I am an American and I Eat Hot Dogs

Friday, September 3rd, 2004, Georg’s Apartment, Jamaica Plain, MA

½ “Margarita” Dog, gas grill, extra margarita sauce

So Georg threw a party in honor of my return from touring and our friend Jon’s temporary return from Japan. It was pretty cool. At one point, there was a crazy dance party going in Georg’s room where everyone was pulling his clothes out of his dresser, and throwing them around the room, and putting them on. Later, all the dudes at the party took off their shirts and started chanting, “USA! USA! USA!.”

I was pretty sober though, since I was still feeling hung over from the Republican National Convention drinking party we had played the night before. When you drink everytime someone says “September 11th” or “God” at a Republican event, you end up pretty drunk, pretty quick. So anyway, I was playing it relatively clean at Georg’s that night. Our host on the other hand, was probably way too far gone to be cooking hot dogs. Georg made some crazy substitutions in the margarita recipie. To go along with that, he had some pretty low grade dogs. I took one right off the grill, anticipating its margarita-goodness, but instead I was hit with one of the most unpalatable dogs of my life. I can’t begin to describe how bad this was. The sauce was just all wrong, and it was definitely over-gassed on the grill. I couldn’t stomach the full dog, so I tried to get someone to take it off my hands. Someone on the porch volunteered, and then simply tossed it over their shoulder, over the railing, and into the darkness below. Sorry Georg, you blew it. Your party was cool, but your hot dog was not.

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