In Defense of Brunch
First and foremost, my first post just shy of seven years and it’s about brunch? I mean, what the sh*t is up with that? It’s not even a new phenomenon like this MySpace thing the kids keep two-waying my two-way with. I’m getting old man. My edge has gone the way of Top of the Pops and navel piercings. Elijah Wood purchasing antique drawer knobs with his girlfriend and asking “which color matches my awkward presence on film best” has more edge than a post about brunch. Not Aaron Karo bad, but who knows – fuck this is just the intro. Moving on…
So this brunch thing right. I had brunch for the first time with someone under the age of eighty this past Sunday. And I came to learn that I had brunch all wrong. Apparently, it’s not just for young women in their pseudo-prime, comparing their over-sized belts while debating the pros and cons of various municipal plights. Nor is it just for post-collegiate young men fidgeting about in their white polo shirt while their mother explains how to properly clean the shower drain. And oh, by the way, she says, don’t forget to call your Grandmother. No.
The origins of brunch date back to the days of Bacchus, when the twelve year old boys sobered up in the morning and needed an activity that provided both sustenance for their depleted forms and liquor to numb the pain of it all. Fast forward to last Sunday and it’s just the same – ‘cept with a girl I think I’m dating now wearing broken sunglasses that she just can’t bear to part with (*smile*). We sat and drank, drank and sat, laughing all the while. So, yeah brunch is for alcohol. And maybe an omlette. But boyohboy, was I wrong. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t as surprising.
(i forgot how fun this whole blogging thing is)