I remember the time a doctor told me I was an alcoholic. But I barely drink, I said. He gave me a look. Denial, he said, was part of my problem. But doctor, I scarcely drink. When I go out to I’ll have a drink or two, and just every once in a while at home. I barely qualify as a social drinker. I’m writing you a referral for our alcoholism counseling service, he said. But I’m not a drunk I said again. It will be OK, he said.
A friend asked if I went to the counseling. No, I said, I’m not an alcoholic. I barely drink. You didn’t go to the AA meetings? Of course not. But this is Hollywood, he said. A former drinking buddy of his met David Bowie that way. I don’t care, I said, I’m not going to go to AA meetings. It’s your life, he said.
Got asked for the zillionth time last night how we’ve been married forever. Well, I said, it’s been thirty eight years of me mansplaining to an Indian who’s not gonna listen to a white man no matter what. Fyl laughed. The earnest questioner was as bewildered as before. Maybe you think about it too much Fyl marriedsplained, and the tenor player began a gorgeous, perfect Skylark, Fyl closing her eyes as jazz love filled the room.
Today’s the day that all the Eastern Orthodox kids had their second Christmas. That’s all I knew about the Great Schism when I was a kid, that the Greek kids down the street got two Christmases and the Irish kids just got one. Anyway, Merry Christmas, Greek kids.
The pad is utterly Xmas free again. Every year there is a Christmas explosion that fills the house, and then just as suddenly it reverse explodes back onto the closet shelf, all of it but the tree (which goes wherever sacrificed trees go), a crazed Christmas party’s worth of stuff reboxed with an inherited Germanic efficiency that my Irish half observes with lazy poetry.
Apparently if you slip your phone into your shirt pocket without shutting it down and then forget about it for a couple hours strange things happen. I’d retreated to the bar and between songs odd sounds were emanating from somewhere. I paid them no mind as I hang out in weird bars. As the bartendress did not seem especially interested in the story of life I reached for my phone to admire myself in my blog–I used to be so clever–when I realized it was on and the odd sounds I’d been hearing were from an enthusiastic Filipino/Filipina shemale thoroughly bespattered with DNA that had reached its evolutionary dead end. Imagine my surprise. Just as several women descended on me for drunken New Year’s Eve’s Eve hugs I managed to shut that particular window, and noticed between hugs and slurred Happy New Year’s that there were a dozen windows open on my phone screen, all safe for work, one of which, somehow, was my Hotmail spam folder, and either blind chance or fate managed to pop open the email titled “Hot Philipeno shemale!!!” and activate the link. Hence the odd sounds emanating from my shirt pocket. I never look at my Hotmail spam folder, and a good thing too, as it was full of videos of doomed DNA. I deleted its contents, ignoring the metaphor, then closed all the open windows, turned the phone off and thought safe, sweet analog thoughts the rest of the night.
I’m really beginning to miss my CD player. This steampunk vinyl and just plain embarrassing cassette revival I’ve been living is getting old, and everything downloaded on the computer just gets dull, it’s so easy, an omen of how bored we will all be when computers and machines do everything for us, even posting things like this without any missteaks.
A vast hollow boom rent the silent night, followed by a ragged series of other booms, just as loud. The first one startled me, the others just made me smile. No matter how much they’ve gentrified Silverlake, there’s still little pockets of Mexico where somebody’s tio borracho breaks out the stash of unbelievably illegal fireworks he’d smuggled up from TJ or maybe bought off an ice cream truck across the river and sets them off in a ragged volley because, hell, Christmas Eve is a holiday like any other. Now Silver Lake is utterly silent again as I write this, even in here, where the Christmas tree lights throw crazy shadows on the ceiling and the entire room looks like a Van Gogh still life. Brick needs to take his seizure meds.
Merry Christmas, all.