Summer romance? Yeah, right. Actually, that might just be a personal problem.
The truth is a lot of those who made past summers so great weren’t around this year. By the time you’re a junior or senior in college, friends find internships or take summer classes and move out of town.
I, on the other hand, was still at home painting run-down apartments for a living. It’s like putting lipstick on a pig. They’d be sad places to live no matter how white the walls were.
My family is awesome, don’t get me wrong. We had a lot of great times of our own. But every kid knows that many of the things that make summers so memorable are the things you DON’T tell your parents about.
I guess I’m using the term “kid” loosely, considering that all my friends from home are in their 20s and this is college newspaper.
Either way, you get the point. Rochester never felt emptier than it did this year without that group of friends that was a large part of what made it “home.”
Nobody burned themselves on the cheap charcoal grill from Walmart with an American flag sticker on the hood at a concert tailgate because there never was one.
There were no garbage plates wagered over a game of Kan Jam (Western New Yorkers, you know what I’m talking about) at one of our buddy’s late-night bonfires. I guess we at least saved ourselves from losing a lot of golf balls this year.
I know, pull out the world’s smallest violin for the world’s saddest song.
Everyone goes through it. No doubt, there are a million worse things going on in the world. It’s still a bummer. A bummer that you’ll get over, but a bummer nonetheless.
If you’re close to friends who you’ve known since high school, or even earlier, then it kind of sucks to know they may not be much more than a phone number in your contacts for the rest of your life.
Not because of a falling-out or because you don’t have anything in common anymore, but just because it’s how things work out.
KYLE JOSEPH
