8am: The “antifogmatic”
I’m not terribly excited to start my day with several shots of rum. Back in the day, this eye-opener was often called an antifogmatic. The proportion of booze imbibed upon waking, said one 18th-century writer, would be proportionate to the amount of fog one encountered. One historical report suggested some Americans might drink up to half a pint of rum in the morning. You know, just to get going.
Given modern mores, pouring pirate swill in my pajamas makes me feel more Leaving Las Vegas than American Revolutionary. But that shameful feeling doesn’t last long. In fact, with the 4oz of rum paired with my morning joe, I’m awake in record time. I feel good! Damn good! And I’m ready to tear the day apart.
9:30am: A cooler before yard work
The colonials were hard workers. Particularly those who were not wealthy and owned smaller patches of land. Hard physical labor was the name of the game. The only modern parallel available to me in the mannered suburbs of Cleveland is yard work. Now, it typically takes me an hour to mow both the front and back lawn. Also, the assisted drive on my mower is broken, so it’s a pain to push. Also, also, I injured my back the day before this entire experiment.
Funny thing, though: a “cooler” consisting of one more 2oz shot of rum causes me to be blissfully numbed to the task at hand. I mow the crap out of those lawns. And in record time. Strangely, I’m not as out-of-sorts as I thought I’d be. More pleasantly numbed. I'm really enjoying myself -- until I remember a good many of our Founding Fathers probably didn’t do this shit because they owned slaves. And now I’m really bummed out.
10-something: Let’s drink cider!
I’m feeling great by the time I finish mowing the estate, so I decide to rest a spell with a bracer of hard cider. It’s so lovely that I have a second one. Again, I realize that I’m far from being over-the-top. The pace of the drinking is simply putting me ahead of any advancing hangover. A painful prospect on a typical Thursday’s mid-morning. Maybe that’s the trick: stay warmly addled. Enough to feel slightly impulsive and free from pains, but still quite able to converse at length about those British assholes taking too many taxes for way too little representation.