I came for the chicken, but I stayed for the brainwashing.
God I love holiday parties at dive bars! We have parties all the time: birthdays, holidays, getting hired, getting fired, engagements, divorces, and once we even had a punk rock wedding (the young couple showed up with an elegant, tiered cake worthy of Martha Stewart, and 16 pepperoni pizzas), but Saturday night, Saturday night was different. An aspiring rapper/promoter rented out the bar for what I thought would be a run of the mill besotted Christmas party.

Not quite.
I walked into the bar about 11, and right inside the door a table displaying all kinds of self-help lit had been set up by the rapper/promoter, a guy named Martin. I grabbed a bundle with a tulle bow on it. It contained photocopied pamphlets and a slim book with the ambitious title, “Unleash the Winner Within You! (exclamation point theirs, not mine): How To Achieve The Success That You Deserve.” No fewer than 10 authors contributed to this tome, and right away I learned about P.O.W.E.R. (Power, Opportunity, Work, Enthusiasm, Responsibility) and D.E.S.T.I.N.Y (Determination, Establish priorities, Start where you are, Time management, Imagination, Navigate negative influences, Why). Why indeed? I have to say, I’m tempted to write a letter to the Destiny author pointing out that if you’re gonna go with a cheap acronym, where each letter just happens to stand for some life changing goal, then you better stick to one word per letter. My God, man, there have to be some standards to this sort of hucksterism, no?! I noticed the author of Destiny also quoted Muhammed Ali: “A man that has no imagination has no wings.” Maybe my problem is that I’m just too wingless, but on the other hand, Ali is currently demented.

So I’m browsing through these upbeat books and pamphlets – about getting off drugs, off the street, into proper housing, handling your finances better, etc – while the DJ chosen by the promoter is playing the filthiest gangsta rap imaginable, talking about drugs, hos, improper sex, and trading in your IRA for diamond encrusted grills.

But the chicken. The fried chicken. Martin brought in two large turkey sized pots full of fried chicken legs. I had one. It was fantastic. Then it dawned on me. Martin had missed his calling entirely. Forget about Power and Destiny, open up a goddamn fried chicken franchise. I would’ve bought in. I also would’ve had a couple more legs then and there, but on top of the jack and cokes I already had, I might’ve ending up doing something I haven’t done since college (sadly, it doesn’t involve experimental sex; more about kneeling in front of a filthy toilet).

But I did learn something. Something real. Something concrete. We all know about 911 and 411, but did you know about 211? According to the laminated card in my tulle bundle, dialing 211 gets you immediate info on finding a hot meal, low cost health care, a bed to sleep in, help for a drinking problem, and what to do with aging parents. My mom’s visiting for Christmas. Depending on how annoyed I get, I may have to drop a dime on her ass.

The party went great. I could see my regulars cocking their eyebrows skeptically when they first walked in, just like I did, but soon – just like I did – I saw them shrugging and biting into some fine fried chicken while bobbing along to nasty ass rap. Martin asked for donations once, and only once, for a homeless shelter.

We didn’t say it, but we all recognized what was really going on here: some genuine holiday generosity. What was Martin really doing? He was promoting care and compassion for the homeless, the ill and the luckless. He just happened to be using friend chicken and self help books to do it.

By party’s end, I had my arm around Martin and was drunkenly telling him something I could say only while drunk: he was the real deal. “You’re like Santa Claus for grownups.” Then I asked him for his fried chicken recipe. He turned me down. Even Santa has his secrets.