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T H E -- B L E A T--- 07 . 05 . 00
First, the grill. Clean it. This means dragging the removable grills inside and scrubbing them in the sink. Dirty, miserable work. It is impossible NOT to drip dirty char-juice on the floor when you take the grills outside.
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Arrange porch. Bring out all the chairs, including the white folding chairs that only get used during a barbecue. Stop; enjoy sight; smile. Life is good.
Now BACK TO WORK |
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Start meat. Is this enough? |
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Of course not! This is America! More meat! More! |
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Voila! People magically appear, drawn from all over the city by the aroma of incinerated animal flesh.
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Then they’re gone. Did you talk to everyone? Catch up? Were you distracted by duty while someone told a crucial anecdote? Did you kiss all the babies, refill all the drinks, change the CDs soon enough? The point of a party is to have everyone over, serve them food, and run around for six hours until everyone goes and you realize you didn’t spend more than four minutes talking to anyone. It would be nice if people would leave a detailed account of their recent activities when they left; after all the guests are gone, you can sit down with your spouse and read their letters.
It was great fun. The only problem was, as usual, the effect of neighborhood fireworks on Jasper Dog, who is still so spooked he’s sitting in the well of my desk right now; he never does that. And when I go downstairs in a moment to polish off that Opus X he will be right along side, and he won’t leave. When the fireworks began he was frantic - it wasn’t enough that he wanted to get away, but he wanted others to get away. He didn’t just bolt for the basement - he would try to push me away, and became almost hysterical when no one heeded his warnings.
In dog terms, the Fourth is one of those days that utterly overloads the senses - all these people, all these smells, all this food, an unbelievable supper (brats! Ribs! Marrow!) and then the hideous fireworks. Everything’s turned up to 10, non stop, all day.
In human terms it’s the same, I suppose, but year to year it gets more sedate. But - if a couple other people known for their late late hours had been able to make it, phase two of the party would be starting just now, and I’d be out there shouting and laughing. And that would be fine. I’m not; that’s fine, too.
Everything’s fine.
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Now I’m going downstairs to finish that cigar. All the porch lights are out except for the flag lights. For once, I’m not going to take anything to read. Or a stack of work to edit. Or a camera to take low-lux pix. I’m just going to sit and think about nothing.
And then come back up here and work on the book. Five days to the deadline; slacking off can only be done in small potent portions. |
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