Sunday, February 26, 2012


George Washington
I can tell immediately that this guy has integrity out the yang. Not handsome, exactly, more like kind of sexily creaky with dignity. “So,” I say, “What do you like to do in your free time?” He stares off into the distance and grips his hat. “Valley Forge is on the verge of collapse,” he says. “My men need food, water, shoes, ammunition. I’m afraid we won’t last the winter.” “Speaking of firepower,” I say, trying to lift the mood. “Here come the Cajun curly fries.” He polishes a silver button.

Thomas Jefferson
The first thing this guy does is pull out some kind of wooden contraption. I can tell he wants me to ask him about it. “What’s that?” I say. “Oh this?” he says. “It’s only a device I perfected which allows you to make a copy of what you’re writing through two interconnected pencils.” I have no idea where to go from there. We sit in awkward silence and then start talking at the same time. “Are you on Twitter?” I say. “Has anyone in your family had the pox?” he says.

James Madison
“They call me the little apple-john” he says jovially upon sitting down. I don’t know what he means but I try to take the baton. “Ha, that’s neat,” I say. “They used to call me the pole hound. I mean, it was a college thing. I took an exotic dancing class, you know, as kind of a female empowerment thing? Well, I also took a self defense class so I guess I was really, I don’t know, exploring different facets of....” I trail off. He looks hassled and glances at his time piece.

Ulysses S. Grant
He has a craggy face and is kind of seething with masculinity. I am at once repulsed by and attracted to his sweaty beard. I can also tell that he’s a tad drunk. We sit there and I’m not sure if it’s a comfortable silence or not. Finally he takes a heavy silver pistol out of his jacket, gently puts it on the table, sighs a world weary sigh and says, “Ere but I go once more into the burning field.” “Me too,” I say. “I mean, me neither.” He looks at me a certain way. “Do you like ceramics?” I say, trying to quickly change the subject. “You know, curio?” “What?” he says. “What?” I say.

John F. Kennedy
Swoon. Okay, stop the presses. This is more like it. There’s just something so powerful and suave yet boyish about him and he smells like tobacco and cedar and peppermint and...I can’t help noticing that he’s not paying very much attention to me but rather eyeing our blonde waitress. I try to distract him. “Let’s play a game,” I say. “You tell me the first thing that came to mind when you saw me.” “What?” he says. “It’s like word association,” I say, giggling. “Like if I point to myself—” “Bluestocking,” he says.

Thomas Jefferson
It’s really late. I’m tired, and a little discouraged, and so I decide to leave. To my surprise, on my way out, I see Jefferson lingering at the bar, hypnotized by a margarita machine. I sit down with him and this time we actually get to talking. I go ahead and dazzle him with a limited history of Nintendo. He tells me how to preserve ice in the winter. I explain the philosophy behind pruning my Netflix cue. He takes apart a ball point pen. Before I know it we’re leaving together. Back at my place I light some candles and we get down to ratifying some stuff, if you catch my drift.