Independence Day
THE SCENE: I awake, having as usual dreamed of an evening at the Green Dragon Tavern with Dr. Joseph Warren, John Adams, and Mark Twain, but find as I open my eyes that these phantoms dissipate, and my evening was in fact spent in equally merry but as of yet less historical company. I recall, fondly, the dinner Strach recounts below; I recall the party She-Hubbs cites, I recall continued drinking (Mount Gay rums over ice, lemon twist) at my home. I recall above all holding forth grandly but inaccurately on many subjects on which I feel passionately but am ill-informed. Chunster, whose calming presence on my couch had given me comfort, has removed himself in the night. It occurs to me that I need to recover my swimtrunks from Club 331.
This was not a purely practical mission, however. I am fond of visiting in tranquility the sites of recent mayhem - for this and other reasons I cannot make murder my profession. In college I was member of a club comprised of aesthetes who took delight in making and then reviewing glorious messes.
I know, too, that V. Danger has a slab of bacon, bacon intended for two rabbits which are doubtless still where they were - defrosting in V.'s bathroom sink. The thought of twinning the pleasures of bacon and fellowship is an irresistible temptation. I find in my fridge a package of Trader Joe's Home Brown Hash Browns, and off I set.
The scene at Club 331 - V. in boxer-briefs and a sportcoat, every dish in the place soiled. One faces that classic dilemma for 331 visitors - do I drink out of a cup known to have been used as a dip spitoon?
V. and I struggle amiably, making several batches of failed hash browns, destroying bacon, cleaning pots as necessary until we stumble on it. The perfect sandwich: slice of baguette, Cabot Vermont sharp cheddar, bacon.
This is of course extremely salty, so we wash it down with Diet 7-Up (hattip: Strach) and vanilla ice cream.
Thus satisfied, savoring the pleasures of freedom which we have done nothing to earn, I congratulate myself with a glass of Marker's Mark. And the day begins.
This was not a purely practical mission, however. I am fond of visiting in tranquility the sites of recent mayhem - for this and other reasons I cannot make murder my profession. In college I was member of a club comprised of aesthetes who took delight in making and then reviewing glorious messes.
I know, too, that V. Danger has a slab of bacon, bacon intended for two rabbits which are doubtless still where they were - defrosting in V.'s bathroom sink. The thought of twinning the pleasures of bacon and fellowship is an irresistible temptation. I find in my fridge a package of Trader Joe's Home Brown Hash Browns, and off I set.
The scene at Club 331 - V. in boxer-briefs and a sportcoat, every dish in the place soiled. One faces that classic dilemma for 331 visitors - do I drink out of a cup known to have been used as a dip spitoon?
V. and I struggle amiably, making several batches of failed hash browns, destroying bacon, cleaning pots as necessary until we stumble on it. The perfect sandwich: slice of baguette, Cabot Vermont sharp cheddar, bacon.
This is of course extremely salty, so we wash it down with Diet 7-Up (hattip: Strach) and vanilla ice cream.
Thus satisfied, savoring the pleasures of freedom which we have done nothing to earn, I congratulate myself with a glass of Marker's Mark. And the day begins.
posted by SC at 9:25 AM
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