This Tastes Like... Camp?!

As a child, it's hard to imagine that the world doesn't revolve around you because your world is just so small and frankly, from your perspective, is completely driven by your movements.  As I became older, small things continued to reinforce this belief.  For example, I'd meet a cute boy and suddenly his name would be e v e r y w h e r e - the new song on the radio, that random car repair sign, mentioned in the Sunday bulletin.  Yet as an adult, here I am again experiencing this same phenomenon.

Something about writing continues to reconnect me with this strange phenomenon - but this time not in the form of a repeated name, but through confronting this dichotomy - I live in the largest city in the country and yet am constantly running into agrarian-inspired places, people, and music.  Banjos are in.  Whiskey is cool.  Smoking old-timey pipes and beard competitions are everywhere.  And then I stumble into The Wayland on Avenue C.

Exhibit A:

Flowers in mason jars, old pianos, rooster photos and Shaker chairs were everywhere.  The wood was salvaged and so barn-like that I was unconsciously ducking, waiting to hear my dad call for me to climb back up in the mow for another wagon-load.  The men tending bar were adequately clad in unassuming, grungy tees and jeans, with hairstyles subtly implying that they'd just climbed off a creeper while changing their own oil.  And then my drink came.

Exhibit B:

Waaaaaaait a second.  You are confused.  I'm a real farmer.  When I ask for moonshine, I want it to literally put some hair on my chest.  This looks like some of that fancy city nonsense.  But you brought it to me, so may as well give it a shot.  

This glass is filled with applewood smoke and smells like camp.  And your moonshine tastes like... apple pie?!  Not like a bathtub?  Maybe I could get used to this fancy city nonsense.  Good thing I chose to live here.

However, as my father always laments, I got too comfortable and went a touch farther.  I should have knows that a kale margarita wouldn't work.  Real farmers don't eat kale.

That's some organic hippie bougie shi*t.