The archetypal California bungalow, thick braces under low-pitched double gables, sent to hell via the stuccoman. The neighborhood reeks of stucco. And booze. And corpses. It is Christmas, after all.
It's no wonder folks fetishize postwar America—the anteplaystation years—while now grown men sit together in front of some giant screen (all those years donating plasma finally pay off), back in '47 we were Men, and we had drinking parties. (We’ll ignore the homorerotic overtones within the Times’ use of the phrase “drinking companion” and Mrs. Hepner’s account that the two were “playing pretty rough.”)
In any event. The drinking party: you drink, you get drunk, somebody dies. That's a party, you computerized pansy.