Category Archives: Assignments

I know this seems an obvious interpretation of this complex painting.  It is saying  with an education (the pencil) and hard work (ARGH) one can achieve happiness (heart), money(dollar sign) and good health (cross).  The manner in which the artist chose to portray these things leaves it open to many interpretations, some very dark and sarcastic, which is part of its greatness. After sifting through various modes I come back to the simple, obvious one which may even by overlooked because of the style.

I shall start by saying that I am a man who enjoys his drink.  I have traveled the world in the service of various nations/corporations and in my travels have found that nothing defines a region quite like the local quaff.  The tale of the one that inspired me most begins in the Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee.

I was surveying the land as part of a commission I am not at liberty to discuss.  Room and board had been provided by a family by the name of Hartridge.  The accommodations were spare to say the least, but a tar paper roof and solid wood plank to lay my back upon are all I need to feel at home.  Now, the popular media has painted a picture of hill folk that could not be farther from the truth.  The Hartridge family were the kindest, gentlest group of inbreds you will ever meet.  I have never felt more accepted or welcome than when they looked at me with their crossed and beady eyes.

Their son, a hairless, shirtless six foot man-child named Horatio took a real shine to me and I confess the admiration was mutual.  I took him on as a kind of protege.  He could never quiet grasp the proper use of the surveying equipment and was often distracted chasing small woodland animals, but he was helping in his heart and damned if he didn’t lift my spirits.

One night, after calculating the blast radius of 1 ton of dynamite on the mountainside, Horatio and I sat on the porch, enjoying hand-packed pipes of local tobacco.  The stars were stunning.  When one spends too much time in the city, he can forget how truly vast and overpowering a starry night can be.  The moon hung high and full and the only sounds for miles were the crickets and the sound of night owls screeching at their prey.  It was as close to perfect beauty as I have experienced.  I confessed to Horatio that I was feeling a bit parched.  He clapped his hands giddily and hurried around to the back of the house.  I had seen a still in the yard when I arrived and had secretly hoped to sample its nectar.  Horatio returned with a crude clay mug filled with a milky colored, viscous liquid that burned my eyes as soon as it was within five feet.  This, I will ruin the surprise, was not the drink that most inspired me.  I closed my already watering eyes and brought the mug to my lips.

Two weeks later, I came to in the swamps of Louisiana.  Horatio had fashioned a leather leash for himself, and I had apparently been leading him South by foot for the duration of my “lost fortnight.”  Within an hour, I used my survival training to find trademark signs of life in the swamp.  I led Horatio to a small camp housing  five men.  I introduced myself, and judging by their shifty and unreliable introductions I inferred that these men were poachers, seeking the skin of the rare albino alligator with which to make boots.  There was Lefty, ironically the only one of the group who was not a southpaw; Harry, the one with the eyepatch;  Gregor, a well-to-do Norwegian dandy; McGill, who bore the unmistakable scent of a seafaring man; and Jonathan, who was wholly unremarkable in any way.  We chatted around the campfire until the small hours of the night, telling tales of adventure and unsavory deeds (Horatio entertained himself drawing nude women in the mud with sticks- he was quite talented, really).  We each happened to have a bottle of our favorite liquor, and around 3am decided that the only way they could be appreciated was if they were combined.  We took a large pot and each added our poison: Lefty- a 12 year old Laphroaig, Harry- a well-aged bottle of Absinthe, Gregor- the purest vodka I have tasted to this day, McGill- a stunning port, and Jonathan- an unexplained bottle of blue curacao (perhaps the lad wasn’t so unremarkable after all).  I threw in my trusty flask of gin and we mixed the brew well.  It came out and odd blueish-purple color, not unlike the blood of the well-bred.  We doled it out and came to an agreement- it was the worst thing any of us had tasted- like drinking charcoal strained through an old woman’s stocking.  Still, it had that certain kick that we needed and was gulped down graciously.

We lost track of time and kept our campfire burning into the daylight hours.  This, naturally, drew local law enforcement to our location.  They recognized the poachers and threatened to haul them off straight away.  Horatio, bless his soul, feared for our unhealthy concoction and buried it in the fire pit lest it be confiscated.  I quietly pulled the police chief aside and introduced myself.  I wrote him a check for a sizable amount of money and told him that the men were working undercover for the US government.   He said he would have to check and left us to our own devices, giving us strict orders to stay put.  As soon as the police had left, the group started packing.  I informed them that we had earned the constable’s trust and he did not deserve to be disappointed.  We stayed at the camp, restlessly awaiting his return.  Three days later, he arrived and told us that he had no record of undercover government agents in the area, but my check had cleared and we were free to go.  As a celebration, we dug the pot of potion back up from the fire pit.

Perhaps the inbreeding had replaced some of Horatio’s missing chromosomes with voodoo, brought out by the nights spent in the bayou.  Perhaps the damp swamp ground had bred new life in the alcohol.  Or perhaps we were still reeling from the bite of the aged absinthe three days prior.  Whatever the reason, the drink had changed.  It had been turned a deep blood red and gave off the faintest of glows.  I cautiously took the first drink.  My palette exploded with flavors I don’t even know how to describe.  Fruity, meaty, sweet, earthy- it was like all of nature, indeed all the world itself, had been reborn inside my mouth.  Each drink expanded my mind and brought me closer to complete understanding of the nature of things.  We agreed to keep the drink a secret (an agreement I have kept until this very moment) and drink of it only on the occasion that one of us should die, in order to celebrate their life.  We dubbed the drink Jesus Christ, as it rose after three days to inspire the world (and frankly, is a much more believable messiah).  This offended Horatio’s Christian sensibilities and he called us all blasphemers.  To appease him, we renamed it Zombie’s Jubilee- the drink to raise the dead (though when the simpleton is not present, we never use this name).  The rest of the world can just stop drinking now, as it will never find a finer beverage.

Back in the more cavalier days of my youth, if ever I disappeared from view, one could almost always find me in the lobby restaurant of the Algonquin Hotel in New York. Along with several others, I would have lunch here everyday. Now many of the group, which came to be known as the Algonquin Round Table, either were at the time or went on to become some of the finest literary, critical, or witty minds of a generation. I would not fall into this category.

I’m not sure why they kept me around. Perhaps it was my sheer lack of intellectual recognition. I was a sardonic and churlish youth, who stood out from the likes of Woolsey, Dot Parker, and GS Kaufman simply because of my disinterest in their work. I enjoyed their company because they were catty, biting, scathing, and at times down-right rude. Given the Victorian upbringing I’d received, these folks were what I longed to become, and exactly what I needed. Looking back perhaps that is another reason they kept me around. They saw a bit of their own past in my wanton naivete and caustic attitude.

One of my favorite nights with the group was an evening in April of 1922. The curtain had just closed on a revue called No Sirree!, the first and only project that the Round Table had collaborated on. Woolsey suggested we head over to the Algonquin to celebrate, but when we got there we were surprised to find that the doors had been shut early that night so that the manager could take us up on  our offer of free tickets to the show. We needed a celebration, but where to go?

Woolsey complained that his place was an absolute wreck and no one should even dream of making it his place. Dot said that she loathed having people over. GS said that his wife would probably already be in bed. To which Groucho quickly replied, “I know where I want to have the party.” Finally I said, “Listen, Gang, I know it’s not much, but we could always go back to my place. The apartment’s a hole, but the view from the roof is spectacular.”

They all  agreed to meet me there bringing whatever they had on hand. (My one stipulation had been that as a starving writer I had no booze or food, so if anyone wanted something they should bring it.) After everyone arrived, it seemed that they were all living the lives of starving artists as well. Groucho brought a half a carton of guava juice, and of course, if anyone would have guava juice it would be Groucho. Woolsey brought a little bit of orange juice, and Dot brought over a half-empty bottle of pineapple juice and just the tiniest bit of apple juice. Kaufman brought some grenadine, and Tallulah Bankhead brought some vodka. At least good old Tallulah was always good for some booze. Peter Benchley went out and got some dark spiced rum. And Harpo, God bless him the sweetest man alive, brought in two bottles of the sweetest, tastiest coconut rum you have ever imbibed.

We looked at our table of ingredients unsure of what to do. A light bulb flickered over my head, and I ran downstairs to my apartment, returning with a huge decorative bowl an ex had made for me during one of her artistic phases. I set the bowl on the ground and began pouring.

“Wait! What are you doing!” cried Dot Parker. “We don’t have much as it is, and you’re just going to ruin it?”

“Just wait,” I said, “If this doesn’t knock your socks off, I’ll eat Woolsey’s coat.”

“No small feat,” said Kaufman.

“His feet are about average,” said Groucho. “But that’s no small coat for sure.”

Well, I tell you what resulted from that mixture was just about the finest drink I’d ever had. It was deliciously sweet, like a fruit drink without the slightest hint of an alcohol taste. But boy did it pack a wallop. The next day after all of us had applied our hangover cure of choice, we dubbed the drink “The Harpo Marx” for two reasons. One, in honor of the only one among us who’d had the selflessness to bring enough alcohol to share. And two, because after one glass you’ll find you can no longer speak.