The narrative of America, as I see it in this context, is as follows: labor, indolence, excess, with a smattering of low quality lagers and a large amount of home cooked food.
The labor didn't happen this weekend, because damn it, I took three summer courses and felt entitled* to loaf about on my couch watching reality television in which I had no interest beyond the simple fact that it was on Hulu and you can set up continuous play, and that minimized the number of times I had to not be on my couch.
So labor was taken care of before all of this went down, which is, of course, basically the American Dream. It's like I was retiring to Florida, except instead of putting on Bermuda Shorts I put on no pants at all.¹
But indolence. Man, was I prepared for indolence. Friday I was indolent. I laid around, watching television, and took upwards of three naps. Three. I essentially got two nights worth of sleep between Thursday and Friday night. And I picked up indolence again on the Fourth, when JWR and I spent the day eating, playing board games, and watching netflix. There was a point at which we went outside, and another point at which JWR leaned out the window to take a picture of the sunset because I was too lazy to get up and look at it myself.
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| Bronx, July 4. The sky ablaze before the sky went ablaze. |
We ate like Americans, which is to say we ate food of low sophistication and high deliciousness in excess and accompanied by Pabst Blue Ribbon. There were hot dogs, which we cooked on my cast iron grill in the absence of a charcoal barbeque; peach and nectarine crisp; tortilla chips; and potato salad.
But not just any potato salad, because there was one day this weekend during which I both remained in the Bronx and moved more than between my couch and computer. On Sunday, as I was watching more reality television, I had the urge to cook. And I had the urge to cook American food, which is where the crisp came from, as well. And I thought, potato salad is American. And then I thought, American potato salad is inferior to the potato salad of my childhood, which is a German style particular to some region that I've never been able to determine (because so many regions screw it up). So I called home, got advice from M&D, because M makes it and D has spent his life eating it (he makes it, too, but more important is that he knows how it should taste). And I made it. And this--this simple act of recreating potato salad--was the crowning achievement of my week.
The other day that saw me leave the Bronx, Saturday, also saw me ride the A train from one terminus to the other. I traveled every single stop on the southern branch of the A, from 207th Street in Inwood to Far Rockaway Beach. And there, I was also truly American. My friend Boyds and I donned our bathing suits and lounged in the sun, got sunburns, and swam in the Atlantic Ocean. Then, we went and ate deep fried seafood and fries and drank Coronas on a restaurant porch with the Empire State building in the distance.
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| From Point A to Point A (S). Public Transportation to the max. |
Today, I am feeling indolent again, but will manage to putz around in preparation for my departure at the end of the week. It will be a slow putz, because the weather is said to be heading into the 90s today and my little fan, which has been on for close to 36 hours now, can only oscillate so far. Maybe I'll watch some reality TV.
Notes:
* Entitlement, particularly among the youth of today, is another symbol of American-ness. Once we reach the end of this post, and all of my achievements have been tallied, I will expect some sort of medal celebrating my commitment to this nation--but it should be mailed to me, because I shouldn't have to go get it.
¹ Because pants are for people who have to go to work or school.
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