When I decided to become a vegetarian for Lent, I wondered if I should write about it in this blog, and share the experience of going meatless with the world.
I didn't for a number of reasons. I'm not a big fan of the kinds of works where someone decides they are going to do something (going on just beer for lent, for example, which someone actually did this year, I saw on CNN this morning) and then write a book about the experience. And in this case, the experience would have made for pretty dull reading. Everything was fine, it was a lot easier than I thought it would be.
Plus, there is something in the Bible about how if you are fasting you don't go out in the town square, tear your robes, and say "Hey Everybody! I'm fasting and it sucks! Come and see how Holy I am!" or something to that regard. Had I done that, Cotton Mather's vengeful God (I like to call him ol' Gin and Vinegar) would certainly cast me into a pit of charcoal briquettes, a fitting punishment if I ever heard one.
Of course, that may have been inconsequential, as I already can feel the flames licking at my toes anyway. For you see, when Easter comes this Sunday I will not have been a vegetarian for the entire Lenten season. I stumbled once, and a heady mix of beer, boobs, billiards, and bangers took me there.
A few weeks ago I found out my favorite bar, "The Firkin and Frigate" was closing at the Newport News Town Centre. It is going to be replaced by "Toby Keith's Boot in your Ass American Cowboy Bar", and it needed the space.....that, and the Frigate was about 4 months behind on its rent.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. No one was ever there. There were cigarette burns in some of the upholstery. It smelled a little funny, kind of like the 4th floor of VPI's all male Pritchard Hall but not nearly as strong. But in different (though not necessarily happier) times my wife and I would go there on Monday evenings to have a couple quiet drinks and smoke a cigarette or two.
Good God. The cigarettes. I had nearly forgotten. My poor father. I came home from school one day when I was 6, fresh from another round of DARE indoctrination, and told my Dad that the occasional cigar he used to enjoy was going to give him the black lung. To his immense credit, he stopped smoking that rare cigar. Except, of course, on July 4th, when he'd have one clenched between his teeth to act as a sort of slow match he could use to light fire crackers that would skitter across our yard with dumb mercilessness, forcing my brother and I to take cover in drainage ditches, behind trees, under rocks. We loved it. I reckon my Dad did too, for a variety of reasons.
At any rate, the irony (tragedy? guilt?) that I would have been so adamant about him quitting the rare smoke when I in fact took it up myself was not lost on me. If he snuck the odd cigar here or there, I can't blame him. On the other hand, both my granddads died earlier then they had to because they were heavy smokers, so it's certainly not something I can really condone. I've seen what it can do to you. As for me, I reckon in my life I have had 25 cigarettes, a few hookahs of tobacco, a handful of cigars. I don't aim to have anymore; I figure I have shortened my life enough, thank you.
What was I talking about? Oh yes! Toby fucking Keith is taking my bar away. MY BAR! So I grabbed my jacket, put on me cap, and headed out to the pub for a farewell drink.
When I got there, I remembered the Chelsea versus Manchester United match was on, so I asked the woman manning the bar to go turn on the match. I settled in to my seat at the bar, ready to hear the glorious sounds of Stamford Bridge in full roar. Instead, I got to watch the bartender look for it on Direct TV. All we found was a message saying "This so-called English style Pub doesn't subscribe to any channel that would allow the most glorious game ever made on God's green earth to be piped into this room that is left duller by the lack of it's magnificent presence. All there is to watch is basketball. Sorry."
I nearly left, saying "screw you guys, maybe if you actually showed soccer you would have done better," but of course that is probably not true. In any case, the bartender was extremely apologetic, so I stayed and ordered a Smithwick's and raised my glass in a final toast to what once had been a wonderful place to spend some time with family and friends.
Well, you know how things go. One thing leads to another, yes? The man at one end of the bar starts telling a tall tale. The basketball game suddenly actually becomes interesting for a brief moment. I have another Smithwhicks. Some one asks me if I play pool, and I inform him most genteel like that I suck at pool. He assures me he does as well. As it turns out, we are both right, and we have an epic 1 hour game, over the course of which I have two more. Having been defeated in a fair fight, I re-take my seat at the bar. The woman tending it looks more attractive somehow. Her hair is different, I notice something in her smile that wasn't there before, and I can't be sure but I think she's unbuttoned one of her buttons that was buttoned before, just one - is that a tattoo? I have another. Soon, I'm holding court, telling people about all kinds of shit I have never done, an expert on politics and sports - the first basketball game ended a while ago, but it's a double header and the second has turned out to be a real cracker jack!
And I am hungry. I ask for a menu, and I do remember my vegetarian promise to the Lord, because I am a few weeks in and its a habit now. To my despair, there is not really much on the menu that fits. What to do?
In my case, I turn to how men for all of history have weaseled their way out of religious obligations: I apply the stunning power of my intellect, use the God given gift of human reason. Of course, I've had a fair amount of Smitick's by now. My pool game may be on point (as on point as it is going to be, at least), but at this time the finer points of ethics and systematic theology are not my bailiwick. So my reasoning rather becomes mere single points of justification. Its my favorite bar, and it's closing soon, and it's one of the only places that I can get bangers and mash (English sausage, mashed potatoes, and baked beans). It's extraordinary circumstances. Surely God would not mind, would make an exception in this case? Besides, I have read that bangers and mash is one of David Beckham's favorite meals. I mean, if it's Beckham's favorite, than surely God must be smiling on it...
And so I did it. Broke a Holy Promise for some sausage, baked beans, mashed potatoes (which I think were instant). When I sobered up enough to make it home and reflect on what I had done, I did not feel good about it, and bangers were sitting sort of strangely in my stomach.
Now my fate rests with God (though surely it always has). If God be love, when I get to Heaven he'll say "It's okay, my son my son. I understand. Did you know that it's David Beckham's favorite meal?" But if God is really Ol' Gin and Vinegar, he will toss me into the pit where my eternal Hell awaits: being strapped into a seat at a bar, force fed bangers and mash by an inhuman she-devil with skin covered in tattoos, while a certain song plays on endless loop in the background.
That song: "I Love This Bar" by Toby Keith. That's righteous justice, my friends. That's Righteous Justice!
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