Men stay up at night. I do. It is when the kids are in bed and the wife is asleep that the real adventure begins. Maybe a couple peanut butter sandwiches to begin. The world has gone to bed and it is me and the dog. The teenager can come out and play. Maybe some potato chips. A turkey sandwich. A cupcake. Some cereal. Milk. Orange juice. The nocturnal feaset is part of the ritual as the clock strikes one. Time to take it all to the theatre for the show.
And there is nothing on but everything is on. Keep it low to not disturb the rumbling slumber of the home for the spirits will only come out when the world is undisturbed. Die Hard II cues up. Or maybe Lawrence of Arabia. Ah. Hunt for Red October. Perfect. And now the feast. The food is the fuel to fight anything resembling sleep. Inhaled while Sean Connery dives his sub and another quick scan reveals the end of Fargo. Watching William Macy to his inevitable demise and back to Sean Connery.
And this ritual plays out all over America. The man cave is movable and the fire is stoked once the final send off is given. I'm just going to watch a little TV before I turn in. You have so little time for yourself and men carve out the midnight hour to read or watch television or get lost on the net surfing the forbidden sites. And maybe even that lone can of beer and a cigar on a back porch. It doesn't really matter. It goes back to college or after college in the city when the male animal was on the prowl and could do whatever he wanted.
But now the hour is slipping by and you hear that voice. Are you ever coming to bed? The spell is broken. It is three AM and you do have to go to work and you have eaten everything under the sun and you lost Sean Connery about the time he offed the KGB guy. So it is time.
Yeah...be right there. You put away the food and flip off the lights and kill the television. The bewitching bacchanal has ended. Until tomorrow night.
Rocket Man...the funniest serious novel since Russo's Straight Man...Chicago Sun Times
www.billhazelgrove.com
And there is nothing on but everything is on. Keep it low to not disturb the rumbling slumber of the home for the spirits will only come out when the world is undisturbed. Die Hard II cues up. Or maybe Lawrence of Arabia. Ah. Hunt for Red October. Perfect. And now the feast. The food is the fuel to fight anything resembling sleep. Inhaled while Sean Connery dives his sub and another quick scan reveals the end of Fargo. Watching William Macy to his inevitable demise and back to Sean Connery.
And this ritual plays out all over America. The man cave is movable and the fire is stoked once the final send off is given. I'm just going to watch a little TV before I turn in. You have so little time for yourself and men carve out the midnight hour to read or watch television or get lost on the net surfing the forbidden sites. And maybe even that lone can of beer and a cigar on a back porch. It doesn't really matter. It goes back to college or after college in the city when the male animal was on the prowl and could do whatever he wanted.
But now the hour is slipping by and you hear that voice. Are you ever coming to bed? The spell is broken. It is three AM and you do have to go to work and you have eaten everything under the sun and you lost Sean Connery about the time he offed the KGB guy. So it is time.
Yeah...be right there. You put away the food and flip off the lights and kill the television. The bewitching bacchanal has ended. Until tomorrow night.
Rocket Man...the funniest serious novel since Russo's Straight Man...Chicago Sun Times
www.billhazelgrove.com
