The elusive and capricious Christmas spirit finally kicked me in the teeth. I celebrate a secular version of the holiday. This is an amalgam of European mythology, Norse revelry and Pagan ritual -- redefined by Madison Avenue and sanctified by Hollywood. Commercialism is unavoidable. In fact, it's fundamental.
All are welcome. None are excluded.
Anyway, this year's dose finally hit me while I was watching SNL. You never know where it will come from. The Christmas issue of Playboy used to do it, but my subscription lapsed sometime during the Carter administration.
So Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and Loan. We should all have a better new year.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
THE GHOST OF LIVERPOOL
He was an enormous Brit in a soiled white suit. His face was unshaven. Strings of black hair brushed the splayed collar of his pink shirt. He entered the bar with an air of proprietorship and great thirst. I had never seen him before and I never laid eyes on him again.
He knew what he wanted. "Jameson.”
"No spirits, mate. Beer and wine," the bartender replied.
"In that event, " the man said, extracting an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack, "I will have a pint of Guinness." He spoke with a Liverpudlian lilt – the unmistakable nasal drone that seems to resonate from an undiscovered region of the human face.
A few minutes later, the bartender placed a glistening pint before the stranger's sad and resolute smile. "Cheers," the barman said. "First one’s on the house tonight."
The big man drained the glass and slammed his palms on the bar.
"Right. Let’s do it," he said.
He pushed himself backward and pivoted. With no hesitation, he walked to the piano which had always looked out of place in the corner of the bar. He sat down and began playing "Imagine."
All conversation ceased as the stranger sang the first verse. Hesitantly, a few others joined in. He followed with "Yesterday." Then, “Eleanor Rigby.” By the end of the third song, everyone in the bar was singing. Pints of Guinness found their way to the piano. The man never spent a penny.
We sat there for hours, singing the songs that had shaped my life and the words that had once altered the landscape of my brain.
The bartender threw everyone out at 2:45. The stranger walked away, disappearing into the warm December morning. I went home and turned on my television. The overnight news repeated a single, heartbreaking story until dawn.
He knew what he wanted. "Jameson.”
"No spirits, mate. Beer and wine," the bartender replied.
"In that event, " the man said, extracting an unfiltered cigarette from a crumpled pack, "I will have a pint of Guinness." He spoke with a Liverpudlian lilt – the unmistakable nasal drone that seems to resonate from an undiscovered region of the human face.
A few minutes later, the bartender placed a glistening pint before the stranger's sad and resolute smile. "Cheers," the barman said. "First one’s on the house tonight."
The big man drained the glass and slammed his palms on the bar.
"Right. Let’s do it," he said.
He pushed himself backward and pivoted. With no hesitation, he walked to the piano which had always looked out of place in the corner of the bar. He sat down and began playing "Imagine."
All conversation ceased as the stranger sang the first verse. Hesitantly, a few others joined in. He followed with "Yesterday." Then, “Eleanor Rigby.” By the end of the third song, everyone in the bar was singing. Pints of Guinness found their way to the piano. The man never spent a penny.
We sat there for hours, singing the songs that had shaped my life and the words that had once altered the landscape of my brain.
The bartender threw everyone out at 2:45. The stranger walked away, disappearing into the warm December morning. I went home and turned on my television. The overnight news repeated a single, heartbreaking story until dawn.
Friday, December 3, 2010
DELUSIONAL IN AUSTIN
Several hours ago I was standing on a street corner a few blocks from the infamous UT tower, waiting for a bus. I knew I had at least twenty minutes to kill, but I was perfectly content. The evening was alive with magic and minutiae.
Behind me, just outside an apartment door, two very young women were engaged in an energetic conversation. We’ve all done this, although perhaps not lately. The day is done, the door is open, you say goodnight -- and three hours later you’re still discussing the difference between love, lust and drunken capitulation – perhaps with someone you’ve just met. Or, it might have been some other drastically significant topic. I couldn’t really hear the details of this particular discussion, but I recognized the exuberance and the energy. These young women are still discovering the wonderment of the journey. They are about as far from jaded as I am from human flight. And this evening, they were chatting incessantly and laughing with no restraint. For me, it was a tonic.
In addition to the conversation, I was also under the influence of a steady, seductive breeze, ripe with evening spices and rife with tobacco and other combustibles.
It was intoxicating.
Add to this -- harsh, yellow streetlamps floating iridescent shadows beneath the wheels of passing cyclists and under the feet of pedestrians. It was nothing more than illumination blocked. Light interrupted. But it looked like magic. These shadows were bottomless, film noir pools. And the breeze was suddenly cooler. I leaned into a metal pole and breathed. For the duration of that breath, I was convinced I would live forever.
Then, a door slammed. I turned from my reverie to see the girls were no longer there. I didn’t know if both were gone, both had stayed, or if one had departed with reluctance while the other stayed behind with unspoken regret. In fact, I juggled several scenarios. I was projecting -- romanticizing a simple conversation. The aforementioned streetlights seeped into a space behind my eyes and ignited a headache. The bus was late. I was ready to go. I was ready to move on down the road. I found myself staring at the tower, calculating the striking distance between the observation deck and my forehead.
Finally the bus arrived and took me home.
There was another quick moment, as I was writing this down, when I felt foolishly immortal. My hope is that I retain this delusion, until the day it becomes untenable.
Behind me, just outside an apartment door, two very young women were engaged in an energetic conversation. We’ve all done this, although perhaps not lately. The day is done, the door is open, you say goodnight -- and three hours later you’re still discussing the difference between love, lust and drunken capitulation – perhaps with someone you’ve just met. Or, it might have been some other drastically significant topic. I couldn’t really hear the details of this particular discussion, but I recognized the exuberance and the energy. These young women are still discovering the wonderment of the journey. They are about as far from jaded as I am from human flight. And this evening, they were chatting incessantly and laughing with no restraint. For me, it was a tonic.
In addition to the conversation, I was also under the influence of a steady, seductive breeze, ripe with evening spices and rife with tobacco and other combustibles.
It was intoxicating.
Add to this -- harsh, yellow streetlamps floating iridescent shadows beneath the wheels of passing cyclists and under the feet of pedestrians. It was nothing more than illumination blocked. Light interrupted. But it looked like magic. These shadows were bottomless, film noir pools. And the breeze was suddenly cooler. I leaned into a metal pole and breathed. For the duration of that breath, I was convinced I would live forever.
Then, a door slammed. I turned from my reverie to see the girls were no longer there. I didn’t know if both were gone, both had stayed, or if one had departed with reluctance while the other stayed behind with unspoken regret. In fact, I juggled several scenarios. I was projecting -- romanticizing a simple conversation. The aforementioned streetlights seeped into a space behind my eyes and ignited a headache. The bus was late. I was ready to go. I was ready to move on down the road. I found myself staring at the tower, calculating the striking distance between the observation deck and my forehead.
Finally the bus arrived and took me home.
There was another quick moment, as I was writing this down, when I felt foolishly immortal. My hope is that I retain this delusion, until the day it becomes untenable.
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