A shout-out to the good people at the Athens Bike Co-op for assisting me with their bicycle pedal-gogy, er, I mean, pedagogy and for swapping some parts (athensbikeco-op.blogspot.com).
And now a moment of silence for The Coffee Cup, one of Athens County’s most beloved gems (and home to a fleet of extremely cute waitresses).
Halfway through Spring Quarter, I hope my fellow “victory lappers” are in high-spirits, though, I know, the thought of graduating can be quite excruciating.
My sincere apologies go out to the students with insurmountable majors, such as engineering. I know you are studiously slogging away on your scholastics while I coast around and b.s. about it. Seriously, don’t hold a grudge against me.
Last Friday before my Easter ride (Zombie Jesus Day, as my roommate so kind-heartedly put it), I made the mistake of entering the now foreign realm of massive house parties — my first in some time.
It’s just not the same as when you first escaped your “fascist” parents and rushed from your dorms to said phenomenon. After about the first hundred-dozen or so, they kind of lose their appeal.
They just aren’t how I “remember” them, probably because I knew all of one and a half people there: my roommate, and a current crush. Half because she might not actually “know” me in the conventional sense, but why split hairs?
I’m like Danny Glover bemoaning, “I’m too old for this shit.” Although, he did go on to make three more Lethal Weapon movies, so maybe I’ll continue on the house party circuit for some time to come after all.
But I won’t turn this into a diatribe against my partying peers; I have the utmost respect for them — honest, live it up.
Anywho, on Sunday, I trekked to Little Italy Pizza in Glouster. But this pedal-file is about the towns traversed, “The Five Boroughs” (as I’ll call them for no discernible reason), not so much Southeast Ohio’s most deliciously greasy and incredibly cheap hand tossed ‘za (recommended by none other than a Papa John’s delivery guy as “the best pizza in Athens County. For real, dude”).
Chauncey (pronounced Chancy): Do not, under any circumstances, mispronounce this. Trust me. You will be captured and flayed alive if you don’t take heed for reasons I can’t go into here.
Redtown, a.k.a Shaolin: Received its nickname from me, just now, solely because I love the Wu, put ya’ W’s up!
Jacksonville: not Florida or North Carolina. ’Nuff said.
Trimble, a.k.a Da’ Brickyard: “In 1909 & 1910 3,200,000 Trimble Block were special ordered for the entire track of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, hence the nickname.”
And Glouster: home to Hap, whom I met when I parked my two-wheeler. Hap, who told me, “I’m not always happy,” was sitting on a stoop of an abandoned and boarded-up building with a ruminative look on his face.
He saw me dripping and disheveled and said, “Well, its raining, but you ain’t grown much.” Told ’im I was heading to Little Italy Pizza; asked if there was anywhere else in Glouster worth a visit; he replied, “Glouster? It dies a little everyday.”
We spoke briefly about coal and the constant reminder of an industry no more.
Trains brimming with coal passing mere meters behind Glouster neighborhoods, coal no longer mined in Athens by Athenians but in West Virginia by West Virginians. “Its a little depressing,” Hap confided.
Take some time and visit ouvictorylap.tumblr.com to see a stunning mural of miners and other Athenians — it’s very coal.
Brian Bors is a senior studying social work and a columnist for The Post. Have you been to any of the Boroughs? Email him at firstname.lastname@example.org.