Have I told you already, perhaps you've already noticed: my nostalgia problem. Roughly summarized: "you're living in the past, man."

I'm dangerously nostalgic. Maybe it's because the past is just easier for me to handle: it's familiar, charted, known. Or, alternately, it could be... some other reason.

In any case, my visit to Lawrence this weekend — walking the same paths, falling into the same rhythms — neatly demonstrates my nostalgia problem.

Roughly problematized: I write off the present and the immediate future. I did it for about six months at Lawrence, perhaps my entire five months in Freiburg, and I'm into a record-setting eights months here in Chicago.

One result of this mindset is that, barring some "random socialization" motivated mostly by guilt, I put so much store in the friends I already have that I don't put much effort into making new ones. I figure I have friends from the past, and in the long term I'm leaving anyways.

Even when I start to take a place seriously, both types of friend — the conventional "I enjoy hanging out with this person" category and that conceptual minefield that is my extra-special all-of-Lawrence-thinks-I'm-crazy "freund" category — seem to take far too long for me to make. When I eventually realize that someone is a friend, it seems like I'm moving on already.

This is especially ironic when you factor in my habitual snap-judgments. I know very quickly that I want to hang out with these people, and yet when did I start hanging out with Ben? Or feel comfortable alone in a room with Jubb?

Jubb actually waged quite the campaign to acclimate me, as I recall.

So it was natural that the first question the Politician asked me during his brief cameo this weekend — he retrieved three of us from a Co-op party as if we were soldiers trapped behind enemy lines — was the same question he's asked me, with varying responses, on any number of occasions:

"So, Dan, are we friends yet?"

I answered yes, but he'll probably ask again.

My introversion, cynicism, and paranoia all play no small role here, but this isn't about the things you don't like about me. Next you'll be demanding that I give up my beloved jean shorts, grow a mustache, and start working blue.

No, the lesson here is simpler: I need to appreciate what I have. Just as I wouldn't want my dozen-or-so totally jerkin' real friends around in every situation, I shouldn't just dismiss so many people who are regular friends, good acquaintances, or worse.

The Streber and I played a great game of chess this weekend, for example. Freshman Matt and I never hung out one-on-one, but he's a welcome addition to most group activities and he knows when to spike my straight-man sets.

As I recall, even the famed Ann of Stillwater, the archetypal good acquaintance, was fun to hang out with despite factors like her disapproval of Jubb and disagreement with me about some awful movie, maybe it was The Majestic. We might all be better off if we acknowledged the kernel of wisdom in her concept of the "weekend friend."

I don't mean to suggest that I've come to doubt my "freund" category, far from it. And I'm not about to stop judging people, even if I could. Nostalgia has simply made me more tolerant, and if this is where I'm going to end up, why not set out in that direction to begin with?

Or, alternately, it could be... that nostalgia has addled my brain.

Someone said this weekend that it was as if I'd never left. But the visit was bittersweet precisely because I had. Although I could fall into so many of the old rhythms, I could only approximate my life at Lawrence — I had left, not even this Lawrence but an irrevocable one. And I miss that Lawrence.

There are some differences that I noted with grim satisfaction. There are fewer good theme parties, for one thing, certainly nothing like the epic parties we used to throw once a month or so.

The school wasn't inscrutable, however. Downer food is still bland, Frisbee people still disappear at odd times to practice, Co-Op parties still have lousy wine. Lousy wine that gives you a cold because you didn't rinse out the cup.

Everyone is more or less how I remember them. Some have mellowed a bit.

And fun is still fun.

Friday night we played Illuminati. Apologies to Jonas, whom we hadn't played with largely because of my theory that people whom I hate playing Risk with would also suck the fun out of my favorite card game.

It was far from the best Illuminati game I've played (we need to develop the ability to talk and play, or else nascent parties will always end up distracting some of the players), but it was decent. Most of the blame for that terrible, terrible Risk game falls on his former roommate, apparently.

After the game and a brief grill run, we played King's Cup. Again, this wasn't our best game, but it was great to be playing with the right rules and people again. The Politician wasn't there, but it takes a long time to put on that much camo gear, and as it turns out I was eating at Perkins with him just a few hours later.

Ben's girlfriend Emna, whose participation in the game only provided further evidence that she was built by Ben, drank the cup. When I first walked into Brokaw she was playing Tony Hawk, so needless to say I'm downloading Weird Science right now.

I met several Lawrentian people at the Co-Op and elsewhere around campus this weekend: with all due respect to my successor, every time I look at that paper I wish I were still editing it. It was fun to see Layout and the Chief, but I couldn't track down my old old boss, the loutish Representative Man.

Not at Co-Op, not in the VR, not anywhere!

I spent a lot of time this weekend paling around with Jubb, who's still definitely Jubb. On Saturday a bunch of us played frisbee golf at Kaukauna, where I did not do well (36 over), despite some impressive drives. There was a Six-Pack Party (similar to our Tasty Beer Mixer) that night, and after procuring six bottles of precious, precious Kostritzer, I hung out in Ben and Freshman Matt's room with their de facto roommates, Alan and Emna.

Alan, the Politician and Our Bold Hero all sorely miss our political discussions, it's agreed.

Kids, Mariokart is fun even if you're not drinking, and I played a fair bit of that this weekend. This "hanging out and playing video games" tradition must be revived if I live in the Cities this summer.

The Six-Pack Party was pretty good; it folded early so that everyone could go to the bars or to other parties, which was nice because I hadn't yet been in the VR. Not quite the same without VR club, but a pitcher of very good beer was $8. Price-comparison this Friday.

It was at the VR that Belligerent Jubb (action figures coming soon) tried to poke me in the forehead and somehow managed to scratch me on the forehead and poke me in the eye. The ritual markings we'd seen in Alien vs. Predator earlier that day seemed suddenly prophetic.

Luckily we are Olympic-class roommates and all is now forgiven. Because it was traditional, I shared a room with Jubb during my stay, sleeping on his tiny tiny couch. For I am Our Bold Hero, he who sleeps on couches.

Leaving on Sunday I found myself mentally playing a more depressing version of the "Will I see this person again?" game I played back in high school. Back then I daydreamed about calling people out — the calling out is fast becoming a lost art these days — but this time, I just wonder what connections I'll never make again. Huzzah for Lawrence and thank goodness for reunions.

It was fun.