I was avoiding crowds, to the extent that I can, which is pretty easy since I m mostly working from home these days. That means I rarely see any coworkers on the way to the men’s room, which I have dutifully re-labeled as a multi-gender, inclusive facility to confront of the major issues of our times.
In my mind, it is an issue that is right up there with the school millage initiative. No kidding.
With that important decision out of the way, I went back to being determined not to wish anyone a “happy” Memorial Day. There is a holiday to honor Veterans, and to thank them for their service. We call it “veterans Day.” I celebrate it with earnest exuberance. Memorial Day is about something else.
It is about the kids who did not come back, and there are tens of thousands of them who have not (yet) been found from our conflicts overseas. So “happy” isn’t a word I would use, regardless of how pleasant the time off is. Let’s try “respectful,” or “with remembrance of sacrifice.” Thanks. The offending greeting at the top came in the office mail. I have considerately cut their company name off of it to avoid calling them out as insensitive oafs.
Don’t get me wrong- aside from that little quirk, this holiday is one of my major delights. The Big Pink, Old-School pool will open in the morning, and for ninety-odd blissful days there is a little slice of heaven right off my patio. Exercise, audio books on the water-proof head set, life really cannot get any better.
What a way to take a lunch break- get up from the computer, slip into the trunks and flip-flops and be in the water in three minutes flat.
Between that, and drinks with pals later down in the country, with the buzzing of the bees from the new hives the Russians are cultivating, it gives a fullness to life with the arrival of the season of langour.
I need it. With everyone trying to cram as much activity into the front end of the week to avoid doing much of it at the end, it was busy, and culminated in a frantic Thursday. It was a stressful day that turned out fine. I had foolishly agreed to deliver an interactive speech on China and its expansion into the South China Sea to the Georgetown World Affairs Council’s monthly meeting. Putting together the PowerPoint slides gave me some severe flashbacks to my days as a Pentagon PowerPoint Ranger. Adding the overhead images of what the Chinese have constructed on the assorted reefs and shoals that they have boldly claimed (Thanks for the commercial imagery, Kimo!) made me slip into reverie about the years I did this for a living, and how strange the once-familiar waters of the South China Sea have become.
The monthly Council meeting was held at St. Peters Episcopal Church, in posh North Arlington, and featured wine and a pot-luck dinner, which was a treat. My remarks, such as they were, appeared to be well received by the 25-odd people who attended the event. They were engaged, intelligent and nice folks who care about the world around them. Great Americans, in a word, and we had a great time.
One thing I wanted when I got done and trudged back out to the Panzer was the cocktail that had been deferred in the interest of my customary iron professionalism. I got home about the time I am normally going to bed, so I raced through the usual pre-bedtime chores, and turned on flat screen to listen to the latest explosions from the campaign trail. Mr. Trump apparently got a couple loose delegates who had been on the wrong bus in North Dakota and clinched the GOP nomination.
Then, apparently the State Department Inspector General dropped a report on Mrs. Clinton that is a bit of a monkey wrench in the spokes of the juggernaut she has been riding on the way to her party’s nomination. I don’t know if her campaign will be able to weather it, so naturally I got thirsty.
I glanced at the calendar on the computer before heading to the kitchen to mix a cocktail. Nothing there that looks like it is going to hurt- a lunch, a duck into Macy’s to get this year’s swimsuit- the old ones are down at the farm- maybe a haircut. Thoroughly mundane things, no deadlines in any of them, and there is the prospect of summer actually arriving after a cold wet May. The weather predictions, when I clicked over to them, suggested that the temperatures will be warm enough that the first plunge into the pool will be OK, and not a polar expedition requiring a wet suit.
That marks the beginning of the most delightful season here, accompanied by the New Yorker and a cool beverage (in plastic cup!) on the pool deck.
Confident that there was nothing lurking to bushwhack me in the morning, I strolled back out to the kitchen to concoct a drink I call the “Vic Special.” I have been thinking about cocktails lately. I pre-ordered a copy of the new Waldorf Astoria Bar Book by Frank Caiafa, the manager of the legendary Peacock Alley bar in the Waldorf. I am a foodie anyway, and I was intrigued by the ide of perfecting a few specialty cocktails for use while lying about in the residence. It has not been released yet, or Amazon lost mine, and in the meantime I got a copy of the original, published in facsimile of the original, published shortly after Prohibition mercifully ended.
The prose is antique and quite delightful, and the recent unfortunate exposure to the horrific effects on society by the grand experiment. I made a Roosevelt the other day- a concoction of the juice of a half lemon, a half spoonful cane sugar, a jigger of Apple Whiskey strained over fruit in a short glass.
They told me it had nothing to do with The New Deal, and was named to complement the author of something called “the Square Ditto,” whatever that might have been. Even Google claims the writer is lost to history.
I reserve these drink experiments for home use, since ordering them out can result in some surprises when it comes time to call for the check, and also try to keep their distance from motor vehicles in case of enhanced reaction. At the Front Page, for example, we normally drink a short vodka the way Brian likes to make them: a splash of diet tonic on top, with a garnish of a slice of lime and lemon.
But with a successful public speaking event behind me, the hour growing late and the adrenaline still coursing in my veins, I thought a Vic Special might just be exactly what would get me ready for bed. Like a mallet to the forehead.
The Vic Special:
Ingredients:
Vodka. If you are going to pour a bunch of other stuff in it, it doesn’t really matter the brand. I drink Popov and refill the fancy bottles I keep with it, and no one has complained yet.
Lime. You can use the real stuff, or just buy a jug of Nellie & Joes real Key West Concentrate
Cranberry juice.
Peychaud’s New Orleans aromatic bitters.
Directions:
If you are fortunate to have a crushed ice dispenser in the door to the freezer, stuck your 16 OZ stadium cup from the hated Cowboys under it and fill to the brim. If you are like my cheap landlord and only sprung for an ancient refrigerator, look and see if you were smart enough to grind some ice in the stand-alone Waring Pro ice crusher the night before, and curse when you saw you did not. Then uank four trays of ice-cubes out of the freezer, slamming the door for emphasis, and pop the cubes out and feed then through the grinder, filling the trays back up with tap water while wondering whether you should just bite the bullet and get a modern refrigerator and hire someone to install a water line so there is always crushed ice at your fingertips. Goddamn it.
Then fill up the stupid stadium cup with the logo of those losers on it.
Pour three fingers of vodka on crushed ice in a stadium cup- maybe four, the ice takes up a lot of room.
Add a finger or two of Schweppes diet tonic
Splash a generous amount of cranberry juice to add color and tartness
Squeeze a quarter fresh lime juice in, or OK, squeeze it out of that yellow plastic bottle
Four drops of Peychaud’s bitters.
Sip to completion on the patio in the growing darkness. Ah. Let the hazy days of summer roll in.
Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com