my saturday in meat
27 June 2006
When I woke up on Sunday morning, it was 6am. I had a hangover, heartburn, a headache, and the runs. And I really don’t regret it.
Aside from a month-long flirtation with vegetarianism, I love me some meat. I make no apologies for this. As I debated with my vegetarian friends, God put animals on earth so that we human beings could conquer, eat, and wear them. Don’t argue with me – it’s fucking nature, man.
[Though I say this, please don’t confuse me as some Ted Nugent-whacko – even thinking of hunting makes me cry. I like it when other people do the killing and I see the animal in a presentable and pretty form, like covered in mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce or with a side of potatoes au gratin and creamed spinach.]
In order to further celebrate my love for meat, I went to a barbeque in Brooklyn on Saturday. I don’t usually go to Brooklyn, but the promise of all that meat and flames and beer was just too much to resist. So I gathered myself, got on the subway (on a weekend!), and headed to the outer boroughs.
En route, I stopped at my former roommate Brian’s new place ("ex-roommate" is just too painful). When he moved out, he found a place in Brooklyn in Williamsburg. For those of you unfamiliar with Williamsburg, it is a place in New York City that you live in if a) you like bands that no one else has heard of; b) you love irony; c) you have tattoos and/or play an instrument; and most importantly d) you were picked on in high school.
But Brian’s little corner of Williamsburg does not belong to the hipsters, but rather to the people who stab the hipsters. His neighborhood is dotted with bodegas that intimidating looking Hispanic men, with their tattoos of Jesus and various names, stand outside of. Needless to say, ever since I was stabbed in the Puerto Rico Day Parade in 1996, I have an irrational fear of Latinos, so we basically saw Brian’s place (which is lovely) and high-tailed it over to the other part of Williamsburg.
The hosts of the barbeque, Greg and Amit, do not belong in Williamsburg. They wear polo shirts and button downs, some of them strange colors like yellow and pink. Their taste in music is, um, well I don’t know about their taste in music, but I’m guessing they’re not into Be Your Own Pet or Beirut or Tapes ‘n Tapes. They work respectable businessy type jobs and do not play instruments, direct, or graphically design. I would say that they are more suited for the Financial District, Murray Hill, or the Upper East Side. But they found a nice place in Williamsburg and that’s where they live.
Brian and I arrived at the barbeque, which was temporarily being held in Greg and Amit’s apartment because of the rain, after a solid twenty minute walk. We immediately headed into one of the bedrooms where Brian and I stayed, with five or so friends, until the food was served. This was pretty typical of us; refusing to meet new people, drinking beers in the coolest (read: most air conditioned) room in the house, waiting to eat. We are truly party animals.
With Greg manning the grill outside in the rain, hot dogs were soon shuttled up to the apartment. I’m always cautious about eating in front of people, probably because I’m fat and have a beard. For this reason, I try to eat secretly. Whenever I’m in a part setting, I constantly fear that a group of people is watching me eat and talking about me:
Guy in Group 1: "Hey, look at Fat Chops over there wolfing down the hot dogs."
Girl in Group 1: "Jesus, if he doesn’t slow down he’s going to cho-"
[Jason starts choking]
Guy in Group 2: "And he’s choking…"
Girl in Group 1: "Wow, he is really turning blue."
Guy in Group 1: "Yeah, but he’s still putting away those hot dogs."
Girl in Group 2: "Look, he’s fallen but he won’t take his hand away from the nachos!"
So when the first group of hot dogs came out, though I was hungry, I did not partake. I watched. And waited.
More hot dogs were followed by burgers. The rain stopped and the group went outside. Greg continued to grill. It was about time to strike.
I surveyed the room and determined that most of the people had eaten. Not only that, people were getting progressively drunken and playing drinking games and conversing – they were no longer standing around awkwardly, looking for people to make fun of (well, my friends and I were, but not the other people at the party). Satisfied with the current conditions, I grabbed a hot dog and a burger.
I huddled among my five or so friends who, as we are not interested in talking to others, were standing off to the side talking about a recent fantasy baseball trade I made (I gave up Kenny Rogers, Brett Myers, the closer for Pittsburgh, and Bill Hall for Manny Ramirez – score!). By the time the players involved in the trade were listed, I was done the burger. By the time my buddy Bob could say, "That trade stinks!", the hot dog was gone. And I was walking back for more.
I think that because I was never athletic or handsome or even very clean growing up, I get competitive and very serious about certain things. Of course, I can’t think of a good example right now (I’m in the midst of a Xanax hangover), but my stealth eating is one. I felt, in many ways, like a ninja closing in on his target or a tiger about to attack his prey. Simply put, I ate, quietly and quickly, three hot dogs and three burgers in under ten minutes – without even my circle of friends knowing. I’m not sure what satisfied me more – the juicy cheese-covered beef of those burgers and the pigeon, leather, and couch in those hot dogs or the fact that I was so secret, so smooth, and so gloriously fat.
The price I paid, of course, was severe indigestion and gastrointestinal discomfort. There were maybe 30 or 40 people at the barbeque, many of them women, and Greg and Amit’s apartment had only one bathroom. I have no problem pulling a stealth poo and have done so in the past in similar circumstances, but the fact that the bathroom was right in the kitchen area, where numerous people were congregating, was enough for me to take a deep breath, move some stuff around in the ol’ tummy, and plan for the future.
We stayed at Greg and Amit’s place for many hours (four? five? six?) until the beer ran out. By the time we left, I was feeling pretty good: drunk, full, and no longer suffering from shit pains. The bar would be a new and glorious chapter in the day/night, and I was looking forward to trying to kiss someone with my hot dog breath.
Then on the way to the bar, a discovery that changed everything: a White Castle was next to the bar.
White Castle is disgusting. The burgers are tiny and 60% of their composition is grease, which means the buns are like wet sponges. Walking in there makes one feel fatter by association. The whole thing is just gross. There is no defense for this, except that when drunk, there is nothing better than a sack of White Castles burgers.
(I realize that drunken love-making is probably better than a sack of burgers, but you have to write what you know, ok?)
The bar, which promised to be a fun time, immediately changed from a night of revelry and drinking to "When can I sneak out of here to go get some more burgers?" when the White Castle was discovered. You see, there is no White Castle in Manhattan. The only time I am privy to the drunken orgy that is White Castle is when I am either in Jersey or now, apparently, Brooklyn. This was a once-every-six-months opportunity. I was not about to pass it up.
So I hung at the bar, having some drinks, all the while biding my time. After a couple of pints, I pulled what my old roommate Brian calls an "Irish Exit": I told those I was standing with that I was going outside to make a call and went straight to the White Castle to grab some burgers then head home.
The great debate in the White Castle was between a six pack of burgers and a ten pack. Though I easily could have handled the ten pack, in a rare moment of self-restraint, I went with the six pack and a large Sprite (no caffeine so late at night).
I stumbled out of the White Castle, not so much because I was drunk but because I was happy, and luckily hailed a yellow cab heading back into Manhattan. By the time I was on the Williamsburg Bridge, I had eaten three of the six and had to convince myself to slow down – I wanted to enjoy the last three back at my apartment.
And enjoy I did. So delicately did I pull the greasy squishy squares out of their stained cardboard holders that it was like I was making love. Each bite, in my drunken/sensual state, was an experience. I was happy. Very happy.
After finishing the last one, I polished off the Sprite and laid down on my couch to enjoy some Heart videos of VH1 Classic. Then I woke up four hours later, a physical mess.
And truly, though I spent my Sunday consuming a concotion of Pepto, Nexium, and Gatorade, I have no complaints. There are no circumstances under which I will choose a night hanging out with friends over the promise of delicious meat. If this makes me a bad friend, which I’m pretty sure it does, I’m sorry. Don’t blame me – it’s just nature.
Aside from a month-long flirtation with vegetarianism, I love me some meat. I make no apologies for this. As I debated with my vegetarian friends, God put animals on earth so that we human beings could conquer, eat, and wear them. Don’t argue with me – it’s fucking nature, man.
[Though I say this, please don’t confuse me as some Ted Nugent-whacko – even thinking of hunting makes me cry. I like it when other people do the killing and I see the animal in a presentable and pretty form, like covered in mozzarella cheese and tomato sauce or with a side of potatoes au gratin and creamed spinach.]
In order to further celebrate my love for meat, I went to a barbeque in Brooklyn on Saturday. I don’t usually go to Brooklyn, but the promise of all that meat and flames and beer was just too much to resist. So I gathered myself, got on the subway (on a weekend!), and headed to the outer boroughs.
En route, I stopped at my former roommate Brian’s new place ("ex-roommate" is just too painful). When he moved out, he found a place in Brooklyn in Williamsburg. For those of you unfamiliar with Williamsburg, it is a place in New York City that you live in if a) you like bands that no one else has heard of; b) you love irony; c) you have tattoos and/or play an instrument; and most importantly d) you were picked on in high school.
But Brian’s little corner of Williamsburg does not belong to the hipsters, but rather to the people who stab the hipsters. His neighborhood is dotted with bodegas that intimidating looking Hispanic men, with their tattoos of Jesus and various names, stand outside of. Needless to say, ever since I was stabbed in the Puerto Rico Day Parade in 1996, I have an irrational fear of Latinos, so we basically saw Brian’s place (which is lovely) and high-tailed it over to the other part of Williamsburg.
The hosts of the barbeque, Greg and Amit, do not belong in Williamsburg. They wear polo shirts and button downs, some of them strange colors like yellow and pink. Their taste in music is, um, well I don’t know about their taste in music, but I’m guessing they’re not into Be Your Own Pet or Beirut or Tapes ‘n Tapes. They work respectable businessy type jobs and do not play instruments, direct, or graphically design. I would say that they are more suited for the Financial District, Murray Hill, or the Upper East Side. But they found a nice place in Williamsburg and that’s where they live.
Brian and I arrived at the barbeque, which was temporarily being held in Greg and Amit’s apartment because of the rain, after a solid twenty minute walk. We immediately headed into one of the bedrooms where Brian and I stayed, with five or so friends, until the food was served. This was pretty typical of us; refusing to meet new people, drinking beers in the coolest (read: most air conditioned) room in the house, waiting to eat. We are truly party animals.
With Greg manning the grill outside in the rain, hot dogs were soon shuttled up to the apartment. I’m always cautious about eating in front of people, probably because I’m fat and have a beard. For this reason, I try to eat secretly. Whenever I’m in a part setting, I constantly fear that a group of people is watching me eat and talking about me:
Guy in Group 1: "Hey, look at Fat Chops over there wolfing down the hot dogs."
Girl in Group 1: "Jesus, if he doesn’t slow down he’s going to cho-"
[Jason starts choking]
Guy in Group 2: "And he’s choking…"
Girl in Group 1: "Wow, he is really turning blue."
Guy in Group 1: "Yeah, but he’s still putting away those hot dogs."
Girl in Group 2: "Look, he’s fallen but he won’t take his hand away from the nachos!"
So when the first group of hot dogs came out, though I was hungry, I did not partake. I watched. And waited.
More hot dogs were followed by burgers. The rain stopped and the group went outside. Greg continued to grill. It was about time to strike.
I surveyed the room and determined that most of the people had eaten. Not only that, people were getting progressively drunken and playing drinking games and conversing – they were no longer standing around awkwardly, looking for people to make fun of (well, my friends and I were, but not the other people at the party). Satisfied with the current conditions, I grabbed a hot dog and a burger.
I huddled among my five or so friends who, as we are not interested in talking to others, were standing off to the side talking about a recent fantasy baseball trade I made (I gave up Kenny Rogers, Brett Myers, the closer for Pittsburgh, and Bill Hall for Manny Ramirez – score!). By the time the players involved in the trade were listed, I was done the burger. By the time my buddy Bob could say, "That trade stinks!", the hot dog was gone. And I was walking back for more.
I think that because I was never athletic or handsome or even very clean growing up, I get competitive and very serious about certain things. Of course, I can’t think of a good example right now (I’m in the midst of a Xanax hangover), but my stealth eating is one. I felt, in many ways, like a ninja closing in on his target or a tiger about to attack his prey. Simply put, I ate, quietly and quickly, three hot dogs and three burgers in under ten minutes – without even my circle of friends knowing. I’m not sure what satisfied me more – the juicy cheese-covered beef of those burgers and the pigeon, leather, and couch in those hot dogs or the fact that I was so secret, so smooth, and so gloriously fat.
The price I paid, of course, was severe indigestion and gastrointestinal discomfort. There were maybe 30 or 40 people at the barbeque, many of them women, and Greg and Amit’s apartment had only one bathroom. I have no problem pulling a stealth poo and have done so in the past in similar circumstances, but the fact that the bathroom was right in the kitchen area, where numerous people were congregating, was enough for me to take a deep breath, move some stuff around in the ol’ tummy, and plan for the future.
We stayed at Greg and Amit’s place for many hours (four? five? six?) until the beer ran out. By the time we left, I was feeling pretty good: drunk, full, and no longer suffering from shit pains. The bar would be a new and glorious chapter in the day/night, and I was looking forward to trying to kiss someone with my hot dog breath.
Then on the way to the bar, a discovery that changed everything: a White Castle was next to the bar.
White Castle is disgusting. The burgers are tiny and 60% of their composition is grease, which means the buns are like wet sponges. Walking in there makes one feel fatter by association. The whole thing is just gross. There is no defense for this, except that when drunk, there is nothing better than a sack of White Castles burgers.
(I realize that drunken love-making is probably better than a sack of burgers, but you have to write what you know, ok?)
The bar, which promised to be a fun time, immediately changed from a night of revelry and drinking to "When can I sneak out of here to go get some more burgers?" when the White Castle was discovered. You see, there is no White Castle in Manhattan. The only time I am privy to the drunken orgy that is White Castle is when I am either in Jersey or now, apparently, Brooklyn. This was a once-every-six-months opportunity. I was not about to pass it up.
So I hung at the bar, having some drinks, all the while biding my time. After a couple of pints, I pulled what my old roommate Brian calls an "Irish Exit": I told those I was standing with that I was going outside to make a call and went straight to the White Castle to grab some burgers then head home.
The great debate in the White Castle was between a six pack of burgers and a ten pack. Though I easily could have handled the ten pack, in a rare moment of self-restraint, I went with the six pack and a large Sprite (no caffeine so late at night).
I stumbled out of the White Castle, not so much because I was drunk but because I was happy, and luckily hailed a yellow cab heading back into Manhattan. By the time I was on the Williamsburg Bridge, I had eaten three of the six and had to convince myself to slow down – I wanted to enjoy the last three back at my apartment.
And enjoy I did. So delicately did I pull the greasy squishy squares out of their stained cardboard holders that it was like I was making love. Each bite, in my drunken/sensual state, was an experience. I was happy. Very happy.
After finishing the last one, I polished off the Sprite and laid down on my couch to enjoy some Heart videos of VH1 Classic. Then I woke up four hours later, a physical mess.
And truly, though I spent my Sunday consuming a concotion of Pepto, Nexium, and Gatorade, I have no complaints. There are no circumstances under which I will choose a night hanging out with friends over the promise of delicious meat. If this makes me a bad friend, which I’m pretty sure it does, I’m sorry. Don’t blame me – it’s just nature.
