The Breakfast of Degenerates
I’d like to wake up to a beastly cocktail… a Sanford Stadium cup wrapped in Jack Davis illustrations, full of see-through ice cubes, each one chipped away from an imported Icelandic glacier the size of an English bulldog and artisanally crafted into two-inch squares. Stack ‘em high, like a modern sculpture, and sit mesmerized as a stream of Russian vodka cascades over them; three shots would be ideal. Listen to the cubes at the bottom crack as the pressure becomes too much. Lastly, pour in freshly squeezed grapefruit juice for a train wreck of a breakfast, high in vitamin C and sure to pucker your jowls.
As the vodka chills, toast the end of a cigar and blast “Whipping Post” through a pair of Bang & Olufsen headphones. In seconds, Duane’s guitar sends a quart of adrenaline through your veins before the homemade IV kicks in. Then, and only then, put sunglasses on and lay in the sun until the Stoli numbs everything… all before ten o’clock… like the good old days in college.
But that ain’t happening. I’m on my second cup of coffee in an Upper East Side third-floor walk-up—far from my alma mater in Athens. Sun is pouring through ten-foot-tall windows, illuminating the wax on my newly shined loafers. I took my vitamin, “Helpless” by The Cleaners From Venus is trickling through expensive-looking speakers, and a video of Switzerland’s backcountry is playing on a loop. A century-old brick fireplace sits to my left, a black piano to my right, and my brown briefcase with “Dad” stamped in gold letters lies in front of me on newly laid hardwood floors. The sound of the city is in the background, along with the constant hum of an air conditioner.
There’s a ghost from my past who sleeps on a cot in my subconscious. After years of winning too many debates, he’s resigned to a life of narcoleptic laziness in the attic of my mind. He wakes up here and there, violently throws the papers off his desk, and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair. He’s bug-eyed, restless, and addicted to chaos. He’s the greatest salesman to have ever lived, dangerously charming, and he’s immune to exhaustion. He abhors moderation—excess has him by the balls.
I haven’t woken up to a three-shot breakfast since gamedays in college. In those days, I’d stumble down the stairs in my boxers and there’d be half a dozen guys passed out—some sharing the couch, others on the floor using bunched-up sweatshirts as pillows—all snoring like hobos in a box car and reeking of cigarettes. I’d crack two dozen eggs, fill the toaster with white bread, and pour “morning glory’s” for the gang… vast amounts of Jim Beam, Coke, and opaque ice cubes in plastic cups from Sanford Stadium.
One by one, they’d wake up—Ryan, Jason, Greg, Kristian, Tommy, and finally, Kevin… always in the caboose. It wasn’t uncommon to see a shiner on his eye from a bar fight. Showers were in order, with tiny bars of hotel soap in a bathtub that hadn’t been properly cleaned in a decade, a single towel to share, and an old plastic comb from a golf club. But first things first—hair of the dog. Southern college boys have been waking up on fall mornings to bourbon for over a century.
I just had my morning yogurt and protein bar. I’m about to shower, shave, and put a suit and tie on, as I do every morning. I guess I won’t be having the “Breakfast of Degenerates.” Captain Disaster is fast asleep on his cot, and I’m headed to Wall Street for a meeting. Where did the last 25 years go?
Sanford Stadium, Athens, GA
“The best time you will ever have with 92,746 of your closest friends!”
