An excerpt from a Christmas party invitation…

It wasn’t July at all. I lied. It was well into a December. An innocent, hairier pated December. There was more money then. More hope. A future. We had not been broken on the rocks of shattered dreams (I wrote that one myself) or had arthritic knees. Well, maybe we did, that was a long time ago. Many a tree back. The days before Suzanne Pleshette doggie dishes full of onion dip and aging ex-punk rockers watching Fred Astaire musicals. Before people’s kids had their own kids. Before people outgrew marijuana or faked an illness to get it legally. Before Kid Rock appeared in every documentary ever including the one about Ahmet Ertegun I bought for a dollar in a Rite Aid in Palm Springs because I was drunk. There were lots of jazz clubs then. And good bands, loud bands, and we would go and listen and the crowds would thrash about and shriek in each other’s ears to be heard. People talked in elevators then. You didn’t want to talk to them, but they talked anyway, instead of missing their floors staring at their iPhones. Brittany hadn’t texted while driving yet. J Lo’s big ass was fresh and new. Rap had just become ridiculous. When Wynton spoke, people listened. The World Trade Center stood. The Kings sucked. Sketch sang of worn sneakers. Stray cats bothered us, uneaten. Planes since crashed flew uncrashed. Wars since fought were unfought. Men suffered ED in silence and lied to their bowling buddies. It was a more innocent time. We sit by the fireside and remember and sigh. Sunrise, sunset. Or something.

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