Salad Dressing Days

I sublet a room at a place called The Hippy Club back in 1986. The boys named it The Hippy Club before I got there and though I stayed only two months, it was a summer arrangement, I called it The Hippy Club almost immediately, and never questioned their judgment about the name, or their reasons for adopting that moniker though none of them were hippies. Most of us aspired to be punk rockers, and perhaps the name was an ironic commentary on our true musical interests. The club part of the name made more sense. There were household traditions, some that I didn't understand at first, like the mantle top display of celebrity footwear. But others I came to appreciate, and even instigate, like eating the evening meal in front of an open refrigerator. Oh, those were heady times my friend. We drank hot sauce straight from the bottle and dropped fresh produce down our shorts. Somebody washed the dishes, but not always. We lived in the moment.

We pledged our loyalty to one another, flaunted our access to fresh fruit and electricity, and attended summer school with a nod and a wink. I suppose every group of college guys that ever rented a tumble-down house together imagined their little traditions, nicknames, and rituals set the standard for higher learning hi-jinx. The Hippy Club was a cool place to live, even cooler when we dined full-frontal with the Swiss cheese and the mayonnaise that pretended to be salad dressing.

That was over 20 years ago. Surely you will understand, in this work-a-day world of ours, how a button-down guy like me with a penchant for hyphenation, might long for the days when a carry-out entree tasted better while on bended knee under the seven-watt glow of an open refrigerator door.