Merry Miltonian

For Chrissakes people, it’s that Jesus time of year.  Do we even need to say it again?  We do, so here it is: we love you.  We love you, you, and yes even you.  We even love…them.  Goddamn it’s Christmas and we love everyone.  Everybody.

We miss you.  And we wish we could be there with you.  Tonight.  Do they still play “Father Christmas” 100x at the 700 Club on Christmas Eve?  And everyone gets piss drunk and sings along all 100 times?  To quoth the poet “Dirty” David P, “Can we please freak out like crazy people please?”

The answer, it should go without saying, is always yes.  What did you expect us to say, “no?”  Please.  It’s Christmas.

Merry Christmas, you crazy people, you Miltonians.  Lets party like 1999 was ten fucking years ago and we’re still standing.  Don’t give ‘em hell, boys.  Give them presents.  That crap they keep saying about the economy is for jerks with too much money.  We never had too much of anything except love, and on this special night of the year, we’re just giving it all away.  It’s all yours now, do with it as you please.  We’re heading into 2009 on the incline.  Up, up, and away.  God bless you all, and to all a good night.  

Your best friend you ever had,

Fort Santa Davids

Fox In The Snow

It’s snowing.  It’s been snowing.  It continues to snow.

Reading: latest N+1 (meh), Yates “Revolutionary Road” (yeh), New Yorker Winter Fiction Issue (teh), and Final Crisis, which is the greatest comic book event of all time.

Pandora.com stations you should try: type in Cat Stevens, not really for the cat but just because it’s the fastest way to get the program to pull up the most whisky-sad 1970’s post-folk/pre-softrock depressingly crushingly awesome man-tunes known to man.  Stare out the window at all that snow, take another long drink, and don’t sigh, sighing is too easy.  Exhale.  Audibly.  Brother: you’ve been there.  And there you are again.  Goddamn.

Brutal Highlights:

“Handyman” by James Taylor.  Any 1981 outskirts of a busted-down post-70’s industrial city shopping complex supermarket you can think of, parking a VW Bug to the smell of Kent Golden Lights or Virginia Slims, waxed floors, Lucky Charms, Happy Meals and Star Wars action figures.  The sky in the early evening is a cold gold.  What are leaves?  They are huge and dead and they pile up at the base of trees.  Dogs bark in the distance.  Life is frightening and populated by giants.  If it doesn’t last forever than why doesn’t it end?  It’s always right now, for way longer than anyone seemed to expect.  Handyman.  Now you’re older and you own your own couch and you can just sit on it and think about stuff.  Aren’t you glad you remembered everything?  Check the phone.  No calls.

Same goes for this Croce gem.  The lyrics tell the same goddamn story I’d tell you.  Life is so much sadder thirty years after the fact because it’s not thirty years ago.  Time gets you in a headlock, and then what.

Sick deep into this shiot, old friend, but then please switch the Pandora channel to King Oliver and oh man pour something fizzy into a glass and say cheers.  Life will get better every single second you stick with it, with just being there.  High five.  We made it.  Word.

Listen The Snow Is Falling

Happy Snow Days, Portland.