Ann Arbor — One of the perks of this job is periodic trips down memory lane at my alma mater with the fellas. Often I’m here to make fun of bad art at UMMA or gaze at the ever growing high rises, but this visit was a chance to have a little fun.
Visiting your old college has the same distinct feeling as visiting your old elementary school. Everything feels smaller than you remember it. Ghostly, in a way—you no longer exist there, neither do your old friends, but it keeps on moving without you.
Some things never change, though. A quick visit to my old college flop house. Chairs strewn across the front lawn. A fire pit—why didn’t we think of that? A hammock strung across the porch. I wondered if the floors inside are still sticky, the carpet still tattered, if the place still smells like Everclear and weed smoke.

Dozens of pairs of old shoes, laces tied, thrown over the power lines. A new development for Arbor Street, at least since my time. A spillover from Greenwood, with its famous block party. The heart of the student ghetto on the south end of campus, where the power lines have long sagged with the weight of discarded footwear.
Those shoes are a timeless testament to the fleeting presence of youth. They’re the campus version of ancient cave paintings, hands traced on stone. Saying simply, “We were here.” Shoes meant for the ground, given ironic flight. That’s great art.
They serve another purpose these days as well, clearly demarcating the lines between new and old Ann Arbor. Downtown keeps gentrifying, houses keep going up, while in the old student areas, those shoes on the power lines mark student turf.
A heartening sight to see. It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, though. Well, rainbows, maybe. Rainbow flags hung all over the damn place, especially on the protestant churches. It’s still Ann Arbor, after all.

Checked into my hotel, left my car with the transgender valet. I’m no bigot, of course I left a tip. Checking in at the desk, the receptionist was another “clocky” transgender. What’s going on at this hotel?
If someone else wants to do some investigative reporting about the Ann Arbor hotel industry’s takeover by a transgender mafia, go for it. I had more important business to attend to: beers at Ashley’s and dinner at the Jamaican Jerk Pit. Which, by the way, is still the greatest restaurant in Ann Arbor.
Bab’s Underground for cocktails. That spot was revolutionary 10 years ago, a speakeasy hidden away in an office building. It was buzzing, I couldn’t even get a spot on the pool tables. Seemed like an older crowd, millennials, grad students. I’ll forgive the bartender for not knowing what a Boulevardier is. My hipster ass thought they’d gone mainstream.

The fellas called it a night, but I wanted to scope out the scene, get a feel for the nightlife. Tuesday night was a huge bar night 10 years ago, believe it or not. Not anymore—Scorekeepers was closed, to my surprise, and Rick’s was completely dead.
Pinball Pete’s was lively, though, the arcade bustling on a Tuesday night. The 8 Ball Saloon, likewise, was packed with students drinking beer, shooting darts, and playing pool. They were good, too. The pool players didn’t miss. A few students took out some board games and piled into the booths, setting up to play.
Anime played on the bar TV, the whole place shining with red lights. Someone tell the Peaters: Put raw milk and orange juice on the menu, and this would be the place for them.

Contrary to public opinion, the students weren’t just sitting at home, scrolling on their phones. Not all of them at least. Zoomers may drink less, their social priorities may have shifted, but they were still out and about. Foregoing the Tuesday dancing and binge drinking of their millennial forebears, but out in the world, living, enjoying group activities.
Pedantic commentators love to bemoan the purported decline of the youth. To ascribe their own misanthropy to the younger generations. To blame them for the neverending march of time. It’s all projection of their fear of getting older, of becoming irrelevant themselves.
Vivek Ramaswamy led the charge on this recently, proclaiming the ascendency of the foreign nerds, the decline of American youth, the necessity for kids to study more and have less fun. No playing pool at the bar for you, Michigan men, go home and study science!
It’s a good thing America’s young people are too headstrong to listen to that garbage. The selfishness of youth is a virtue. It allows them to live without spiralling into the moral panic of fearful idealogues. To enjoy the world and stake a claim to a life well lived.
Spare us the pandering lectures, and let the kids have their fun. Leave the shoes up on the power lines, and never try to take them down.
Bobby Mars is an artist, alter ego, and former art professor. Follow him on X @bobby_on_mars.