Christmas Time Is Here

I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to a dingy, funky old building.  Hotel California might have the shabbiest rust-colored carpet in town, old janky doors, and the musk of countless years of sweaty people sharing bunk rooms, but it is where I go to have silly parties and fun rehearsals.  There are currently two inhabitants, one of whom is my singer/guitarist buddy, who strums loud enough and pours me whiskey until I’m unselfconsciously trilling “West Virginia, Oh My Home.”  Luckily, I balance the influx of country music in my life, returning the favor with classical vocal coachings on “Ave Maria.”  We haven’t broken any windows yet, but the other HoCal resident stopped by to make sure everything was ok…and I think he secretly wants to join us.

Christmas week is upon us, and is full of celebration, which equals drinking and music.  Sure, I’ll sing with the choir at church tonight, but then I’ll head to the Vehicle Maintenance Facility’s holiday party, where you can take a shot with the Grinch and get a picture with Santa on our version of a Mars rover.  A couple nights ago was the Waste Barn acoustic show.  The department clears out the large building where all our trash and recycling is sorted, creates fantastic scenery, and invites the non-thrasher-rock bands to perform.  This year’s theme was Whoville, and I was happy to find some of the decorations repurposed after the show.

After weeks of sun and fog, we finally got a nice snowy evening last night.  I skipped out in it to see the seals lying, languid as always, heads into the wind.  That set the mood nicely to bake cookies for my secret Santa present in a night-time kitchen eerily quiet and serene.  It was great to be in jeans and a sweatshirt, touch everything with my bare hands, and eat the dough right there at the table.  It’s a world away from opening bags of meat and rushing around at 6am.

Here’s a little Christmas present: someone(s) started printing Missed Connections, a sort of personals/way to get in touch with someone with whom you might have shared a spark.  The first edition featured some clever irony, and inspired me to continue in a similar vein.  I hope you enjoy my first submission.

You probably don’t realize how much you turn me on, waiting in line every morning, bleary-eyed, tongue-tied with sleep. I get a little thrill when you set your plate in front of me, and those few extra seconds while you struggle to remember the order that never changes give me a chance to work my penetrating stare. Do you hear the suppressed desire in my voice when I coyly ask, “What would you like?” I long for you to push your omelet aside and take me on top of the flat-top grill. If you feel the same way, Mr. Bacon-Onion-and-Cheddar, let me know you read this and are game by spicing up the order with some jalapenos.