I recently found my college diploma in a junk closet.
Part of me always meant to buy a fancy frame and display it somewhere prominent, but I never got around to it. When I mentioned this to my friend Ben, he told me that he never did either, because it didn’t make sense to hang your receipts on the wall. To be clear, I loved my time at the University of Georgia. I loved living in Athens even more. Looking back, that was certainly a golden era of my life. The only reason I forced myself to leave was that I didn’t want to stay in Neverland forever.
I’ve alluded to it in other Tales From the Underground columns, but towards the end of my time in the Classic City, I worked at this place downtown called the Georgia Bar. It was a sleazy, sour-smelling dive that college kids avoided at all costs, and I was enamored with it. A sex worker used our alleyway to conduct business; a cocaine dealer worked out of our bathroom, and at one point, someone was literally living upstairs.
It was a far cry from starring in my middle school’s production of “Tumbleweeds.”
When I think about the old bar, there’s always a flood of warm (albeit harrowing) memories. The whole last year of my life in Athens was like that, sweet and sour. I remember how exciting it was to watch a math professor double as a pool shark on the weekends, but how depressing it was when he told me he would never go home if we didn’t lock the doors. There were nights when I would close by myself and would listen to stand-up comedy records through our speaker system while I mopped the floor, oddly feeling so grown-up and free. On the other hand, I once dropped a pen on our floor, absentmindedly put it in my mouth, and spent three days in the hospital.
Like most things, my memories are often tied to music.
On Saturdays I would open, often having solo run of the place for hours. There were these magical mornings when everyone would be smiling, laughing, clinking their ice-cold beers together while we were serenaded by “Turn! Turn! Turn!” filling up the room from wonky speakers that tended to make everything bass-heavy. Countless bands came through the Georgia Bar. One night, a folk duo played a version of “Can’t You See” by the Marshall Tucker Band that ended with everyone in the room, me included, screaming endless choruses of “Hey Jude.”
There was also a night when a woman in her ’70s had to be physically carried out because she got too drunk, while “Here Comes A Regular” by the Replacements scored the scene.
…
The Review
Replacements
Tim (Let It Bleed Edition)
1985/2023
It didn’t take me long to fall in love with the Replacements.
Finding that band in college was so perfectly timed that it felt nearly destined. There’s no better musical match for someone in their early 20s than a band of drunk philosophers partying their way into whiskey-soaked enlightenment. They also had just enough punk cred to justify my interest while being evolved enough to expand my horizons.
When I first heard Tim, I didn’t care much for it. The songs were great, probably the best of their career, but to my ears, it sounded like they had gotten lost in the production. Finding the sound can be the difference between making a mediocre song triumph and a great song perish. Funny enough, the bulk of my initial interest in listening to it had been because Tommy Ramone was listed as the producer.
Personally, I tended to drift towards Let It Be. I like a record with phenomenal songwriting that’s still rough around the edges, like finding an angel in the gutter. At their best, the Replacements can deliver rollickingly desperate eulogies that sound as if they were crafted on a freezing Minnesota morning by a hungover saint. Knowing what I know about them, I think that’s accurate, save for the sainthood. Although, I put it to you that Paul Westerberg has performed some miracles.
Normally I don’t pay much attention to a classic record getting a remix. If there’s a seminal, beloved release, eventually it gets an anniversary edition that includes a new mix. Tim was a unique case for me since, as I mentioned before, the original album sounded like it was suffocating beneath cellophane. When it was announced that Ed Stasium would be behind the boards, I started sniffing around a lot harder.
Ed Stasium is a member of the extended Ramones family. He engineered Leave Home and Rocket to Russia, then co-produced Road to Ruin and Too Tough to Die with Tommy (and if you’re one of the rare Ramones fans like me who believe their ‘90s period is criminally underrated, it’s worth noting that he also produced Mondo Bizarro). If anyone had a shot at breathing life back into the record, it was Stasium. So, when it was finally released, I threw it on and held my breath.
Tim is now my undisputed favorite Replacements’ record.
Since we live in a world where our data is constantly collected and tabulated, I can tell you for a fact that Tim (Let It Bleed Edition) was my most listened to record of both 2023 and 2024. From the first moments of “Hold My Life” shooting out of the speakers, the album feels alive. There’s an open, breezy ambiance permeating throughout, as if you’re a fly on the wall in the room with the band during rehearsal. Ed Stasium wrestled those great songs out of the arms of that plastic 1980’s production and let them shine like it was their birthright.
The sleighbells on “Kiss Me on the Bus” sound so great, I wish that I could date that song. Before the remix, “I’ll Buy” was a track I could take or leave, but now sometimes I’ll throw on the record to hear it specifically. Classics like “Bastards of Young” and “Left of the Dial” were always standouts, so if anything, now their pedestal stands a little taller. I don’t even skip over “Dose of Thunder” anymore.
My only genuine piece of criticism after listening to the entirety of the box set is the pure and utter confusion over how a song as good as “Nowhere Is My Home” was left off the original release. “Nowhere Is My Home” sounds like it fell directly out of the grooves of London Calling, but somehow, they shrugged their shoulders and left it on the cutting room floor? Yet they couldn’t rob the world the chance of experiencing “Lay It Down Clown”? Go home, ‘Mats; you’re drunk.
I mentioned earlier that “Here Comes a Regular” scored one of the most tragically human moments I witnessed when working at the bar. That’s true, but the Replacements have been buzzing around in my ears through countless highs and lows. A great band tend to follow you around like that, if you’re lucky. Back in the summer of 2011, I listened to them on my lunch breaks during one of the worst months of my life.
…
The Tale
Towards the end of my time at the University of Georgia, I fell into a considerable amount of trouble for touching a chair.
My college girlfriend, Ruby, worked as an administrative assistant for an on-campus law office. The pay was mediocre, but the workload wasn’t heavy, and every so often we would be invited to attend an event or a gala. While those scenes were never a space where I felt comfortable, it was nice to do something together outside of our living room.
It was on one of these special occasions where the unpleasantness started. We were at a museum to see a newly opened exhibit, drink champagne, and rub elbows. I wore my cleanest jeans and a sweater without holes as we as we walked around pretending to understand the sculptures.
I remember that it was a warm evening, and I began to grow uncomfortable as we watched a DJ spin in chorus with a light show that danced across the blank walls of an outside structure. There’s something about finger foods and middling conversation that warrants me inherently nervous. It felt like we had wondered onto the set of a Tim Burton movie, with a big-eyed monster biding its time somewhere just out of sight.
We eventually made our way inside where the things were quieter and thus provided a feigned stability. It was the same basic principle as letting the bedroom television glow to illuminate what lurks in the night. As we meandered upstairs, I found myself drawn to the historical artifacts rather than the paintings. As a disciple of Indiana Jones, I enjoyed knowing items that belonged in a museum had found their rightful home in one. Reading the placards and learning the history of each individual piece is one of life’s simple pleasures, at least for me. The last object on display before moving on was an antique chair.
That fucking chair.
It must have been 500 years old, and I was surprisingly taken with it. No one was around, so there was no rush to move along or make room. Slowly, I began to wonder what the ancient fabric would feel like against my skin. I have a ravaging case of undiagnosed obsessive-compulsive disorder, and the monkey on my back was screaming louder and louder to touch it. It wasn’t behind glass, and I figured it would be harmless, so I succumbed and gave the chair a light brush with my index finger. Satisfied, I went to find Ruby so we could go home and wash the opulence off our skin.
What I didn’t know was that there were scores of cameras protecting the priceless art, with every angle covered. I was also blissfully unaware that Ruby had signed our names in bright, bold letters inside of the guest book. Had I read the paper in the coming days, I would have learned there was an investigation calling for any information that would lead to finding me.
I didn’t think about any of that, because I honestly hadn’t considered my actions to have been criminal.
Then, one morning after getting out of the shower, I got a call from the security department of the museum. They wanted me to come into their offices but wouldn’t tell me why. It wasn’t exactly a mystery, but I suppose it’s important for the catchers to keep the caught in the dark for as long as possible to allow for a moment of maximum impact.
Why are those who dole out punishments always so hungry for it? It’s almost as if they’re delighted by your trespass. They always build the tension, amplify the drama, make an entire spectacle out of it. I’m never one to yuck on anyone’s yum, but seeing the ecstasy in someone’s eyes as they make you writhe in your guilt is a red flag. Especially when the culprit is me, by all accounts an admitted rascal, but always more a danger to myself than others.
The interrogation didn’t last long.
I admitted to everything immediately, making the case that I meant no harm and would pay for any damage I had caused. As I later found out, I hadn’t caused any damage. A piece of fabric had fallen off the chair sometime after I touched it, but it was a piece they were planning to cut off anyway for further study. They didn’t want financial restitution or a public apology, but they did want to make an example out of me.
They agreed not to press charges, under the condition that I would volunteer 100 hours of free labor to the museum. I’m an honest person who was raised to stand accountable for their actions and right any wrongs I had the power to correct. The punishment in this case seemed to fairly fit the crime, so I accepted. I agreed to give them 8-10 hours of my day until cosmic debt was repaid, treating it like a full-time job.
Allow me a moment to make a few things clear before we continue.
Obviously, I shouldn’t have done what I did. Touching that chair was stupid, and now that I know more about natural oils and their damage on antiques, it was potentially reckless. I also stand by their decision to punish me. Making me work at the museum was a not-so-subtle way to teach me the impact I had on their community, and I appreciated that even at the time. What I can’t abide, especially now that I’m 35 and have been in positions of power myself, is how I was treated.
Most of the museum employees I met were totally decent. Several of them had children my age. They would make polite conversation, check in to see if I needed anything, and were generally amiable. I was raised Baptist, so it’s not like I wasn’t already punishing myself enough for all of us anyway.
And then there were the Misery Twins.
There was Caliban the Loyal, a security guard and known creep who made it his personal mission to bully and intimidate me any time we found ourselves with a sliver of a second alone. He followed me around, picked fights, and made it known that I was the person he hated most in this world. I grew up punk in the Deep South, so testosterone-fueled blustering is an altogether unsuccessful tactic with me. I was able to laugh him off and kill him with kindness, much to his chagrin.
He was a puppy dog compared to the woman orchestrating my sentence, Registrar Macbeth.
Registrar Macbeth was cruel and unusual. I don’t know why I had the misguided notion that the situation had the potential to turn into something fun. Maybe it’s because it was the summertime, and I watched too much Salute Your Shorts as a kid, but I was dead wrong. She had pushed the museum to have me arrested, and when they told her they refused to throw the book at a student, she took it personally. I didn’t know it yet, but I had become her singular focus. Later I found out that, after my time was served, she had unsuccessfully petitioned the university to keep me from walking at graduation.
The first thing Registrar Macbeth had me do was go to every important person in the building, tell them my name, explain what I had done, and then apologize. It was a classic humiliation technique, specifically designed to make me feel as small as possible. I’ve always been an ardent believer in paying karmic debts, so I held my head high and took that walk of shame in stride. When we were done, she sent me to the wood shop to break old set pieces with a sledgehammer. I overheard her cackling in delight about making me sweat.
During my time of forced volunteerism at the museum, they were ardently preparing for a fundraiser. Costumes were being sewn; sets were being constructed; orders were being placed. It was masquerade-themed, if memory serves. One of the tasks I had been assigned was stuffing envelopes with invitations and writing out the corresponding addresses. Registrar Macbeth knew I had poor handwriting; we had discussed it, and she even asked me for a sample. Still, she made me write out probably a hundred just so she could tell me to start over. Every time she grabbed a sample to inspect, she made a loud meal out of telling me how bad they were so everyone around could hear. After firing me from that task, she gave me a list of 500 donors and had me compare each name with local obituaries to check for proof of life.
It wasn’t often that I was able to shake her, but even the few times I managed it, Caliban the Loyal was always within spitting distance. Once I was asked to deliver something from one office to another, and he was waiting for me when I got out of the elevator. He accused me of casing the corridors for potential theft and laid into me about what a monster I had to have been for touching that chair to begin with. All the while, I ignored him and kept walking. Hour by hour, day by day, I took it.
One afternoon, in desperation, they had me work in the gift shop to cover for a woman who had gone home sick. I remember Registrar MacBeth telling me that she couldn’t trust me not to steal, so she counted the register in front of me and assigned someone to count it after I left. In the meantime, I was only allowed to take personal checks or cash with exact change, which I could slide into the register through a small slit. Before she left, she pointed to a camera in the corner of the room and told me she there would always be someone watching me.
A pinnacle moment of the experience came when I found myself in the serious office of a serious man. It’s been so long now, I can’t remember his title, but he wore a suit, and everyone seemed to busy themselves when he walked around. He never yelled, seeming well-practiced at remaining firm yet conversational. He told me that he believed I hadn’t meant to do any harm, that he thought I was a good kid, but that sometimes it’s important to get stung. I have carried that with me ever since.
Towards the end of my tenure, after Registrar MacBeth had taken several pounds of flesh and was starting to grow bored with torturing me, I was sent to help put together costumes for the masquerade. I sat in silence hot gluing plastic gems to masks in the company of this woman named Sage, older than me but barely. She would glance in my direction every so often, wiggle her mouth as if on the verge of speaking, and then go back to working.
“It’s fucked up, how they’re treating you,” she finally said.
That started a conversation that went on for a long time. I had met several friendly faces at the museum, but Sage was genuinely warm. She told me she had watched the security footage of my misdeed and had laughed so hard she asked the security team to rewind it for her. I learned that she was from my hometown and knew my friend Jefrey’s mom. She told me that everyone hated Registrar MacBeth, that she always showed up late, took multiple hour lunches, and pawned the bulk of her work onto the interns. There was something spiritually familiar about Sage, like a forgotten favorite song buried deep in the nostalgia caves of my memory.
“Honestly, you should just take off,” she said to me after a laugh.
“I would love that,” I told her, “But I’ve still got a few hours left to serve.”
“Seriously,” she said, shifting her tone to match, “You’ve done your time. I’ll tell them I let you go, and I’ll take the heat. Get out of here; go enjoy the rest of your summer.”
After double-checking that she was sure, I pushed open the double doors and never stepped foot in that museum again.
…
The Aftermath
Not long after I found my freedom from the museum, I started working at the Georgia Bar.
I didn’t let the chair incident occupy much space in my mind after that. I turned the whole thing into a terrible short story, but that’s just something you do when you’re in your early 20s. Gradually it washed away until I stopped thinking about it altogether. As seedy as the bar could be, perhaps I still remember it so fondly because everyone there accepted me into their merry band with open arms regardless of the stains I felt I had on my name.
When you’re young, everything seems trivial because you secretly believe you’re going to live forever anyway. Life hasn’t taught you yet that nothing gold can stay, so you earnestly believe that it will. That’s why youth is associated with arrogance, and what a blissful and important arrogance it is. The world is in such a hurry to teach you a lesson that it strips away your innocence in fistfuls whenever it can. Then we have the audacity to say that youth is wasted on the young.
The silver lining of consequences is that they either teach you how to be a better criminal or how to keep your fingernails clean. I despise confrontation and abhor the inevitable condescension that follows a proper dressing down, so my malfeasances tend to teach me a life lesson. Perhaps its intention, maybe it’s a manifestation, but either way it sticks.
The chair incident is unique, though, because it taught me the more important lesson of how to properly treat those in my care. I’m thankful for Registrar Macbeth because she taught me that I never wanted to make anyone else feel the way she made me feel. Writing this out tonight, I can honestly say that the hatred in my heart for her has turned to pity. If she was willing to terrorize a scared kid hour after hour, day after day, her personal life must have been dreadfully empty. It all seemed so pointless at the time, but I genuinely hope it gave her meaning. If her mission was to give me a lifelong avoidance of museums, she succeeded.
Now that the dust has settled, and so many years have passed, I realize that the true hero of this story has always been Sage. We met that one time, for no more than an hour, and I still think about her because she showed me grace. She hadn’t cared what I had done, didn’t listen to the whispers, felt no draw toward the gossip. All she wanted to do was remind me that I was OK.
Let’s all try to be a little more like Sage.
