There’s something entirely obscene, leftist, and entirely improper about a passel of warm bodies tossed casually about your apartment on a Tuesday night, singing along to the Smiths, buzzing to Port and Indian snackage. What positively bourgeois communistic sadists would deign to hold some form of elitist gathering every Tuesday evening?
We are sad, sad men, to be pitied.
The only thing missing, besides a couple of close friends, most of whom I called while drunk – on cheap, bitter wine and velvety Port – were some cloves, which along with the drinking, I have given up for lent. Thanksfully, lent is almost done, so I will finally be able to give into my more primal urges on a regular basis, without the backslider’s attendant guilt.
I’m so depressed at breaking my Easter vows, that I drink even more, a foul, vicious psychological cycle leaving me grinning madly, collapsed in a chair on a porch beneath a beautiful moon and a cool Spring breeze.
And then there was the Smiths. Loudly. We sang. Roy danced. I was jelloed out, wherever I managed to come to rest. Forget the other excellent music, the wonderful discussions with “people who actually think for themselves”; we can all stop pretending now. This wasn’t Church. This was Heaven, and the Smiths were the chorus of Angels.
I briefly wondered about the rest of the Angels. Staring out at the fragrant Woodlands night, I wondered where they were, what they were doing, and just thinking about them made me smile. I was Grand. Magnanimous. Damn Skippy. And that obnoxious grin, something pagan and entirely un-protestant, is still painted across my face.
Sad, sad men indeed.