Well another new year has arrived and I've got a cold. Again.
This marks 4 straight years that I've been sick on New Year's Eve. While the world was out celebrating and making champagne toasts, I was stuck on the couch blowing snot, hacking up a lung, watching the Twilight Zone marathon. I did manage a Nyquil toast, though, to next year's cold.
So Happy New Year. And pass the tissues. I'm going to sleep.
Showing posts with label ho-ho-holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ho-ho-holidays. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
Monday, December 25, 2006
Jingle Bells Suck
I've never been to the 9th plane of Hell, but I imagine it's very much like waking up naked next to this guy. Or spending Christmas Eve (or any hoilday for that matter) with my family.The fan of this blog knows well that I'm a happless holiday sprite who wanders aimlessly spreading cheer (and that redness on my bottom lip) from season to season, nostalgic for the shiny red trucks and tinker toys of Christmases past---Christmases that I'm beginning to think existed only on TV. For it is the spreading of things that brings warmth and joy to the hearts of all. Obviously my family didn't get the memo.
This Christmas Eve, Heather and I steered the old german-engineered Volkswagen sled toward the quiet suburban home of my Aunt and Uncle for wine, snacks, and sweets. We were greeted with the usual hugs, kisses, and handshakes, then made our way into the family room to greet the rest of the family who'd arrived on time---circa 7 pm. On time is a key point. In my family, time is relative, where the time my family will arrive is equal to their opinion of the relative who invited them (plus or minus one day and no phone call) times the number of drinks they've consumed the day of the event (occasionally the number of drinks value is squared to account for nappy time taken to sleep off the morning drunk).
We were all accounted for except Mom and Dad. Dad was to join the party straight from work, where he'd be until at least 7 pm, so we knew to expect him a bit late. Mom, however, was exercizing her trademarked running late routine. At exactly 701 pm, Mom had put in the phone call to let folks know that she was finally ready to get ready to leave her house (which is 45 minutes away).
Eventually (somewhere after 8 pm) we'd all (finally) arrived and were enjoying glasses of wine (except Mom who'd apparently given up saucing in public for lent and Dad who'd been "sipping" martinis since he arrived) and making the requisite jokes at each other's expense, when what to my wandering eye did appear, why there went Dad and my brother out to the kitchen then outside to have a quaint fight. I lept from my chair to throw open the sash, only to see my brother speed away in a flash. Hub-bubs and hurumphs people's chatter produced, and into the kitchen Mom and I went to deduce. Ehem, too much cheer.
In the kitchen stood dear-old Dad with a familiar what-the-fudge look in his eye. Martini in hand and mubling Ho-Ho-Oh-Fuck the holidays, he steered us away from the dust cloud that was all that remained of my brother and back into the family room to get the merry over with. I lingered for a bit staring off into the black night. Fare the well, oh brother, I thought. And thanks bunches for leaving the rest of us here.
No one's really sure what transpired in that kitchen or on that front lawn, but several awkward moments and more wine than I've ever seen Heather chug later, we resolved to open gifts. It really is the material things in life that make spending such nights with the family worth the effort. Thanks Macy's!
Overall, I rate this experience as requiring 25 to 30 therapy sessions to resolve. In the mean time, I'll see you on the barroom floor. Bottoms up friends. And merry fucking Christmas.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Silent Night of the Lambs
Off to the theatre for some theatrics...formal review to follow.
What to say, what to say. Well, for starters, I'm as high as Jesus on the cross after drinking something lovingly referred to as "South Beach Specials". Now, seeing as I'm in Boston, MA, and South Beach is at least 1000 miles away, it must be the sheer power of booze putting that warm feeling of goodness in my tummy. In fact, I'm taking off my tank top right now.
As for the show, this was a delightful, festive romp with the most beautiful women you'd ever seen, albeit they were men in tights, red and green fishnet tights.
The Gold Dust Orphans theatre troup has paraphrased a world in which Santa is a maniacal little kid- and reindeer-killing puff stuffed away in a basement jail cell under the watchfull eye of a sadistic, lesbian-hating Dr. Tennenbaum. Santa, though, with his extensive knowledge of who's been naughty and nice holds the key to solving the case of the notorious "reindeer skinner".
The skinner is revealed to be none other than a deranged Frosty the snowman who's reindeer-slaying ways were ended after a failed attempt to kidnap and kill Filene Penny (daughter of JC Penny).
I learned a few things from this adventure:
* Rudolph's nose is red because he's a drunk
* Martha Stewart is right in that one should not put frosting on fruit cakes
* JC Penny is frightening but beautiful
* I'm signing up for the South Beach Diet
In plain English, this was Fun Fun Fun. Thanks to Dane and Helen for taking me along.
Ok, I'm sleepy. ta ta for now.
Love,
Santascott
What to say, what to say. Well, for starters, I'm as high as Jesus on the cross after drinking something lovingly referred to as "South Beach Specials". Now, seeing as I'm in Boston, MA, and South Beach is at least 1000 miles away, it must be the sheer power of booze putting that warm feeling of goodness in my tummy. In fact, I'm taking off my tank top right now.
As for the show, this was a delightful, festive romp with the most beautiful women you'd ever seen, albeit they were men in tights, red and green fishnet tights.
The Gold Dust Orphans theatre troup has paraphrased a world in which Santa is a maniacal little kid- and reindeer-killing puff stuffed away in a basement jail cell under the watchfull eye of a sadistic, lesbian-hating Dr. Tennenbaum. Santa, though, with his extensive knowledge of who's been naughty and nice holds the key to solving the case of the notorious "reindeer skinner".
The skinner is revealed to be none other than a deranged Frosty the snowman who's reindeer-slaying ways were ended after a failed attempt to kidnap and kill Filene Penny (daughter of JC Penny).
I learned a few things from this adventure:
* Rudolph's nose is red because he's a drunk
* Martha Stewart is right in that one should not put frosting on fruit cakes
* JC Penny is frightening but beautiful
* I'm signing up for the South Beach Diet
In plain English, this was Fun Fun Fun. Thanks to Dane and Helen for taking me along.
Ok, I'm sleepy. ta ta for now.
Love,
Santascott
Speaking of the Funless Holiday Season
I hate the holidays. Especially Xmas. I have good reasons. Actually, I have a whole family and 33 years of good reasons to hate the holidays.
I guess it all started when I fell out half Jewish - half Catholic, which, by the way, was long before Chrismakka became a standing tradition of filling faces with gafilta-turkey and drowning out the sounds of family arguments with kosher cabernet. This halfness made attending Catholic schools somewhat difficult; thanks Mom, I love you.
It was the winter of 1972 when my dad (in his loving words) "fell on my mom, consequently producing [me]". Nine long months later (Dad's emphasis) and just in time for Thanksgiving, out I popped. And off popped the top of dear-old Dad's first of many, many bottles of Jack Daniels. A mere 3 and 1/2 years later, the world would be introduced to my kid brother. By then Mr. Daniels had become a bit of a celebrity in our house, with Dad cheering each time he heard the "pop" of the bottle top and the crackle of the ice as the warm, maple-glazed oak barrel-aged goodness poured to the height of three fingers in Dad's personal glass.
Flash-forward a few years, and didn't I look smashing dancing to "Disco Duck" in my brown corduroy bellbottoms, brown velvet butterfly-collared shirt, and sheepskin vest (brown of course). It was a special time. Looking back, I probably should have been riding the short bus.
Ahh to be a kid. Back then, we didn't run full-speed away from the holidays as we do now; there were at the very least presents to keep our immediate attention focused away from the hell of the remaining 364 days of the year. To us kids, holidays were a swell time of getting the family together at our Nana's house to exchange gifts, eat bad food, and watch the older relatives get festively smashed on cheap booze.
The warm feelings of giving and making merry usually wore off by early Christmas afternoon. With wrapping paper strewn about, kids passed out from overexcitement and rug burns, and our parents' eyes growing ever more crossed with each sip, it would be left, invariably, to Nana to kick us all out and send us home. It wasn't until later in life that I learned to appreciate the magnificent skill Dad showcased in his weaving the family's used Ford Granada in and out of on-coming traffic just to get us home safe and sound. Oh, how he loved us all. To this day, I can still hear him lovingly mumbling under his breath as he drove, "please God, kill me now").
Flash forward to the rather awkward years of high school then college. There I am at 16, with a high-top fade and wearing MC Hammer pants and an Africa-shaped medallion around my neck. For those of you who didn't have a "wigger" phase, the high top fade means that my hair was shaved to my scalp on the sides and in the back, but on top, it was moussed and gelled as high as I could possibly get it, which was no small feat for a kid with half-jewish hair; MC Hammer pants were silk pants not unlike those worn by gypsies in films from the 1920s; and the Africa-shaped medallion was an object very awkwardly purchased (for a white kid) at Crystal's shoe store in Boston's Downtown Crossing. More than likely I was rapping the Christmas carols a la Run DMC's "Christmas in Hollis", while dear-old Dad---who had by then upgraded to 6 fingers of Jack---was growing more and more concerned with who my real, black parents could possibly be. Mind you, I grew up no where near the hood, yet felt a unique and strong bond with my black roots. My parents voted for Reagan. Twice. They also voted for Bush I. And Bush II. Twice.
Mere moments later, while at college, I apparently found my true self, a skinny alterna-boy with long dark hair, fingernails painted black, black lipstick, and a touch of rouge on my cheeks. My wardrobe consisted of tight black or blue jeans, t-shirts of some obscure local band, and the requisite cherry z-colored doc martins. Shit I was cool. And man did chicks dig me. According to dear-old Dad (and Jack), however, I had become unbelievably gay.
By this point, Mom (whose passive aggressive traits had heretofore been clouded in my mind by her powerful use of the force) would begin to chime in with wails of how could her good Catholic son be so offensive. And gay.
What a shit storm ensued.
Needless to say, I got coal in my stocking for several years. And I avoided the hell out of my family.
I'm grown up now and have realized the errors of my family's ways. Thanks therapy! Boy what I wouldn't give to have grown up with someone else's family. Sure, I've attempted to re-kindle the feelings of my childhood holidays, but always fall far short. Is it me, I often wonder. Perhaps. But I can't help thinking it's all their fault.
Who really looks forward to making merry with their family anyway? I say pour me three fingers of Jack, Santa, and get the fuck off my porch.
I guess it all started when I fell out half Jewish - half Catholic, which, by the way, was long before Chrismakka became a standing tradition of filling faces with gafilta-turkey and drowning out the sounds of family arguments with kosher cabernet. This halfness made attending Catholic schools somewhat difficult; thanks Mom, I love you.
It was the winter of 1972 when my dad (in his loving words) "fell on my mom, consequently producing [me]". Nine long months later (Dad's emphasis) and just in time for Thanksgiving, out I popped. And off popped the top of dear-old Dad's first of many, many bottles of Jack Daniels. A mere 3 and 1/2 years later, the world would be introduced to my kid brother. By then Mr. Daniels had become a bit of a celebrity in our house, with Dad cheering each time he heard the "pop" of the bottle top and the crackle of the ice as the warm, maple-glazed oak barrel-aged goodness poured to the height of three fingers in Dad's personal glass.
Flash-forward a few years, and didn't I look smashing dancing to "Disco Duck" in my brown corduroy bellbottoms, brown velvet butterfly-collared shirt, and sheepskin vest (brown of course). It was a special time. Looking back, I probably should have been riding the short bus.
Ahh to be a kid. Back then, we didn't run full-speed away from the holidays as we do now; there were at the very least presents to keep our immediate attention focused away from the hell of the remaining 364 days of the year. To us kids, holidays were a swell time of getting the family together at our Nana's house to exchange gifts, eat bad food, and watch the older relatives get festively smashed on cheap booze.
The warm feelings of giving and making merry usually wore off by early Christmas afternoon. With wrapping paper strewn about, kids passed out from overexcitement and rug burns, and our parents' eyes growing ever more crossed with each sip, it would be left, invariably, to Nana to kick us all out and send us home. It wasn't until later in life that I learned to appreciate the magnificent skill Dad showcased in his weaving the family's used Ford Granada in and out of on-coming traffic just to get us home safe and sound. Oh, how he loved us all. To this day, I can still hear him lovingly mumbling under his breath as he drove, "please God, kill me now").
Flash forward to the rather awkward years of high school then college. There I am at 16, with a high-top fade and wearing MC Hammer pants and an Africa-shaped medallion around my neck. For those of you who didn't have a "wigger" phase, the high top fade means that my hair was shaved to my scalp on the sides and in the back, but on top, it was moussed and gelled as high as I could possibly get it, which was no small feat for a kid with half-jewish hair; MC Hammer pants were silk pants not unlike those worn by gypsies in films from the 1920s; and the Africa-shaped medallion was an object very awkwardly purchased (for a white kid) at Crystal's shoe store in Boston's Downtown Crossing. More than likely I was rapping the Christmas carols a la Run DMC's "Christmas in Hollis", while dear-old Dad---who had by then upgraded to 6 fingers of Jack---was growing more and more concerned with who my real, black parents could possibly be. Mind you, I grew up no where near the hood, yet felt a unique and strong bond with my black roots. My parents voted for Reagan. Twice. They also voted for Bush I. And Bush II. Twice.
Mere moments later, while at college, I apparently found my true self, a skinny alterna-boy with long dark hair, fingernails painted black, black lipstick, and a touch of rouge on my cheeks. My wardrobe consisted of tight black or blue jeans, t-shirts of some obscure local band, and the requisite cherry z-colored doc martins. Shit I was cool. And man did chicks dig me. According to dear-old Dad (and Jack), however, I had become unbelievably gay.
By this point, Mom (whose passive aggressive traits had heretofore been clouded in my mind by her powerful use of the force) would begin to chime in with wails of how could her good Catholic son be so offensive. And gay.
What a shit storm ensued.
Needless to say, I got coal in my stocking for several years. And I avoided the hell out of my family.
I'm grown up now and have realized the errors of my family's ways. Thanks therapy! Boy what I wouldn't give to have grown up with someone else's family. Sure, I've attempted to re-kindle the feelings of my childhood holidays, but always fall far short. Is it me, I often wonder. Perhaps. But I can't help thinking it's all their fault.
Who really looks forward to making merry with their family anyway? I say pour me three fingers of Jack, Santa, and get the fuck off my porch.
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