Fat and happy
by Jon Worley

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Memorial Day weekend. Friday was spent in D.C., visiting the Newseum (far too many pictures of Al Neuharth), scoring some awesome Chinese food and ending up napping at sunset in the grass at the Jefferson Memorial. Pretty good.

Saturday turned out better. After the requisite grocery shopping and acquisition of intoxicating combustibles at the state store, we had a barbecue on our deck. My famous hamburgers, which have converted two vegetarians to temporary omnivores (without regret), some grilled corn and a half-gallon of frozen pina coladas.

And so, at the end of this feast, looking out upon the roof of the restaurant which is our landlord, I felt contented. Forgive me.

I've been railing for years against the idea that suburban life is really great. That the "happiness" those folks feel way out there is nothing more than one too many at the country club. And yet, this little grilling concept is as suburban as it gets. With the exception, of course, of the location itself. And I'm almost ashamed to admit that at the moment I feel awfully damned good about myself, life and the prospect for world peace.

Part of that is the rum, I know. We bought the reasonably good stuff this afternoon, spending an extra couple bucks to avoid the Popov. I didn't know the Russians even grew sugar cane.

And part of it is the feeling of general happiness that arrives whenever I cook with Bryant's and Gates barbecue sauces, the pride of Kansas City. I mean, you can't use the stuff and make something taste bad. They even work wonders on a blown souffle.

But I'm still troubled, because I attribute this feeling to, well, being generally pleased with my life. God help me! I'm only 27! I've got to have ambition and perseverance to soldier onward toward a better and more successful life, and this general appeasement crap just isn't going to help. It's really a serious hindrance to any potential my life has. It's a well-known fact that once you're happy, you have to give up and start raising a family, that known destroyer of life's dreams.

This has to be right, or else I'm completely toast on my suburbia arguments. I mean, I've railed against all that isolation and "safety" as merely wishful thinking on the parts of silly folks. I believe that you have to be involved and take part fully in all that society has to offer, and that means living in a city. Am I way off base here?

Well, not exactly, I guess. After all, we charred beef often in St. Pete, and our friends came over and partook. One night, we did this before a community meeting discussing the disturbances of last fall. Our friend Randi, who is black and lives in the furthest northern reaches of St. Pete, came over for dinner before we made our way to the meeting.

One of the people who spoke up at the meeting said that all of us should be inviting our neighbors over for dinner. "I'd like to know the last time most white families had black guests over to their houses for a meal", this man said. We laughed at our ironic situation, the white family in south St. Pete having a black friend from north St. Pete over for dinner. A few of the folks thought we were being disrespectful, nut, of course, we agreed with the sentiment. Getting together is much better than driving apart.

Perhaps this is feeling is merely contentment, not a sign of encroaching complacency. Maybe it's possible to feel happy and yet still strive for bigger and better things. Perhaps I just need to relax and have a homebrew.

Jon Worley brews his own in York, Pennsylvania. Now that the beef and alcohol buzzes have worn off, he feels as ambitious as ever.

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