Palm Springs


One Saturday night a couple years ago we were out in Palm Springs watching their Christmas Festival of Lights parade. Fire trucks and marching bands and agricultural machinery and prancing queens and everything bedecked in lights and fiber optic cables, as beautiful as it is absurd. The parade goes down Palm Canyon Drive and we’d booked a room on Indian Canyon Drive a block away. Two minute walk. It was chilly, not a cloud in the sky, a bone chilling desert winter’s night. A zillion glittery stars over head, and faint smudges of galaxies unimaginably far away, so far and so vast it’s better not to think of them at all. We didn’t.  Continue reading


So I made dinner yesterday, had the siblings over for eats and laffs, packaged six months worth of leftovers, then cleaned up, scrubbing a zillion dishes and pots and one deep blue turkey pan and have dishwater hands that Madge would not believe, made a big pot of turkey vegetable soup, handwashed some laundry because the part hasn’t come in for the goddam washing machine yet, washed the floor, straightened up the place and then sat in the dark listening to Joe Henderson until I realized it was getting less dark. Nearly twenty four hours of giving thanks (if you include the Joe Henderson). Thank god that we have to be grateful only once a year. And the Macy’s Parade coverage is lame. I hate those fucking pop singers. I liked it better with Milton Berle in a dress.

Milton Berle at the Macy's Parade, 1982.

Milton Berle at the Macy’s Parade, 1982.