Hangout Review
Fluffy’s Easter Extravaganza
Fluffy's apartment in Chicago, IL
Sunday, March 25, 2005
I’m not a huge lover of Easter. It kind of disgusts me. I have no problem with Jesus Christ; I love all his albums. But I’ve yet to be convinced that he came back to life after dying on the cross. But that’s not why I dislike Easter. Even though I don’t believe in the resurrection, I think that the notion deserves a little more dignity than it gets, having been lumped in with an egg-and-candy-toting rabbit. It’s unsavory, but I don’t find it all that shocking. Look at what a consumerist fuck-fest this nation of “Christians” has turned Christ’s birthday into. Instead of giving him presents, we buy our fat-assed children X-boxes, so that they might ever expand on the nation’s weary sofas. This is really sad, because the Jesus that I dig was more concerned with helping other people, than serving his own interests. So if you really want to give him a killer birthday present, lend a helping hand in your community, and do it without expecting something in return.
That’s what’s funny about America. We present ourselves to the world as a Christian nation, but so much of our behavior is the polar opposite of Christ’s example. It’s funny when you see the richest and the most corrupt among us giving props to Jesus. Look at Bush. It’s hysterically appropriate that he is our head ambassador. He claims to be a follower of Christ, and talks at length about how letting Christ into his life has opened his heart, but to what? He murders men, women and children in a pathetic effort to line his pockets and keep his like-minded buddies satisfied. All those poor people that Jesus was always trying to help are just scum on the bottom of G.W.’s wing-tip. You know whom he acts the most like? The antichrist. Through and fucking through. But whatever, most politicians, red or blue, would sodomize their own mothers to get in the White House.
As a general rule, people tend to suck, and most of us would rather not wake up from this torrid but acceptable nightmare. I’m inclined to accept this as cutthroat Darwinism. From a survival-of-the-fittest standpoint, it makes sense to slaughter the weak and clear a path for the new model of humanity. Our race is on it’s way to becoming instinctually guileful and greedy. A new species of assholes, it seems appropriate that we be fat as well.
To further confuse matters, Robocop was on the WB at two in the afternoon on Easter. Robocop is one of my favorite movies, but on Easter? There are few movies as graphically violent as Robocop. I highly doubt the head of programming was aware of the hilarious irony of airing such a film on such a day. Officer Murphy, the martyr. A cop, good to the core almost naïve, about corruption, ruthlessly gunned down by thugs who are imbedded in the system. Then he’s brought back to life. Instead of spreading the word, he kills a shit-ton of people, but still. What’s wrong with a more goodly resurrection tale? Maybe they sold the rights to The Karate Kid.
All of my cynicisms about Easter had not only been met, they’d been massively reinforced. But my anguish was alleviated by the invitation my wife and I received to an Easter dinner buffet. A friend of ours, who is known to the world as Fluffy (appropriate, no?), was preparing the meal. He works at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city, and takes handles his Easter buffet with a deadly seriousness. We knew better than to bring a dessert or a dip, so we settled on a large bottle of Knob Creek.
Fluffy’s apartment is charming. All of his furniture is antique, so, aside from the television–which was showing a special on Hollywood murders—it felt like we were in the thirties. Everyone was engaged in fanciful conversation, and most of the men had their legs crossed like ladies. My wife fixed me a vodka drink. I grabbed a handful of crackers and sat on the couch. Aside from the booze and the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, it felt a little like Easter at my mother’s house. She has similar taste in home décor, and she is also very serious about her spread of food. I felt so relaxed that I had another vodka drink and a beer before dinner.
Dinner was effing delightful. Potatoes au gratin, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and HAM! I think I ate twenty slices of swine. I don’t normally eat much meat, but I couldn’t keep my fucking paws off that damn hog. I washed it all down with a more vodka. When that was gone, I broke the seal on the Knob Creek. This is where things started to fall apart. My memories are like shafts of sunlight fractured by Venetian blinds at dusk. Fluffy showed me his Fluffy tattoo and let me take a picture. I watched Kill Bill Vol. 1 and The Chapelle Show. I even entered into an intellectual discussion of Chapelle’s social resonance. Then I went on a tirade about how fucking weird it is that people spend upwards of twenty dollars on their favorite DVD’s after being burned by the outmoding of VHS. DVD technology is even cheaper, “You’re paying for a bunch of goddamned licensing!” I slurred.
A friend then asked me if I was going to fall down, to which I mumbled, “never in your presence.” My wife was goodly enough to get me out of there. Back at home and in bed, I was quick to develop a fierce case of the spins and I barged out of the bedroom. With my head in the toilet, I made a mockery of a pig’s death. All of his suffering so that I might feed on his tender flesh—all for not. The half digested swine stared back at me from inside the bowl and I nearly broke into tears.
Once I cleaned everything up, although still very drunk, I began feeling refreshed. Like I’d purged myself of a great deal of negativity. I felt free. Ready to take on anything. I was way into the brotherhood of man at this point. Back under the covers I looked at the clock. 11:59. What an Easter. I felt just like Robocop.
