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(falstaff) If Charleston, South Carolina is the insurgent belle of the ball, then Richmond, Virginia is the ugly step sister who left her glass slippers in Sacramento. Her walk of shame left a trail of blood. I enter the city in searing 95 degree heat after ten hours of tortuous holiday driving from New York. Half this dj’s body was flambeed as the AC in the lunar escape pod crapped out, and I had to switch to manual cooldown. Don’t tan on I-95 south. I had given up on the local radio garble and decided to fester with the sweat and the pavement. I pulled off the highway onto “The Boulevard”. Depressing doesn’t even begin to describe the laborious throngs of minor leaguers who greeted me at my first Chumming.com stop. Icons of racism still exist out at the ole ball game, as a tired Chief Wahoo futilely covered his naughty bits. Splashdown abruptly came on a wide tree-lined street where my friend Kelly had taken up residence after bailing out from Atlanta. Kelly and I go way way back and I knew she would generously give me some friendly psychic fodder, as well as drinks for my howling liver, which was still dissatisfied after the Mountain “this aint no alcohol” Dew it oxidized in Maryland. She wasn’t home. I had never been one for the particulars and squatted on her stoop, delirous and stupid. I may have fallen asleep. I awoke. Strapped to the back of Kelly’s 1972 BMW /75, cruising the desolate down-by-the-river back roads somewhere between 50 and 70 mph, reality and salvation segued seamlessly in a continuous mix of pulsing roar that further eliminated the need for particulars. The beginning of the end of my scholastic sobriety suggested “eats” but we missed last call in Richmond. The phone rang. “Cookout,” Kelly cooed, cradling the reciever between head and shoulder, her right hand caressing both Bass Ale and Camel Wide. And so, “Cabana Night” began. Should “Perils in Bachelordom” be MTV’s next poor programming decision, our consummate hosts have already distinguished themselves. Stage left (kitchen) served no purpose at all except to provide storage for an underwhelming lineup of very cheap bottles of rum whose playing days were already long-forgotten. We were graciously offered an innocuous frozen concoction of rum n’ Hawaiian Punch (mixed up lovingly in the sink), but Kelly and I had been down that road before and opted for the player-to-be-named-later, vodka and tonic. We stumbled through the “Prelude to Lovin’” living-room and onto the main attraction at The Cabana, the “Lido” deck. I was expecting a bit more fiesta flare, maybe some tiki torches or grass-skirted hula dancers, but made do with the hard concrete and a few arthritic folding chairs who had come out of retirement just for the occasion. After some Not Humboldt Green, Kelly reminded me that this was Opening Night and I played along. I ‘m much more at home with turntables than barbecues, but The Cabana’s grill’o choice busted my gut. The host had opted for the industrial green Coleman Camper Stove and flamed the propane pedal to the metal. Bunsen-blue fire and water-marinated chicken breasts were flirting and popping on the wide steel slats of the Coleman when he recognized the latest of many mistakes he’d made with his life. “Hey man, I think the chicken is just gonna fall through that grill thing,” our chef/host admitted. “We’d better get some tin foil.” Since I was hungrier for catastrophe than I was for watery chicken, I advised him to line the surface of the Coleman with non-industrial strength foil. Pleased with his ingenuity, the Cabana Captain and I watched as the foil ignited, lifted off from the deck, and floated away into the ether. Kelly made drinks and I waited eagerly for more idiocy. Next up was a much longer length of foil, folded not twice but thrice, a serious heavy hitter. Kelly, an engineer knowledgeable in such matters, began to offer advice, but I capped that off, my hand covering her mouth. The Foil hung in, fouling off nasty curves and sliders, but the Coleman’s split-fingered fireball was too much for it and it took to the sky as well, treating the hungry Cabana crowd to a sparkling shower of superheated foil shreds. There would be no chicken. “Whickety-whickety-wack” went my stomach as I masticated a plate of limp potato salad (three different kinds!) and downed several more drinks. Tomorrow was now and Kelly and I were late for a sticky gig in Charleston. Where the hell was Cousin Red anyway?
falstaff
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