On The Eve of... The Eve of 2011

So how has my holiday been so far?  Let me put it this way, I just woke up and noticed it snowed a little bit here in New York City.  Last thing I remember was shouting "who are you to judge body types, Santa, you thyroid-forsaken, godless, Mason!" and then falling face-first into the glass door leading to my rooftop view.  As my crushed left cheek squeegeed down the glass, I gave into sleep.  A phone call from my Amex Obsidian rep woke me up to ask if I had tried to order any endangered species over the phone.  Seems like that fell within the realm of holiday possibility, so I told her everything was fine.

That's when I realized the bright whiteness filling my vision wasn't the interrogation lamp of a rendition hideout, but snow.  Finally gathered my wits enough to look out across the city and take in the snowfall that had covered the city like a down comforter.  I'm sure something similar happens in other cities, but I'm still always shocked by how quiet and still New York becomes after a snowfall, as peaceful as standing in a tranquil wood.  And for just those few days, every ding and dent in the city's topography gets covered with beauty.

I'm not sure why this always stuck with me, but one of my first memories as a kid involves a snowstorm here in the city.  I'm with my father, brother, and sister sitting in a small restaurant or cafe in the West Village.  It's dark outside and the snowfall has just begun.  We brush what little stuck to our coats off as we sit.  Being the youngest, I whine, insisting on the window seat and everyone capitulates just to quiet me down.  My seat almost presses against the wall, and to my left is a bay window with a forced hot water radiator under it.  On the window's sill sleeps the most contented cat I've ever seen, oblivious to the restaurant's bustle around it.  As I contemplate petting the cat, I take a moment to look out the window and notice the evenly spaced cones of orange light pouring out from the sodium vapor street lamps.  In those cones, I see large snow flakes falling at an alarming rate, but once I get to the hard edge of light, darkness like any other night.  It's as if not even weather dare exist outside the scope of a New York street post.

Of course my Mother wasn't there.  She called anyone who lived south of Central Park "them" or "they" like she was talking about how she wouldn't clean up the mess of a dog belonging to someone else.  The only good people south of the park were those who actually lived uptown but had to travel to the financial district as an "occupational hazard."  She would often make vague comparisons to Beirut.  In fact, the whole reason I picked Soho was a cheap passive-aggressive shot at my mother.  I figured she couldn't resist visiting her youngest offspring indefinitely, but we're still waiting to see who wins that game of chicken.

I think back to that little boy, contentedly watching that contented cat.  Then I think about the man he became, blacking out face-first against a sliding glass door that luckily didn't break, sparing me from dying of exposure.  Drunk-dialing Nigerian black marketers hoping to score some crazy endangered pet and probably shouting my credit card number at them... I don't think that's who that little boy in the West Village alcove would choose to be.

You know, I didn't expect to end up here when I poured my medicinal good-morning scotch and sat down to recount my holiday glory.  I didn't expect to question myself the way I now am, and maybe that's the first real lesson I've learned about writing since I started this process.  Maybe I should go all the way back and question the motivation for this entire journey.  I started by saying I wanted to write in order to meet scores of women, but maybe the truth is I wanted to write in order to meet just that one.

A safe and happy 2011 to all.

A Holiday Thought...

Please pardon the typos, Ive had a couple seven drinks of my family's traditional holiday egg nog recipe.  It goess something like this:

A good four fingers of scotch
Thats it.

Anything els goes in that glass and youre an animal.  A splash of water "to activate the taste?"  Why not just teabag the 25 year single malt, same thing.

But moving on...

As I sit here on the eve of the day a bunch of toga Roman dudes decided to celebrate Jesus' birth 1700 years ago, I can't help but wonder about what humanity has done in those 1700 years.  That Roman empire that picked late December because it matched up nicely to sun worshipers and other pagan traditions fell, other empires took its place.  They fell.  The dark ages, Irish monk transcriptions saving ancient history, the plague, the Renaissance, stuff in China I assume, the Industrial Revolution, American independence and the start of American Exceptionalism that still totally exists so screw the haters, world wars, space, and now the internet.  A marvel so wondrous that I can use it to both window shop escorts and watch NORAD track Santa.

Which leads me to this evening's thought.  If NORAD's watching Santa... who's watching the Russians?  Just try and have "and to all a good night" with that on your mind.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try not to pass out so I can stand in front of my windows naked when the internet says Santa is over my apartment.

The Lost Weekend

I knew the invite would land on my doorstep soon since it is called "The Annual Christmas Masquerade Sex Orgy," but I was shocked to learn that I'd have to be traveling to an undisclosed location around Morristown, NJ.  When I decide to throw on my 15th century goblin inspired mask and run around tripping and naked while engaging in sex acts with over twenty-eight different partners while Christmas carols ironically play of over the PA system, I don't want to do it at some rural Pennsylvania barn party.

The worst part was of my own making, though.  I stupidly showed Christmas compassion to my driver, Tomas, or Susan, or whatever his/her name is, and released him/her early.  Forgot that the holiday crush would tie up every car service in the city.  So I found myself on a train... with other people.  Shortly after I took my seat, two other people tried to cram next to me.  I didn't even know they made seats that sat three across.  So there I am, in my assless chaps, my full hood and gown, and my goblin mask, riding the NJ Transit local to Morristown, NJ, where I assumed some Amish guy in a horse drawn carriage would think I'm a god when I used my cell phone as he took me to the party.  Well, apparently they have cars in Morristown, so I eventually got there.

The party was what you'd expect from a masquerade Christmas sex orgy, so I won't go into that too much, but I need to take a moment to cover the trip back.  Same costume as the trip out, but with a touch of vomit (and apparently a prophylactic taped to my cape's back as a joke).  But this time, my train gets canceled.  Next train on the weekend schedule is roughly an hour later.  So I try to pass that time in a number of shops that refuse me service, then head back to the station only to see that this next train is now 40 minutes late.  Perfect, more standing around in the winter breeze in my cape and assless chaps.

The train finally arrives and it's standing room only, three words that I never knew could go together.  The heat's blasting, everyone's sweating, especially those in the aforementioned latex rear-free pants.  Then we get the final blow... all train service into Penn Station New York has to be redirected to Hoboken.  Why not just redirect the train right into Hell's anus?

I finally get home, shower, delouse, bleach, and shower again, and then decide to do a little research to see why I had to spend so much time amongst the poor.  Turns out there was another tunnel scheduled to be built that would have solved most of these problems, but someone hiding behind the cartoon name Chris Christie canceled it, wielding that power like concussed god.  As soon as someone finds out the real name behind that catastrophe, I promise to get in touch with my lawyer armies and a water cannon firing hand sanitizer.

I guess the real lesson here is don't host your Christmas masquerade sex orgy in New Jersey like common vermin. 

The Thumb Ring and other thoughts.

I noticed something for the first time today when I saw my personal driver of eight years sporting a thumb ring.  Now Julian, or Akbar, or Abigail, or whatever my driver's name is, didn't have one that looked exactly like the forthcoming image, but thumb rings usually go something like this:

Now this particular gentleman has gone above and beyond by adding the pinkie ring, the multiple string bracelets, and a seer sucker jacket and irreverent indie band tee shirt... the list goes on and on.  To quote an early 20th century fashion critic:

"It's burst into flames!  Get out of the way!  Please!  Oh my this is terrible... Oh, the humanity!  And all the passengers!"

This gentleman definitely has all that business going on in this particular snapshot of time.  Now my driver, whether he goes by Phillipe, Alfred, or his college frat nickname The Register, didn't dare fly so close to the sun, but he did have the thumb ring.  And if he could have it, I damn well better have it, too.

So I first went to my jeweler that I keep on retainer that has done some of the most memorable work for the Long Island and West New York irrelevant crime families (come on Russian mob... stop boxing him out!).  His one word response to my inquiry?  Classy.  He suggested that I don't go gently into this particular good night, so I triple-downed on the idea.  The advantages of the three rings should be obvious, but the two I keep falling in love with are how I can no longer bend my thumb and how the ring closest to the tip flies off whenever I talk with my hands.  I actually looked up the definition of windfall and saw those to tidbits there.

The real test of the thumb rings will be tonight when my Thursday night escort weighs in.  We'll go through our normal routine of snuggling up to watch $#"! My Dad Says before I totally plow her, and then BAM!  I'll flash the circular trifecta.  Of course, now that I think about it, I might lose some of the rings all up inside... that thing I do with my fingers... probably nothing a lot of sterile medical adhesive can't fix.

As for Thanksgiving Day last week.  I may have spent it alone, but it was never lonely.  Thanks to the sexagenarian quartet animatronic fashionistas of Sex and the City who always have their feet grounded in the real world coping with the problems of real people (at least I assume that's what real people face since I've never met one).  And the Moo Shoo Gai Pan from Eddie's Moo Shoo Gai Pan and Tacos was divine.

Unfortunately, my writing has stalled over the holiday.  Here's hoping inspiration strikes while my Thursday night escort (Betty?  Britney?  Kate?  Paul?  Who even knows...) tries to decide whether or not to interrupt my somnambulating even when I step out onto the balcony.