A very Troubled Christmas
I wanted to unveil a special holiday episode of Trouble Sells, in the proud tradition of Charlie Brown. But the truth is, I mostly hid out this year. I’ve gotten to the age where I can recluse myself from family gatherings without fear — not because I am an adult who can make his own decisions, but because after all these years they’re sick of me too. But I have not yet gotten to the age where you spend the holidays with your fiancée, and at this rate I never will. So I was free.
I checked in with the folks — yes, I have parents, just like Republicans — and considered my duties finished. My mother, of course, was not so lucky, as she had gone back to Racine to see her sisters. My dad was to have dinner with a few clients, he reported — he is an agent in Los Angeles — and I imagine it was somewhat like in Broadway Danny Rose.
Yes, I have revealed a bit more about myself, in this season of giving. Mother, retired executive; father, music agent; hometown, Racine, as in Wisconsin, with the other white people. Both sides of the family are entirely resident in Wisconsin except my parents and me. Mother, Santa Fe; father, Glendale; me, Gomorrah. We’re like missionaries, but for what?
Snarky aside: the Racine Journal Times’ web site lists a few wire stories about the natural disaster tragedies in Iran and California, as well as the latest mad cow laxity — but the local reporters and columnists have this to say on December 26, 2003:
No holiday hangover for a lot of shoppers There are reasons you shouldn’t pay for sex Mike Moore: Why don’t you like us? Debatable: Does changing a Web page change history?
Now newspapers sound as flippantly clueless as blogs! Obviously, I left too soon. And in terms of that last question: absolutely yes, as I do it all the time. End of snarky aside. P.S. How do you do fact-filled sidebars in Movable Type?
Anyway, I left Racine for Pinter, Shepard, and Blessing. In a perfect world, all great dramatists would have crappy Midwestern towns named after them. The capital of this Dramatic Confederation of the Lakes and Plains, I guess, would be in Thornton Wilder. But here in New York, which was not named after a playwright but continues to name them, I studied my options for Christmas:
- Travel across a country I love to be with the ones I love. No way. Mom had eliminated herself from consideration by visiting her family, and dad said he’s “over Christmas.”
- Pester friends to include me in their plans. Goes against my aloof manner. Plus, I’d end up doing some version of #1 with other people’s people.
- Eat out at a Chinese place and see a movie, in the traditional manner of that other element of our population. Who’s going to believe it from me, though?
- Go to the bar. You may not suspect this, but while #4 is no doubt a popular choice of many a man without qualities, it chills me to the very bone.
- Other.
You got it, I picked Other. One nice thing about Christmas in New York is that it’s one of the few times that places actually are closed. Probably the only time. We have much more commercial activity during blackouts and terrorist destructions of the city’s tallest buildings than we do during Christmas Day. I walked around in the few moments of snow, admiring the sudden cold, and stopped into my trusty diner. (Yes, I have a regular diner as well as a bar. Man cannot live by whiskey alone — although you’d never know it from the crowd there — you’ve also got to have turkey dinners for $10.)
And then…on Christmas…I came back home! I listened to records, read books, watched a film on video. Probably one of the best Christmases ever. I opted out, hurt no one, and had a pleasant day. It reminds me of the best birthday I’ve ever spent in New York, a few years ago when I had just moved back to town. I didn’t know anyone — or no one I wanted to — and I went out for a falafel at Habib’s Place on Ninth Street. Habib and I talked about Louis Armstrong, and Louis Armstrong, and maybe a little Phil Schaap, and I went home smiling. Habib’s fervent love of Louis Armstrong can trump any self-pity a man may feel. Plus, it always feels better when people are nice to you on your birthday without knowing.
Happy holidays from all of us here at Trouble Sells. It was naturally a very Troubled Christmas, yet not a troubled one at all.
by Jack, December 27, 2003 2:58 AM | More from Foundational Issues
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There probably are more options. You probably have devoted friends all over the country that you could've reached out to.