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.

Because I Feel Like Writing

So I was watching cartoons yesterday morning in about a three-quarter-stupor trying to figure out why I fell asleep on my living room floor armed to the teeth, when a commercial came on for a Christmas album for kids called “Yo, It’s Christmas.” The answer is yes, I bought it: “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way, oh what fun it is to ride in a blinged out Christmas sleigh. Dashing through the snow in a drop top Chevrolet, over the hills we go, bumpin’ all the way, bump bump bump…” It turns out it’s a Disney project, so like all Disney products it’s PG, grammatically correct, and its racism is moderate in both intensity and disguise. My favorite line (I haven’t listened closely all the way through yet, so I’m reserving my right to change) is “Don we now our fly apparel, fa la la la la la la la la, and we roll wit that ancient yuletide carol.” Also, this from Silent Night: “Let’s break it down allright, all was calm and all was bright.” Basically if I had kids, they would not be allowed to listen to this album, but if they asked why, I wouldn’t be able to come up with a very good answer. I don’t have kids though, so I get to listen to it for its cheesy beats and other humorous qualities.

I went and saw American Gangster last night, and I have still yet to see a bad Denzel movie (except maybe The Bone Collector, which only makes the maybe list because Angelina Jolie is in it. Angelina’s been in some moderately bad movies, but she has a free pass in my book because of Hackers.) Everyone loved Training Day, but He Got Game was a far superior movie, although it should be mentioned that I carry a pretty low opinion of Ethan Hawke. One of my favorite movies is Hoodlum, to which American Gangster is something like a sequel. Larry Fishburne’s character in Hoodlum is Ellsworth “Bumpy” Johnson, who gets out of jail and frees Harlem from the grips of Jewish gangster Arthur “Dutch Schultz” Flegenheimer, and after earning the blessings of the Italian Charles “Lucky” Luciano establishes himself as the most powerful man in Harlem. American Gangster picks up many years later in 1968, with the death of Bumpy Johnson. Denzel (who it turns out is about to turn 53) plays Frank Lucas, Bumpy’s driver and bodyguard. Lucas sets up a heroin importation operation and when he’s finally arrested, the Fed’s seize $250M, which adjusted for inflation is over a billion, and doesn’t include all the real estate etc he and his family bought.

In the only scene where Denzel has an identifiable gun, it's a Browning Hi-Power. According to five minutes of e-research, it appears Lucas was fond of the Hi-Power.