This is certainly no time for fiction; what matters most now is the preservation of a tradition which touches all our hearts and finds its sweet resolve in the stolid countenance of that long-dead buck on my mantle, a head once attached to a giant hulking body which roamed free and wild among the moss and falling leaves but does so no more, that I might speak to you in its sight, that it might see us talk among ourselves as men have done since antiquity, that it might feel for all time its fundamental helplessness before my massive firepower. Have a seat - the leather sofa is quite comfortable and remains cool even in the somewhat stultifying heat of a Palm Springs August. May I offer you an American beer? It is often said by dilettantes that German beer is superior, and I will say that the Germans have had many good ideas in their day, but as for beer, give me a fine American brew or eight any day. I see you are a man of action - your hands sing the sweet work song of your toil. Perhaps you are a…clerk? No, no congratulations are in order, for it is the same sort of deductive prowess which has given me all of this, the better to feed your hungry eyes, and did I yet say that you have the wasted look of overintellectualism? You think too much, young clerk, and about the wrong things. Oh, rest assured, in time you will come to know the fodder for my own musings, but rest assured that it could not be more dissimilar to your own. Beef Jerky? My wife finds it distasteful, but you and I both know that its pleasure is one of nuance, just as I now observe the high keening sound of an animal in pain. No, no, do not be alarmed - it is nothing. At times my youngest plays a bit rough with his animal friends. You know, as do I, that blood sport is conducive to appetite. Soon he will return and perhaps enjoy a strip of this fine jerky with us. The pleasures of cavorting with one’s own spawn are all-too-often overlooked in the hurlyburly of everyday bustle - let me say that not only have I taught him much about the world and his place in it, but he, in his own way, has brought the shining glow of childhood into my life, and I am the richer for it. You are not a man with children, I would say. No, your passion is of a (how best to put it?)...bookish nature. You smile; I am a witty man, it is true. My wit is of the sort that - Hello son. Come in, sit down. No, you can go to your room later. No, I know that you don’t want to, but sometimes you have to do things that you - (won’t you excuse me? I thank you.) JAMES GRIFFITH THURSBY GET YOUR CONTEMPTIBLE LITTLE ASS IN HERE PRONTO AND LOOK SHARP BECAUSE WE HAVE COMPANY - children today are so - There, now. Now, Jimbo, this is a young man that works with dad at dad’s company. Say hello to him. Now say, "Pleased to meet you." That’s a good boy. Now go get the man another beer. (No, no, it’s all right - the boy loves working for dad, don’t you, Jimmie Dean?) Good. Now go tell Mommy we need a refill on the nuts.
Where were we? While we talk, why don’t you follow me out onto the sundeck. It’s a beautiful evening. Watch that you don’t step on the dog - he does sleep soundly, mmm? Remember that the most restful slumber oft follows defeat, as the escape into the twilit world of dreams is most consoling then. You appear surprised at my turn of phrase; you did not know I was a poet. Well, I am many things to many men - and women, ha ha. Quite the jester I am tonight. Here now: step back or the smoke will hit you as I lift the lid. God that smells good. Truly there is nothing like the satisfaction of broiling dead flesh in a pit. The pungency is Worcestershire - I am a marinade man, myself. But do not think me a man of spoiled appetites. I for one know the true and simple pleasure of a fresh kill, cooked slowly on a stick rotisserie over a campfire of chicory on the banks of a vast blue lake just over the border from Vermont, while in the company of other men, men from all walks of life coming together to enjoy a few blessed hours of fraternal camaraderie and perhaps, just perhaps, to re-ignite that which has been lost to men in the onrush of city life - and again I have surprised you. You would believe that a man who has tasted and savored so much of life, a man who has drunk deep (though, I might add, never casting a blind eye toward moderation) of the sweet wine of experience from a gourd as majestic as this estate (I see that you are admiring the tiles - they are Spanish, each hand crafted via a process of considerable complexity, and may I say that they are VERY EXPENSIVE), you would perchance think that such opulence has blinded me to simple pleasures, and again I would surprise you, for there is, in the very fount of my being, a knowing, I do not know what else to call it, that the simple curvilinear excellence of a well-executed golf swing surpasses perhaps any other enjoyment that I have yet to experience, save for the face of my last Viacom deponent after I had inquired into his role in the ‘92 stock split. Would that I could have framed it. But now, you see, we have come full circle, as the marinade itself is no more than a framing device. And just as no gilded cage will turn shit into gold, no marinade will turn chuck into strip. Again I am witty, and I thank you for your discreet chuckle.
Come nearer to this wall - I have something that I want to show you. These are actual butterfly wings - the handiwork on these was executed by Balinese shamen in the heat of trance. Astonishing what primitives are capable of in the arts. Speaking of such things, my wife and I went to Hawaii last year, and I must say that the natives of that set of islands really know how to bring off a few fire-tricks. And the waitresses! Such long necks! And they remembered what dishes, and where, and never had to write anything down! You won’t find that kind of service around here, not with the kind of skirts they ran around in. My wife and I were both very favorably impressed. There was one charming little lady who served us one night, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five - she swished up to our table like a hot summer wind across a grassy plain, and her eyes were like huge, oh, what were they like, huge SWIMMING POOLS, yes, and I was ready to take the leap into those dark waters, you know, and I stood at the end of that platform and could hear the other kids just DARING me to do it - they were sure I’d fail but I was going to show them because I knew in my heart that I was a very special boy, an unstoppable boy, and I could feel the water dribbling down my back and splattering on the rubberized surface of the platform and it really was high it was higher than it had looked from below but I was going to do it and I wanted everyone there - everyone in the whole world - to look because it was MY TIME and I was invincible and I looked straight at the surface because the depths were too far and I said: "PORK LOIN WITH PINEAPPLE," and I had never been more sure of myself.
Thank you, Deirdre. Would you perhaps care for a peanut? This, by the way, is my wife. (Did you put the potatoes in? Put them in, for God’s sake, or we’ll be out here all fucking night. And get Jimmie to help you. The little shit needs to start pulling his weight around here.) Beautiful, isn’t she? I knew you’d agree. Hard worker, too, even if she does spend her days earning the wages of a peon. What we need, as you know, is less education and more vocational training. Not to say that I can't quote Machiavelli, of course, but rather to insist on the practical efficacy and value of weaving said rhetorical flourishes within a greater fabric of human flourishing, and what are the ingredients of that? Oh, young man, you must read Bennett. Latter day Aristotle. A noble figure, swarthy and whole. Virtuous beyond reproach, and very rich. Hand in hand with the free market and its appurtenances of legalist rationalization, we walk into the twilight of the millenium, virtuous realists. My, yes. Looks like you’re getting a little low on that beer, partner. Follow me back inside and we’ll get you a refill. Better yet, I’ll go get one for you myself - you stay out here and enjoy the night air. And while you’re at it, read this:
OF COURSE, DE QUINCEY WAS A DRUG ADDICT, AND AS SUCH IS NOT WORTH QUOTING AT LENGTH IN THIS CONTEXT, PARTICULARLY SINCE CALVIN IS COMING BACK OUTSIDE. LOOK INTERESTED.
Here you go. Let’s go check on the meat. Ever eaten duck? It’s good, though Deirdre finds it a bit gamy, but then again, half the pleasure is in the killing itself, wouldn’t you say? You’ve got to sneak up on them because they move awfully fast but once you’ve GOT one you BANG her head against a rock and then she’s unconscious, see, and you can do with her what you like, see, and then you FLIP her and she TWITCHES and you GUT HER DOWN THE MIDDLE with a quick swipe (or with a slow sawing motion if you feel like it, what’s she care at this point, right?) and then she, she doesn’t MOVE anymore and you know that’s it, you’ve done it again you clever bastard, you’re master of the jungle again and doesn’t it just feel GOOD to be the lion! I always knew I was the lion, incidentally. No matter what they called me in high school I knew who I was, I knew that in ten years we’d see who came out on top. In ten years fucking Duane McGraw would come home from a hard day’s work at the sewage plant on a day when one of the filters had gotten clogged, the one under Tank 3, damn Tank 3 never seems to work right, if it’s not one thing it’s the other, and the regulators were down too so he’d had to don THE SUIT, god knows everybody hated the suit, and he’d had to GO UNDER to do it manually and dredge out all the too too solid muck that wouldn’t melt and wouldn’t thaw but just sat there jammed into the screens, billowing in the brown acidified haze, and though he’d had the suit and knew that none of it could touch him he still was keenly aware of the sense of tromping around in a giant colon, and he’d get home to the trailer with his wife and five kids screaming at him because a subpoena had arrived that morning because he had been leeching his neighbor’s cable service and I’d take the case for Viacom and I’d crush him like a fucking GNAT. And then we’d see who was Lord of the Goddamned Jungle, wouldn’t we, Duane? Wouldn’t we? Hell YES we would. I would be king! King, I say!
Tell you what - why don’t you come over here and take a look at the view. You can see all the way to the mall up here, and if you look straight across the freeway over there you can see Washburn Field where my boy hit his first triple last week to beat out the Orlando Sprouts 3-1. I was proud of him then (well, not at that moment precisely - I was at work. But you know what I mean) because it was then that he finally showed me the aptitude which I know him to harbor. "Remember, young man," I tell him, "that when the peacock wants to mate, it’s the display that does the trick." That’s why when he brings home a report card full of B’s expecting praise I tell him "B’s are the sign of a young man who isn’t fulfilling the responsibility of his own mind. And what isn’t used, DRIES UP and FALLS OFF." That tends to set him on edge. His lower lip quivers, he looks like he’s going to cry, and you know as well as I do that the only thing worse than a B student is a fucking CRYBABY, and he knows that too because every time he cries I ignore him and call him a woman. So he’s trying not to cry but I can see that he really wants to, almost as much as he doesn’t want to, and he just rides the contradictory hobby-horse until he…just…CAN’T anymore and his face pulls back and turns red and his eyes get all squinty and well up and he starts blubbering and I ignore him and call him a woman. Invariably, he runs to his room and slams the door. My wife tells me that at times like these she thinks I may be a bit hard on the boy, but you and I know that his performance at the game last week says more about my fathering ability than any number of pseudo-psycho-medico assholes she can cite. My boy will be great because I WILL SEE TO IT.
