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January 9, 2004 #
 Click here for a bigger image if you can't read it. I knew my Uncle David had a daily 5 o'clock martini but I never knew he was "the world's foremost martini drinker." When I go to Darien for dinner he often shows me the fine art of mixing vodka and tabasco with a tiny electric whisker. Fascinating stuff...can I have more peanuts? So now, back by popular demand (or dwindling supply), is The Other Page's regular guest editor, Chris Gage to give us his take on this subject. Unlike me, he grew up in Darien, went to the same high school as Moby and even kissed a certain "Brown Bunny" between the ears and under the bleachers. (Really. No shit. With my left hand on a stack of Playboys, I raise my right and swear I'm telling the truth.) I routinely ask him to expound on life in a Volvo, the Battle of Talmadge Hill, and argyle socks. Chris, the floor is yours... Though Mr. Ottenstein is indeed an interesting character with his thrasonical chatter and surely deserves to live in some tony burg where his precious Polo-wearing tykes can go to good schools and won't get Lacosted (the gator is so later) in their jam-jams, there are two things that will keep him out of any respectable Pony Club in venerable Darien. Please, I importune you to look closely at this clipping of bunkum. I will bear with your simple mind and let you scrutinize it like it were your beloved Jumble and see if you can come up with it... Well? Anything? Okay, give up? Like the towering hip-hop wannabe drone (a specter that seems to ride in every car on the subway system simultaneously) who inevitabley watches over your shoulder as you scour the puzzle, I'll give you a hint: it's right there across the bottom. "Ottenstein" doesn't have the WASP ring tone of any Darien school chums I had the misfortune of knowing. (Ed. - Chris, it's called "Aryan, CT" for a reason.) My guess is he actually lives in Stamford. That's one. The second barring factor would be that a true Clubber only drinks on an empty stomach, like at 2am or when skipping breakfast. Furthermore, two (or three or four or go plow yourself, buddy) dashes of Tabasco constitutes a damn salad in our world. (At Jimmy Seaside, I once heard Chloe Sevigny call Harmony Korine a rabbit, and it wasn't for his fucking.) Sure, the men can be portly and Falstaffian around the links, but that comes from excessive mouth-shoveling to discourage dinner conversation which a true blue blood avoids more than the landscapers who've been boning the missus. So when we're drinking, and I mean DRINKING, if your stomach is digesting anything solid it draws power from the liver, and that's a bigger no-no than being seen in your mistress's domestic car. Jesus, if you bother to get it up for her you'd buy her at least a piece of shit Audi. Archives "The Other Page" powered by Removable Hype. Copyright © 2003 La Otra Página, Inc. All nights observed. Feel free to email "info(at)krucoff.com" for questions, comments, stock tips, and family gossip. |
