So my bride and I went to New York for Thanksgiving week, in part to visit my cousin but also so Karen could see New York City for the first time. Although I expected there to be some highlights from the trip, I wasn't expecting a fight with some intellectual putz at the home of the son of a well-known actor to be one of them.
We arrived two days before Thanksgiving. We had our itinerary ready, albeit with a loose framework to accommodate weather and other variables, with a list of the things we wanted to see. Since I'd been to New York before, this was mostly a list of things Karen wanted to see, and that was fine by me. I suggested a couple of things, but it was really an open itinerary with one or two notable exceptions. We were certainly having Thanksgiving dinner with my cousins, but that was the only certainty on the list.
The afternoon of the day we arrived we met with my cousin in the financial district after doing a tour of the 9/11 Memorial museum. She took us to see some of the notable buildings in that neighborhood and then to Fraunces Tavern, where General Washington met with the troops to say goodbye after the Revolutionary War.
The next day we did the tourist thing, including seeing The Book of Mormon. Then we tried to see the inflation of the Macy's Day parade floats, but couldn't get close. My cousin had her traditional party that night, which we attended, then got back to the apartment at two in the morning.
We stayed in the next day because, frankly, there wasn't much to do. It being a holiday, most everything was closed. So we stayed in and waited until it was time for dinner, then took a taxi to my cousin's apartment. Dinner was lovely, just the family, and then my cousin volunteered to drive us back to our apartment, albeit first with a stop a her friend Tony and Lee Ann's place for dessert. Since my legs were killing me and I'd already eaten dessert, I wasn't too thrilled with the notion of going to someone's house, especially someone I didn't know, for dessert, of all things. But we acquiesced because it was my cousin.
There are times when one should just trust one's gut, and this was one of those times. I didn't want to look like a spoilsport, so I didn't object, but this was one evening I could have done without. Even so, had I trusted my gut, I would have missed out on the following anecdote.
Upon entering the brownstone we were greeted by a somewhat matronly woman wearing a spaghetti-strap frock and a shawl. She greeted my cousin and was introduced to us, then explained that the main floor, where the drapes were all drawn and the windows covered with some kind of paper, was where readings were done. I half expected to see candles, tarot cards and a small table and chairs off to one side.
We were led up a rickety, narrow staircase that had obviously seen better days. When we arrived at the second floor, I was confronted with a kitchen to one side and no other people. We were led, instead, to another staircase, just as uncertain as the first one. Given my level of disinterest and disinterest, this was disheartening.
When we arrived at the top floor, we were confronted by what seemed to be a staged scene involving tables fitted together to form a T, with the leg of the T jutting out toward the door. At the head of the table across from the leg was a bald, corpulent man seemingly in his cups sitting in a high-backed chair a la a medieval king. To his left sat his wife, the woman who guided us up the stairs of Mrs. Havisham's house, and to his right sat a nebbishy, tight-eyed, curly-haired man who, from every indication, never played a sport involving a ball because he was too involved with Dungeons & Dragons in his youth. I took the seat nearest to the door, directly across from our host in the high-backed chair, and Karen sat next to him in the crook of the T to my left, with the silent wife of D&D veteran between us. To my immediate right sat a young man who turned out to be the D&D vet's son. The tableau was thus set.
In those situations where I'm not interested in remaining too long, I tend to be quiet, because the last thing I want to do is engage someone in a discussion that allows them to protract my stay there. Our host asked us where we were from and used our answers as a platform to advise us about himself. He was the son of two very famous actors from a by-gone era, one of whom is still alive, and not surprisingly took great pride in them. Playing the role of a dweeby Ed McMahon was Mr. D&D, chiming in every now and then with some quip that wasn't funny or relevant, most of the time. This led me to believe that perhaps he was blootered, but that conclusion didn't take into account the obtuseness of most D&D veterans.
Our host began his attempt at colloquy by informing all of us that his daughter was upstairs and that she'd already set ground rules for the use of gender-specific pronouns, preferring they and their to she and hers. If I hadn't already grasped that I was in an alternative universe, I surely knew it with that declaration. That our host merely rolled his eyes and attributed it to that generation merely confirmed my realization.
To try and accurately describe the sequence of the talk is impossible, given its highly bizarre and random nature, so the following things, although they certainly took place, may not have happened one after the other. At some point a discussion of the son's career goals and studies was broached, and we learned that D&D Jr. was targeting a job in academia. Well, those who can, do, while those who can't, teach.
That gave our host the excused he needed to wax morose about how he was unable to get a teaching job because he didn't have a bachelor's degree, that he was finally given one for life experience (I didn't know they did that sort of thing; I question whether that really happened) and was now pursuing his Master's in Fine Arts somewhere in residency. In a portent of things to come, he joked that he should have attended Trump University because not only would he have gotten his degree, they would have had to pay him for it.
From there he talked with my cousin about some inane bear costume and the need to get it cleaned due to the paint he wore in his performance art show -- they want us back, because we really packed them in, but they have to pay us more, you know? -- until the talk drifted off into a bizarre intellectual mutual stroking session involving the etymology (not origins, by all means), of the word bulldozer. Mr. D&D posited that it originated from the use of white racists -- are there any other kind? -- using whips as they would on bulls to keep blacks from voting. He was immediately challenged by the host, who chirped up that it was probably as false as was his contention that picnic came about from a bastardization of picking nig...s out of voting lines, which they subsequently debunked at another of their bacchanalian gatherings. D&D's son chimed in with the etymological nugget that picnic actually came from the French picnique. As one might imagine, my eyes were pretty glazed over by this point.
Somehow the discussion took a left turn back to politics with D&D raising the point that although they were considered coastal elites, they really weren't. They only thing they shared with that term was that they lived on the coast. The host then offered to further educate his guests by explaining the origin of the Electoral College (graciously, he spared us the etymology of the term...) and how the Founding Fathers wanted to make sure that the coastal elites didn't control everything for everyone, including those in the interior.
At this point, had things ended there, it would have been an uneventful but anecdotal evening. But D&D, overplaying his hand and proving once again why he was condemned to play D&D in high school, ventured that the reason we're in the situation we're in is because of the shitkickers in the middle of the country. Suddenly the glaze covering my eyes went away, my interest perked up and my Irish was emerging.
I beg your pardon, what did you say? I queried.
Unabashed or unaware of the coming storm, D&D repeated that those of us in the middle of the country are shitkickers.
My Irish was fully up now.
You know, inasmuch as you dislike being referred to as coastal elites, we take offense at being shitkickers, I replied. I'll put my three degrees up against anyone from Hollywood anytime.
Finally recognizing the storm he kicked up, he said some more inane things as our host, probably not wanting to lose his audience, tried to calm things down.
The problem is that you can't contextualize my apology, said D&D.
Imagine my surprise.
WHAT APOLOGY? I'm sure I probably screamed; you'd have to ask Karen. I was fully ready to key in the launch codes.
The problem is that you don't understand because you're a victim, he poo-pooed.
With that Karen joined the fray, at once contesting his assignment of victimhood while noticing the vein protruding from my forehead.
Let's go, she said far more calmly than I would have.
And with that, we wended our way down those rickety stairs. I think I understand now why the stairs are the way they are: Much like Roach Motels, they're meant to keep people from checking out.
Karen handles the niceties with my cousin, telling her that we'd take the subway. I was too far gone to think rationally. We got out in the street, my cousin ended up driving us back to our apartment while profusely apologizing and me descrying everything D&D said about shitkickers.
So our Thanksgiving night in New York City involved me learning how to twist a noun -- context -- into a made-up verb -- contextualize -- while learning exactly what happens to D&D veterans who fail to...wait for it...socialize properly. I also met the son of famous actors who wasted the silver spoon with which he was born by living a dissolute life with losers who couldn't spell hypocrisy if we spotted them H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-S. I also saw what the spawn of D&D turn into when not removed forcibly by authorities at an early age.
Fortunately for them, they never learned just how much and how well I can kick shit.
(c) 2016 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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