It's been a while

When I went on vacation, I thought I’d have time to write on here, but I never really got around to it (except the Christmas eve post which has gotten rave reviews, especially from those involved.) I could’ve written about how excited my mom was to get Guitar Hero for Christmas, but I was too busy playing it with her. I could have written about going to a Saints game in Chicago, but my fingers were too numb to type. I could’ve written about New Years Eve and catching snow flakes on my tongue and washing them down with the cheapest champaign you can buy. Instead, I was busy living those moments with the vigor they deserved, and recovering as best I could from the longer nights. Now though, for your sake and for posterity, I will try to at least paint the broad strokes of the last two weeks. (Editor's Note: As it turns out, just the few days after Christmas provided me with enough to write about for over an hour, so I'm going to have to break this up. Enjoy!)

Christmas was great although, as I mentioned, the present opening ceremonies was a brief affair, with my parents reaping most of the booty (although, apropos of booty, I got a pair of boxers that say “toot, toot” on the back, which I am presently wearing. It’s worth mentioning that I’ve always been anti-novelty underwear, or at least since someone hung a pair of “Fart Wars: The Silent Menace” briefs in my living room a while back, but when you need clean underwear, you need clean underwear.) My gifts to my mom were James Taylor’s new live CD/DVD, and my old Playstation 2, on which she could play her present from my dad, Guitar Hero III: Legends of Rock (I like to say it like: Legends of Raaawwwk!) A few days ago, she sent me a text message (in a lot of ways, my mom is 12 years old) saying she had finally completed Heart’s Barracuda. In between gourmet breakfasts and dinners (and gourmet leftover lunches) I managed to prove that I am nowhere near as good as some of my friends (allegedly) are at Guitar Hero, but way better than my mom (who deserves a lot of credit for trying.)

For over a year, I’ve been ribbing my brother about when he was going to get engaged to his 5(+) year girlfriend, who in case she is reading this is more than a delight and the world’s best sister-in-law-to-be. Over thanksgiving, he asked my mom if she had any “heirloomish” (direct quote) diamond rings in her safe deposit box. She retrieved my great-(great-?)Grandmother’s engagement ring for him to propose with and let me just say that great-(great-?)Grandpa did not screw around. At dinner the night before his departure, my brother was goaded into telling about a dream he had the previous night in which he had left but forgotten the ring. Which is all kind of an obvious set-up to the story about how he forgot the ring, but due to early-airport-arrival, my mom was able to speed the 30 miles back to the house from the airport, retrieve the ring, speed back to the airport, hand the ring off to my dad, who ran it inside and met me at the stairs, which I ran up and handed the ring off to my brother who already had his shoes off and laptop out in the security check area, and ran to the gate with his shoes off and laptop out as the agent was closing the door. At least that’s the way the way it would’ve happened if his plane hadn’t been an hour late to depart. Either way it was hilarious. And I made five bucks off my dad.

After the airport my dad, my uncle and I went to Al’s French Fries. (If you’ve never been to Al’s, then I feel sorry for you. I was home a week and went twice, and it’s 30 miles from my parent’s house.) Al’s is like McD’s or BK except there’s only one of them and the food is way better, especially the fries, obviously. Waiting in line at Al’s we were joined in line by a guy that my dad introduced to my uncle as my hometown’s premier song and dance man, to which he replied “Your father is so fulla… fulla… beans.” When asked what he was doing in the “big city” he replied that (on Dec. 27^th) he “figured he should probably finish [his] Christmas shopping.” There are two things you need to know about this particular gentleman, 1.) he directed and co-starred in the first musical I was in, and directed the third (and last) one I was in, in which I co-starred, and 2.) Despite his theatric and musical (he's an excellent banjo and fiddle player) proclivities he is a farmer and will forever smell like cow shit.

A Christmas Story

For as long as I can I remember, I’ve had trouble falling asleep on Christmas Eve. Not because I was trying to see Santa, but because I knew that soon another Christmas would be gone, and I’d have nothing to show for it except a few toys I was tired of by noon, a chocolate supply that wouldn’t last until dinner, and a bolstered supply of socks and underwear.

Back at home for only the second time since last the yuletide was gay, things are the same and completely different at the same time. Like for example, there’s a big ass tree in the living room. Also new, is wireless internet, which I am enjoying presently. Our tree is decorated with a nice blend of fancy store bought ornaments, moderately fancy store bought ornaments that were then painted with snowflakes, angels, wreaths, Santa, etc. and hand made elementary school crafts projects (and mardi gras beads, because I’ll use any excuse to get rid of some of those.) The closest ornament to me as I write, is one I made out of three popsicle sticks, blue paint, yarn, glue and red glitter. In the center is a school picture day portrait of me at roughly kindergarten/1st grade. My brother said I had fresh faced optimism, but I recognize the same no-teeth grin I still use today if told to smile with nothing to smile about.

There was a streak of about four or five years recently where every year, my mom says that this is going to be the year that Christmas gets scaled back and the amount of presents is severely reduced, but ended up loading the tree anyway. In recent years, the amount of presents really has declined, but gradually to the point of there being few, if any From: Santa gifts. I blame Al Gore.

I did 90% of my Christmas shopping in an underground music store. From street level you walk down a flight of steps into a basement filled with CDs, DVDs, and LPs. They were giving away free posters for a band fronted by a girl I went to middle school (and sang in chorus) with. I wouldn’t say she’s huge, but those in the musical know would know her. She’s definitely the most famous person I went to middle school with. Anyways, I’ve long been a fan of this music store, their indie rack is as big as their pop rack, and half the store is used CDs. They have concert videos that I’ve never seen in any store or even for sale online.

My original flight out of New Orleans was delayed two hours due to bad weather in Philly, then they boarded the plane and told us that the plane wasn’t going to fly for another two hours. Since the first two hours used up all of the contingency in my layover, I decided that maybe it would e better to try the next day (Saturday.) I called up my buddy to see what his plans were, and then told him I’d be there shortly. He asked what I meant and I told him I intended to get off the plane and he goes: “I like your style.” Me too, we went downtown and got pretty banged up, saw Kermit Ruffins break it down real nice at the new Balcony Club on Decatur, spent an hour looking for my friend’s lost work van, sang Motown songs with a homeless guy, then went to Ms. Mae’s. When the bouncer told me I wasn’t allowed in until I finished my drink, I said “Do you know who I am?” Stupid new guy, needless to say I didn’t go in.

Saturday morning, my brother called about 10:30am to ask what time my flight was arriving/ remind me I was flying/ make sure I didn’t miss my flight. I reassured him I would make it, in fact I had spent the night on my buddy’s couch, who coincidentally I would be sharing a flight with. We got the desk agents to give us seats next t each other, and then went to the airport bar. My buddy had already drank about two pints of sangria, and the sitting next to him thing turned out to be only a moderately good idea. We had a couple drinks at the hotel bar and hopped on the plane. I only had to tell him a couple of times not to point at the person he was talking about, the middle-aged shuffle rocking guy who had the misfortune of sharing a row with us that day. We fired up a couple bloody marys and since it was Christmas the subsequent ones were free.

Upon arrival in Philly, we found our way to the restrooms, where I had sitting business. I hear my buddy say:

Did you just see that? There was just a woman in here. Maybe it wasn’t a woman,
maybe it was it just a manboy… or mangirl.

I am sitting in my stall, absolutely dying laughing, there’s probably 5-8 other people in this bathroom, few of which would have the presence to realize that he was shitfaced because it was only like 4pm.

So we check on our connecting flights and go to the pub for nachos, a hotdog and four or five more drinks. We meet these two English (but actually it turns out are originally South African) girls who are on their way to Miami for “chrimble holiday,” which directly translated means: Christmas break. I think they may have warmed up to us once they realized how drunk we were. What shouldn't take them long to realize, is that there are no two guys in the United States that they could have been luckier to sit with.

I had an extra hour and a half after the girls’ and my friend’s plane left, so I decided I’d stretch my legs before I continued to kill my liver. I got a coffee irished and signed up for a US Air MasterCard and in return received a small teddy bear which spent the rest of the trip on my shoulder, being introduced to everyone he made eye contact with as Boudreaux the Bear, my co-pilot and confidant.