Present Dense Days

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Photo illustration: Dave Zylstra

Art Kumbalek

I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I pray that your Lenten season schmutz got off to a hell of a lot smoother start than mine own did. I’ll tell you’s, this past second Wednesday evening of this 2024 February month it dawned on me: “Hey knobshine, it’s been Ash Wednesday all day long and you haven’t even begun to think about what to swear off all the way ’til the early Easter at the end of March this year, for christ sakes.” Yeah, I may be a way-out-of-practice Catholic, but the one practice I still show up for is the practice of giving up some penny-ante habit or two for Lent in hopes my piddling personal sacrifice may be just enough to leave Heaven’s door cracked at least an iota or two for the likes of me to squeeze through, what the fock.

So there I was, Ash focking Wednesday, 9 p.m. or so—the only mark on my forehead being a purplish bruise delivered by the edge of a kitchen cabinet door as I reached for my two-ounce shot glass—hankering to give up something, pronto. And as a candidate for each and every political office come these 2024 elections all around the block, I really ought to conjure something to sacrifice, like sanity, if for no other reason than to maybe score a point or two with the right-righteous Christian evangelical voters, ’cause I got a feeling my support amongst the Jesus-hadists tends toward the flaccid at best, you betcha.

So, what to put aside for a couple four-five-more weeks? Smoking the Pall Malls? Yeah, fat focking chance. I was already into my second pack late that day, Jack. Cocktails? That’ll be the day. Like I said, I was aiming for leaving the Pearly Gate cracked for a look-see, not to be welcomed as some kind of goddamn saint-type of a christ on a cracker.

Yeah yeah, looks like I got a work in progress on my hands, ain’a? I’ll keep you posted, I kid you not. So, onward we go.

Anyways, another official Presidents’ Day has come and gone in case you haven’t noticed, and if you’re like me it’s all downhill from here. You see, for me and my buddies, Presidents’ Day is the highlight of the year ’cause that’s the day that coincides with our social event of the year—our gala costume confab in which we get masqueraded up as a U.S. president and then convene over at the Uptowner tavern/charm school where today seems like yesterday and tomorrow may as well be today. A bartender/bartendress is most often kind enough to award a shot of bourbon on-the-White-House for whichever of us looks the most like the president he’s supposed to look like. And I tell you, things can get pretty testy ’cause we’re all competitors, and this year was no exception. 

There was quite a brouhaha when Little Jimmy Iodine got really upset ’cause he would’ve won but got disqualified on a technicality. What happened is Little Jimmy came as William Henry Harrison, our ninth president who croaked one month after he got inaugurated. Not only was it the best goddamn William Henry Harrison you could ever hope to see, but it was creative to boot, ’cause Jimmy came as ol’ “Tippecanoe” a month and a day after the inauguration—he even smelled like a guy who’d been dead for 24 hours, I kid you not.

But when the bartender wanted to know whom or what the hell was stinking up the place so bad, Jimmy said, “It’s Benjamin Harrison from the Old Dominion state of Virginia, sir!” Little Jimmy had William Henry mixed up with his grandson-president, which is understandable, what with all the excitement and hard cider we were logging onto the bar tab—heck, even right-wing columnists for The New York Times have been known to make that mistake. But in our group, getting mixed up on your presidents is grounds for disqualification from the costume contest. And to make it doubly hard on Little Jimmy, the bartender then had him impeached from the premises ’cause he smelled worse than the election of 1888 not to mention 2000.

The bartender ended up giving the shot to Ernie who came as Thomas A. Edison (I know, what the fock, guess I must’ve skipped American history class the day they covered the Edison administration). Some of the scholars in our bunch questioned the historical accuracy of Ernie’s outfit, not quite recalling ever seeing a photo of Edison wearing knickers and if Ernie looked like a president at all, it was Ben Franklin. But what the fock, we were all sick of the contest by then and we agreed that it was time to stop arguing, time to return to normalcy and start slamming them back like a regular Warren G. Harding.

I went as James Polk this year. I chose Polk, our only president to die from diarrhea as far as I know, ’cause he’s been getting good marks from historians lately, plus I wouldn’t have to wear a fake beard all night; so what the fock. And as the distinguished former president from North Carolina, I felt rather privileged to field a host of questions from assorted patrons who wandered in and out through the evening, like, “Hey, did the looney bin let out early tonight?” and “Hey asshole, buy me a drink?”

But the night continued, the shots came fast and furious from across the bar to toast and roast our chief executives past, present and future. Presidential trivia was shared, such as when Julius noted that George Washington had a dog named Sweet Lips. To which Herbie said, “I think Bill Clinton had an intern went by the same name, ain’a?” And Ray provided the rimshot: “FDR had a dog, too. Everybody called her ‘Mrs. Roosevelt.’” Ba-ding!

God bless America, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.