December 18, 2002

Today is the day to realize that in Pat the Bunny, the bunny's name isn't Pat. Necessarily.

I received the following email yesterday, and felt the need to pass it on, because, as one friend says, "Zulkey.com is bringing people together and shit."

Claire,
Someone recently brought your site to our attention, and I had to say I was tickled. We read your definition of a buppie. We have created a site called BuppieNetwork. Our goal is to recreate the image of a Buppie. We call it the new buppie. Those of us who are professionals by day and kick it by night. They are down for their careers as well as hip-hop, why because that is what they know. You should check the site out.

And on with our regularly scheduled program...

29

George Foreman was drunk. Drunk with his brother Tom at some hipstery faux dive bar in Chicago. He couldn't believe it. He was drunk and having fun.

Other than the occasional reception or daytime interview, George couldn't remember the last time he had gotten drunk with other people. He preferred getting drunk by himself. That way, nobody raised their eyebrows if he spilled beer on himself, staggered around, threw up in the sink, et cetera.

After Tom got off work, he and his mechanic friends and George went out to a college bar in Evanston, where, amazingly, the mechanics had brought copies of George's books and asked him to sign. When he obliged, they all bought him drinks. Frigid George was so touched by this adoration of the common man that he took them all out to dinner at Morton's. Intoxicated and fat on steak on potatoes, Tom insisted that they head to his favorite bar in Wicker Park.

Could it be that George was happy?

Well, maybe. He was drunk. And had eaten a good dinner. And thus far had managed to avoid broaching the topic of Tom's writing.

But Tom, even with George, was simply an invigorating presence. When he ate, you wanted to eat, when he drank, you wanted the same beer he had, and when he smoked (possibly his only vice, and if that was his worst vice, obviously, he was close to godliness), it seemed like the greatest idea in the world. When Tom listened, he looked like he was listening, offering perfect little noninvasive tidbits of input. And when he spoke, it was hilarious or thoughtful. When he broached a sensitive topic, he did so in such a diplomatic way that you wanted him to run for President. Everybody loved Tom, including his brother George.

"So you're a famous author, huh?" said some skinny girl perched on George's knee. Her hair was dyed maroon and she had a hoop through her lower lip. She felt bony, like a bird. The amber of her eyes reflected the amber of her beer.

"Yeah," replied George. "How old are you, anyway?"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"Wow, you're like, totally old. I'm nineteen."

"Lemme see your i.d."

"Fake or real?"

"Fake."

The girl produced a Wyoming drivers' license of an overweight, middle-aged Hispanic woman.

"Very nice," said George, glancing down at the license, "Rosita."

"What?"

"That's what your name is on this i.d."

"Oh," giggled the girl. "I totally forgot."

"I'm totally going to have you arrested," said George, tickling her prominent ribs with his chubby fingers. She squealed.

"Oh my God," said an extremely pale and tall young man with long dyed black hair and a beat-up black leather coat. "Are you George Foreman?"

"Yes I am."

"Your name is George Foreman?" screamed the girl. "Oh my God! That's like-" She babbled on about the predictable similarities between George Foreman's and a certain famous boxer/grillmaster's name.

"And you're Tom Foreman's brother?"

"I am," said George proudly. The words staggered out of his mouth in a way that almost made him sound friendly."

"Holy shit. I can't believe this. My favorite writer is the brother of my favorite cat in the world. Hey. Can I have a hug?"

George shrugged. "Why not?" He stood up, and Rosita fell off his lap in a fit of giggles.

The tall young man grabbed George and lifted him up in the air.

"Look! It's my brother George!" Tom pointed.

"George!" the entire bar roared. They hoisted their Blue Moons and Chimays.

Maybe the young man set George down too hard. Or maybe it was his body odor, of corn chips and sweat. Or maybe it was the constant drinking. Either way, George had to go vomit.

He staggered outside and threw up in the street. A homeless man asked him for some change, and George handed him a $20. The bouncer opened the door for him, and like a large benevolent demon, asked cordially, "Ready for more, George?"

The bar roared again. George grabbed a pint glass and tripped over to his brother. They embraced, and poured their beers on each others' heads.

For the first time, George truly loved his family. Well, a member of it, at least. A glimpse of obligation nagged at him, briefly, though. He had to ask his brother, later, about the writing. The writing thing. Aargh.

Fortunately, the thought was driven out of his head by the insertion of Rosita's tongue in his mouth.