I made the mistake of driving down Willy Street the other day, and remembered why I always wanted to call my old opinion column \Maybe I'm Just Old-Fashioned.""
So many coffeehouses. So many pony-tailed men riding around on bikes. Laptops and co-ops and headshops. Oh my.
It's just that sometimes I sit down on my decrepit couch and think that Madison has gotten way too far ahead of itself, that it neglects the aspects of history that made it ""The Berkeley of the Midwest."" I wish that my Madison was more like my parents' Madison, where, in addition to the sympathetic ear you'd receive from your local bartender, you'd also receive a glass of water to put on your handkerchief so you wouldn't choke on all the tear gas circulating in the air.
Maybe it was more dangerous that way, but who ever said danger was a bad thing? Back then, most demonstrations brought in the National Guard, as opposed to the same sprout-eating lefties who now crowd Library Mall to protest the evils of Taco Bell tomatoes.
To a degree, Madison has lost its edge. In spite of the valiant efforts of a few music venues, kids can't go out on a Saturday night and see blues great Luther Allison jam with Jefferson Airplane at The Nitty Gritty. I suppose that it would be hard to do so, being that Allison is, sadly, dead and the Airplane broke up, but the point still stands. On top of that, there's really only so many times one can hear ""We Built This City.""
This column is not all despair and pining away for the days of yore, however. There are still experiences here that will make me misty forevermore, and they happen to everyone.
I've said it before, but there's nothing that makes you feel more like a king than walking into The Plaza, where the cigarette smoke is as thick as the sweet humming in your head. Bob Dylan's ""Hurricane"" is swirling out of the loudspeakers, and there's nowhere you'd rather be on God's green earth. It feels like you're walking in slow motion, perhaps as a result of that last drink you had, or maybe because your mind wants to remember this slice of euphoria that way. You point at your friends at your favorite back table like Wooderson at The Emporium from ""Dazed and Confused,"" and they all look up and smile, happy as hell that you're there. Of course, your half pitcher of Bud Lite is sitting there waiting for you. Forget about binge drinking, this is my memory. They didn't even have a word for it when your mom and dad made their homes here.
Maybe some things never change here in Madison. Students still get screwed by landlords, and landlords always get away with it. Lecture halls are still empty on the first nice day in spring, and lovers still make their loving way down the Lakeshore Path, just like my mom and dad did.
And here I sit, five years deep, a few weeks to go. Like a million times before, I'm writing on deadline, wondering what the next word will be. Thanks to all the great friends I've made here, you all know who you are. I love you all very much.
But most of all, thanks to the city of Madison. You have been the subject of my adulation and ire for the last five years and I appreciate it.
I may never totally figure you out, but then again, perhaps it's best left that way.
