I can still remember my first time ... on Mill Avenue, that is. (Sorry, they tell me that sex sells).
I was a savvy young 13-year-old, full of self-loathing and melodrama (like all good pre-teens should be) walking the streets of Mill (in a very un-hooker like fashion).
It was 1992: Grunge was still in its fetal years, 90210 cast members had yet to hit the ripe age of 30, and I longed to be a part of Arsenio Hall's "Dog pound."
And in the humble little town of Tempe, it was time for the New Year's Eve Block Party. My first taste of real downtown living! I was free from my parents' clutches -- free from their languid browsing that retarded my quest for socialization and excitement. Not that stopping at every shop to compliment the wall hangings wasn't my idea of a good time, but ... did I mention I was 13?
Anyway, there I was, Sprite in hand, standing atop a mailbox, pretending to be intoxicated. Stupid, yes, I know, but keep in mind that the Block Party had yet to evolve into the fast-paced, fun-filled frenzy that it is now (i.e., it didn't have the giant Tostitos chip).
I wasn't really drunk, of course, but I was high from the feeling of being on Mill for the first time. After all, my social life had thus far consisted of being dropped off at the mall by my Aunt Bea, or around the corner of the movie theater so no one would hear her remind me to keep my "knickers" on when "the boys came a prowlin."
OK, so I don't have an Aunt Bea, and I've never heard anyone even use the term "knickers," but you can see what a dilapidated teen-life has done to my imagination. Back to the story!
I was quite the attraction up there on my perch, stumbling and slurring, wavering and wailing. Aside from the concerned/annoyed adult figures that stopped to lecture me on the pitfalls of alcohol, I seemed to draw a large crowd of men, who were certainly (and actually) drunk themselves.
Before I knew it, I was trying to convince two handsome French-Canadians that I was indeed 13 and not 21 as they thought I was (did I mention that I was also the victim of early-development in the chestal region?).
Their plight didn't last long, however, as they ran in fright from my ogre-like father bearing down on them from around the corner.
"Sacre bleu! Lez get out of here, eh," they screamed as my father shook his fist.
My Mill experience was over faster than Arsenio's career. And now, 10 years later, nothing seems to be the same (i.e., French and Canadian? What was I thinking?!)
Just like a pubescent young girl, Mill has experienced an overwhelming bout of change, and things have gotten a little "hairy" because of it.
The Ave. has since seen a facelift sure to make even Cher jealous. The streets are no longer as sparse as they were those 10 years ago. The Big Daddy corporations have replaced Mom and Pop. And a drunk 13-year-old girl is just another punk on the corner.
Tempe has changed its tempo so quickly, we're not sure whether to fall in line with the rest of the Big City consumers, or rebel like the good tofu-eating, socially-conscious, capital-hating, Jeff-Buckley-listening, equally melodramatic as a pre-teen but for different reasons, college students that we're supposed to be. Oh, what to do?!
Do we embrace the expanded luxuries that large corporations like Borders bring us, or do we mourn the quirky niche of the long-lost Changing Hands Bookstore?
Do we take that new, squeaky-clean escalator into the painted sky and eat like kings at The Bamboo Club, or do we vow our dedication and appetites to the smaller joints like Boa Café and Bento Bar?
Do we follow the sheep that welcome this speedy transition to a fully-fledged urban America downtown? Or do we follow the sheep that fight and fear the change?
Either way, it looks like we're stuck with "Baahhhhhh" as our motto.
But it doesn't have to be that way. Mill Avenue may be changing, and Tempe may be whoring itself out to the urban sprawl pimp, but that doesn't mean you have to be its John. Who says that because Bank of Americas are popping up on every 50 feet of the street, you have to trade your hemp pancho for a tennis sweater around your neck? And who's to say that just because you'll pay $80 for a tank top at Urban Angels Boutique, you don't care about global warming or starving children in China? Not me!
Floor plans, projections, budget scenarios ... these things may alter the outside appearance of our environment, but they lack the power to change us on the inside. You can remain a mom-and-pop kind of person while your neighbor drowns in retail prices and commercialism. Or, you can bathe in the excitement that our new downtown brings, while allowing those less enthralled patrons to pass by peacefully.
Perhaps the key is to look into the future while holding steadfast to our own individual memories/opinions of what a downtown should be, and what Mill Ave brings to your life.
Unless, of course, those memories involve phony intoxication, foreign men and a furious father ... that one's mine.
Reach Ashlea Deahl at dashlea@hotmail.com
