Things to Watch and Read

Strange Weather (photo courtesy of Keizertimes)

There is nothing I love more than rewatching things. Series, movies, YouTube videos. Squirrels pretending to be people. My happy place is coming home in the early evening, putting on the most amorphous clothing I can find and cooking dinner while an episode of Parks and Recreation that I have seen 127 times plays in the background.

Due to the fact that I now often watch things with someone else and the fact that my cat has been complaining about my viewing choices, I have been intaking new things. And so I can now enjoy another great joy – being the last person on earth to discover something and acting as though I am the first.  

Watership Down

This is a Netflix series based on Richard Adams’ novel. If you have read the novel you have probably said aloud “I can’t believe I’m reading a novel about rabbits” just before shrieking “Please don’t die, rabbits!” through streams of masculine tears. The only thing more disturbing than reading that previous sentence is the 1978 miniseries which is a tripped out interpretation which resembles what would come out of a weekend collaboration of Salvatore Dali, Hunter Thompson, and four hundred tabs of Yellow Sunshine. I watched the version in the early 1980s and didn’t get over it until last weekend.  

Netflix got it right. The story is fantastic, the characters so unbelievably and lapinely lovable  and if you can find something more endearing than rabbits speaking in British accents then I will buy you a house.   

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Things I Learned from TV in 11 Days in America

Michael Who? (photo courtesy of Businessinsider.com)

My goals this holiday break were simple.

Do

Nothing

I’ve had a terribly busy four months. I have added two jobs to my life, editor/proofreader for a translation company and writer for a literary humor website. This, on top of teaching, research, writing a novel, and blogging, has made me one swamped dude throughout the autumn and winter. So when late December finally reared its white-topped head, I stood in my window bellowing “take me, take me, take me.”

There’s a chance that was misinterpreted by my downstairs neighbor, who now looks at me with a look at once disturbed and hopeful.

My rules for home were to be almost completely free of responsibility. I told the translation company I wasn’t available until January and I told my university that I wouldn’t have my computer. I didn’t look at my university email once. I vowed to do only my blog and otherwise not to do any serious writing. I allowed myself only to make notes and jot in a journal.

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Sit with My Friend by the Fire

Like many Americans, I moved abroad to experience something different, only to be alarmed at the differences. I suppose I wanted the quaintness of Europe with all of the comforts and conveniences of America. Prague’s city center, with its famous old world charm and tourist-geared conveniences, offered exactly that. Shops sold recognizable brands and their keepers stuttered through some English. Happy, cherry-faced tourists roamed the streets of Old Town; the river dancing through the center reminded me of Pittsburgh’s.

On the outskirts of Prague 5, I knew I was in a completely different place. Streets were lined with buildings I associated with 1970s Eastern Europe: low boxy shops whose windows boasted dusty radios and TVs, rows of nondescript gray buildings, and paneláks, labyrinthine communist apartment complexes meant to cram huge amounts of people into identical spaces. Every sign and billboard was in a language I wouldn’t begin to decipher for four years. On a corner ahead, overall-clad blue-collar workers nipped pre- or –post-shift shots out of medicine cups in front of an občerstvení – a refreshment kiosk. Some chased those shots with hotdogs. Behind it all was Electro World. Five months earlier, Electro World might have conjured an electricity-themed amusement park or the bright domicile of an electric superhero, but today it was an electronics shop where I was teaching a substitution English lesson. I took a deep breath and went in.

Inside, men in white shirts with Electro World logos emblazoned on the pockets leaned against a counter. A mish mash of appliances and gadgets cluttered dozens of long tables. I practiced my Czech greeting: good day (dobrý den), I’m an English teacher (Jsem učitel angličtiny). I took out the student list, hoping anyone would recognize a name on it, and then summon them to fetch me. It was the same at every business. The men ignored me, which, I would learn, was an art practiced by Czech customer service employees. In Electro World’s American brother, one might be fell upon by salespeople stalking the aisles like commission hungry hyenas. In the Czech Republic you were ignored in lieu of literally any other task, and in the last twelve years I have waited with metered breath as waitresses have cleaned glasses and shopkeepers restocked plastic bags. When I am served it’s at their volition and only after I’d gotten the message that I was no priority. To garner attention, I sometimes do something out of line so that the worker might stop what he is doing to yell at me. After years of experimentation, I have found that whistling, winking, and touching merchandise are all effective.

Today’s (unwitting) infraction was walking into the shop with my backpack. To the left of the entrance stood a batch of square lockers where shoppers were expected to lock up their bags before browsing among the tempting electronics. I had missed them. So as I ventured further into the store, the men who had been ignoring me suddenly came to life in a verbal assault seemingly devoid of spaces or vowels. One of them realized I had no idea what was happening and so he walked me back to the lockers where I stowed my bag. I mumbled my good day, I’m an English teacher spiel and showed him my roster. He took it, glanced at it sideways, and walked away. A minute later I was facing a young man.

“I am Pavel.”

“I am Damien.”

“We must…” he bopped his head in a fill in the gap gesture “…in back.”

“OK, I just need my lesson plan and materials.”

I turned the key in the locker, but it wouldn’t budge. I worked and jiggled it, then Pavel did the same with identical results. A trail of sweat came from a spring somewhere in my scalp as Pavel beckoned one of the salespeople in repose. The guy arrived with eyes in the ready to roll position. Pavel’s face went red as he spoke. Before walking away, the guy sent his eyes on a tour of his brow.

“He must (head bob)…teknik.”

“Oh, a technician.”

“Yes. Come.”

At first Pavel appeared to be a serious young man, but his interaction with the eye-roller pegged him more as a young man acting serious. His shirt retained the rectangular creases from its package and his tie dangled above his belly button. The professional golf shirt and khakis my mother had bought me were binding and tight. Aside from his reverse peninsula balding pattern and cranberry-shaped mole, we were the same, both struggling to cope with new positions. At the moment my struggles were focused on my lack of lesson plan and materials, which were trapped in the locker inside my bag. I had only been teaching for three months, I needed a plan. So as we walked past blenders and heating pads, I scrambled to come up with one.

For the five years before I ended up on Prague’s doorstep, I worked as a bartender in a Pittsburgh campus pub. Life was sweet. The bar was packed and popular; three nights a week its core featured me pulling pints and telling stories and jokes. I had a knack for making people laugh and relax. I started drinking around midnight and made money hand over fist. For a guy who’d eked his way through six years of college on part time jobs and the Langhorne, Pennsylvania branch of the Bank of Mommy and Daddy, this novelty was difficult to overlook. Additionally, the working atmosphere was stress free. Many of the employees were still in school or recent grads not yet concerned with the real world of careers and adult responsibilities. They had fun and enjoyed a life involving no take home work. To them, I was the wise experienced veteran who was capable of handling any problem. On slow day shifts the waitresses and I drank iced tea and played trivial pursuit, during which I kicked ass in literature and history, the only use to which my degree was applied. Though this carefree environment was difficult to leave, most eventually did. Waitresses embarked upon careers with entry level jobs, hostesses started grad school and internships, and every six months I had a new batch of waitresses to impress with my experience, my wit, and my trivial knowledge. For a long while, I had it made in the shade.   

In my late twenties people started asking about grad school and career plans. The subtext implied slackerism and real world avoidance. I was ostensibly a writer, but one who didn’t put a word on paper unless he was writing up a liquor order from the store. I woke up one day and saw myself as a forty-year-old bartender, stuffing cash in my sock drawer, and getting the occasional blowjob from a drunken waitress in dry storage. This fantasy aligned itself next to the hypothetical futures of my college classmates. Their Mazda SUVs and houses were juxtaposed against my Dodge Neon and rented flat. My cat ironically posed like their kids on our Christmas cards. I decided a change was needed; perhaps because I was trying to make up for lost time, I decided to change big. I was going to move to Prague and teach English. I was twenty nine.   

After my decision to leave but before actually leaving, I reveled in all of the sexiness and romance associated with being an expatriate in Europe. I dropped it into conversations with practiced ease: “New York is OK, I guess, if you have to be in the U.S, but Europe is much more my speed. Me? Oh, I’m moving to Prague.” I bought a grammar guide, a sweater with elbow patches, and a Czech/English dictionary. I drooled over flats for rent in Prague’s city center. I fell hard for the fantasy version of Expatriate Me. He would find inspiration for writing in old world Europe and lived in a quaint cobblestoned street. Each morning in rustic clothing (think Sicily-based Al Pacino in the Godfather) he walked past cafes and greeted sophisticates in a language for which I couldn’t even construct a make believe imitation. Expatriate Me drank in moderation and frequented places known only to locals. There was a shift in his personality and, remarkably, looks. Instead of rambunctious and talkative, he was serene and contemplative. He went from short and stocky to a tauter, more classically attractive gentleman. Evidently, he’d been awarded wisdom, introversion, and attractiveness with his plane ticket.

Six months later, the romance disappeared amid a meltdown at JFK, during which I asked myself, confused vendors, and inanimate objects: My God, what am I doing? The next day I was sitting through the introductory session of an ESL teaching course in a language school classroom in Prague’s Anděl sector. With me were ten others enrolled in the course; mostly youngish Americans, a Czech and a Brit thrown in for international flavor. I think we had an Australian. In front of the room, a chinless guy named Paul gave us a speech whose undertones of pending doom were less than subtle.  

“Most of you probably think you’re here to live the expat life, but it’s really hard. Planning a lesson takes hours. And if we offer you a job, expect long hours of trudging between businesses and getting home after dark. Hehehe.” Paul peered at us out of the corner of his eyes and spoke to us sideways. He punctuated his statements with an awkward laugh. “Hehehe. Don’t slack off this month; there’s no time. Brush up on grammar. Hehehe. Enjoy Prague, but get your work done. Lots of people come to try ESL in Prague, but then ditch the course, have a beer drinking vacation, and head home. He. He. Please introduce yourselves.”

As I awaited my turn, I sweated at the nerves he’d hit with his pinpoint accurate comments.  Heading home with my tail between my legs was completely against the fantasy of Expatriate Me. “I’m Damien,” I said. “I was a bartender. I like reading and writing.” Though my brain shrieked “Say you’re a writer!” my mouth wouldn’t do it. However, others were not similarly self-censored.   

“Name’s Chris, I’m a writer.”

“Hi all. I’m Jamie, me too.”

“I am a writer, too. I’m here to teach and finish my novel,” I think it was Richard.

“Wow. We should form a writer’s group,” said Justin.

Part of me stewed in jealousy. I had gone from being the romantic expatriate to being nothing special over the course of a six-minute introduction. Now I was just one of a bunch of people doing the same thing. There were even other writers, some having visited the El Dorado world of being publishing. Still, another part of me sensed that we were all paddling the same boat along an undercurrent of Personal Reinvention. Later I’d find out that Richard had been a pizza delivery man, Jen was leaving a nightmare relationship (to soon enter another), Justin had managed a bar. Though none of us said it, we’d all come to Prague for the same reason: to start over.

Over the month long course at the language school, we were introduced to the world of ESL teaching. There was an overload of meta-language, both to describe grammatical terms we’d never used growing up, such as past perfect, gerunds, third conditional, and to convey ESL concepts like elicitation, Total Physical Response, and Present Produce and Practice.

“Hehehe. Elicit language from the students, don’t give it to them. Heh…hehe” Paul scolded after our practice lessons. We were indoctrinated with the acronym TTT. Teacher Talking Time: the concept that we should speak less and our students should speak more. That a language student should speak more than the teacher fluent in that language makes sense, but had simply never occurred to me. Thus was assassinated my Teacher Me fantasy, in which I stood behind a podium in my sweater, twirling glasses around by the stem and positing offhand yet brilliant philosophical observations about the subjunctive to a sea of riveted students.

Nevertheless, I did become a diligent student of ESL and the English language. Instead of novels, I pored over grammar guides and methodology books. I planned lessons so intricate that they resembled Jason Bourne plots more than a conditionals lesson. I passed the course with flying colors partly due to hard work and partly to the fear of falling back into the complacency that had led to six years in college and five years of bartending. When the course ended I was offered a job at the school, but my anxious diligence didn’t end. I needed experience, so I took every substitution and every variety of course the school offered. I taught test preparation, business English, individual lessons, and English for Special Purposes. At the end of three months, despite my dedication and my sweater, I was still a bad teacher. 

While the scheduling office knew that I would teach anywhere at any time, I was at Electro World because of Marketa, the Czech ESL teacher to whom I had given my heart. When she mumbled something about a doctor’s appointment and asked if I could substitute, I accepted in the overly eager manner kindled by those we adore. She was a veteran teacher who’d been at the school for years, so as I followed Pavel through Electro World, my heart palpitated with pressure. I had to do well for numerous reasons.

We walked into a storage room which doubled as a cock fight venue in Steven Segal films. It was dimly lit and stacked boxes stood around it like cairns. On the back wall was a two-way mirror that looked into the store. Pavel pointed me to a round table in the far corner, where a blonde woman was twiddling a pen. She stood to an impressive arboreal height and introduced herself. Jana wore a skirt that was more like a wide belt and smiled in terror as she shook my hand. I fitted myself into a seat between the table and a rickety stack of cardboard boxes. Through the mirror I watched an overall-clad guy approach the lockers carrying a screwdriver and a pissed off scowl for being roused from his lair. My brain froze.  

“So, how are you?”

“Good,” Jana said.

“And how are you?”

“Uh…good,” Pavel said.

“Good. You’re both good. Good.”

I extended my interrogation to include what they did at Electro World. Through intense head bopping and a dip into German, Pavel managed to tell us that he had been a manager for a week, having been plucked out of the white-shirted ranks. Jana didn’t offer the title of her job, but supplanted that by saying that she had been at Electro World for two years. In ESL terminology, their English level was low A2, or advanced beginners. In layman’s terms, they understood the concept of verbs and nouns, but possessed little ability to arrange them into sentences which conveyed ideas.

My brain had a wave: hobbies. Yes! Hobbies could be drawn out for an hour. I could elicit lots of terminology and vocabulary (and make Paul proud). Verb patterns could be employed as well as various other emergent lexicon. In the years of ESL teaching I would go on to do, I have found hobbies to be a springboard to a deeper conversation on topics such as health, national customs, and sexism. Today, hobbies were going to save my ass, for I was an ESL genius.

“Do you have any hobbies, Pavel?”

He nodded. “Skiing and cycling.”

“And you, Jana?”

“Cycling either.”

I nodded, turned back to Pavel. “What do you like about cycling, Pavel?” Pavel shook his head with pursed lips, having decided that he’d said too much, he entered a tunneled resistance not seen since Iwo Jima in 1945. I looked at Jana and questioned my life choices for the hundredth time that week.  

Before I could ask anything, Jana squinted. “I likes…” she let out a breath and shook her head. “…in the forest.” She shrugged.

Though instinct told me to list a bunch of activities, the Ghost of Chinless Paul superseded it by whispering TTT in my ear, so I mimed the act of drawing and said: “Draw a picture of it.”

Jana opened her notebook and drew a campfire represented by crisscrossed rectangular logs beneath a few ridges of fire. Next to it she stenciled a triangular teepee-like canvas tent, the likes of which I used to chase spiders out of on Boy Scout camping trips. She made two stick figures capped with heads and shoes. Their maniacal smiles suggested euphoria. The artwork inspired Pavel the Inert.

“Yes! Marketa teaching it.”

My heart skipped a beat at the mention of my crush. Marketa was a somber brunette who exuded a carefree attitude usually attached to a gulag administrator. With me it seemed no different, and she regarded me as though I had once copped a feel of her grandmother at a Bar Mitzvah. A week before, when I’d come across her reading J.D Salinger’s 9 Stories in our school’s café and gushed over my love for it, she put it down and never looked at it again.

I became a poster boy for the world’s oldest irony, which is that we want those who don’t want us. I applied strategies to get her attention and dwelt over the minutest details of our chance encounters. That Marketa and I were wrong for each other has been clear to me for the last twelve years, and yet I know why I wanted her. Marketa completed the fantasy of European Me. We would wed in a small ceremony. I would write books and she would translate them into Czech in our flat in Prague and our countryside cottage. She was the sober local to my witty foreigner. Together, we would change my identity completely. A second later, Jana asked Pavel the term for this activity. I wrote the C in camping on my sheet.

“Sit with my friend by the fire,” Pavel replied. 

I blinked. “Oh.”

“Yes!” Jana said, and then added the esoteric: “in the…past watch.” And then, “I sit with my friend by the fire.”

“OK, wait…”

In rudimentary language, Jana asked Pavel where Marketa was. Pavel needed to go to Czech to explain, which caused them both to giggle. I asked them to explain. Jana summoned all of her linguistic powers.

“Marketa is go to new flat with boyfriend.”

“New flat? Boyfriend?”

“Yes,” Pavel took the reins. “He live in her today.”

“Oh, they are moving in together,” I said. “They are moving in together,” I repeated. Then again as I wrote it on my sheet in progressively darker and more throbbing letters. “They. Are. Moving. In. Together.”

Jana nodded in confirmation. A few pangs occurred in my chest. Marketa had lied to me. So while I struggled through her class with her A2 students, with no lesson plan, she was having acrobatic monkey sex with a grave expression on her face. Through the two-way mirror I glimpsed the Locker Kraken chucking my bag on the counter amongst his disinterested colleagues. I continued.  

“Let’s get back to it.” I wrote in disturbingly bold letters on my sheet: Sit With My Friend By The Fire. Then, following my training, I guided the students through a discussion and elicited language. We talked for the rest of the hour about what we wore when we sat with our friends by the fire, what we ate when we sat with our friends by the fire, what time of year we sat with our friends by the fire. I asked them what they liked drinking when they sat with their friends by the fire and who introduced them to sitting with their friends by the fire. They told me about times when it had rained when they were sitting with their friends by the fire and how much a guitar enhances the mood while sitting with their friends by the fire. Pavel told a story about some people who ran into a ghost while sitting with their friends by the fire, the story’s sparse minimalism enhancing its awful terror. In the adrenalin so often created by language acquisition, Jana sheepishly admitted to once making love while sitting with her friend by the fire.

By most criteria it was a worthy ESL lesson. Our discussion elicited a variety of verb patterns and our narratives employed narrative tenses. Not to mention their use of necessary emergent vocabulary such as coals, logs, forest, to start and put out a fire, and put up a tent. My TTT was minimal as Jana and Pavel were invigorated by the lesson. Furthermore, the mood in the backroom was ebullient by the time I stood beneath the cairn of toasters and said goodbye. They seemed genuinely disappointed when I said I probably wouldn’t be back. The only drawback, of course, was that I had taught, encouraged use of, and implanted completely incorrect language. The word for “camping” in Czech is “Kempování”; I had actively murdered previously existing knowledge.  

When I came back into the shop, I felt like a failure. The white shirts ignored me, but one broke his grumpy ranks to presumably scold me for allowing their locker to eat my bag. I nodded and apologized; I deserved it. I reflected on the morning and slipped into an acute depression. Marketa was a No, I had purposefully taught incorrect language, and I was no teacher. Despite the massive changes of job and location, I hadn’t changed. My elaborate fantasy of the New Expatriate Me was a joke; I was just the Same Me in a different place doing a different job.

In the twelve years since that morning, I have been allowed more insight into my particular process of personal reinvention. While change did stem from my big decision to move, true change would come gradually after that. It came when I didn’t run home to the U.S. but rather stuck it out in Prague, and struggled through setbacks, challenges, and loneliness. It came as I learned and developed into a dedicated professional English teacher, and forged my way into a new field. It came when I set and stuck to a daily writing routine, began publishing stories, essays, blogs, and a novel five years later. (I wonder if Richard finished his, he left the month after my Electro World experience). Change came when I got a master’s degree a few years later and the linguistics research I would get involved in. Change came when I started teaching Academic Writing and English for Academic Purposes at a university in Prague, where I still teach today. It turns out I’m still the Same Me, just better.      

That morning, however, I had no idea these changes awaited me, only that I felt no different then. I headed to the občerstvení on the corner to drown my guilt in a medicine cup of plum brandy. I stuttered in Czech and pointed. The old woman who handed me the cup from the window was smoking and wore glasses that she’d bought in the 1980s. I wanted to tell her that I used to do her job, but I lacked the language then. It was no matter, because I didn’t use to do her job, I did a different one. I looked at my watch and saw that it was 10 am, which meant it was 4 am in Pittsburgh. I wondered who was cleaning the bar I used to stand behind, and if they were drinking, and if they fully appreciated the womb-like safety of that bar. I downed my plum brandy. A workman in red overalls huffed. As I signaled for another I noticed that the woman’s sweater was full of holes ringed with chalky black, as though for years she had worn this sweater when she sat with her friend by the fire, whatever the hell that meant.     

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A Visit from Paddy O’Kegger

We all love our folk heroes. Paul Bunyan, Santa Claus, Robert Mueller. So there’s something special about greeting another folk hero. And especially one so close to our hearts and livers. In this case I am talking about Paddy O’Kegger.

Paddy O’Kegger is the folk hero that we all need from time to time, the hero of libations, hero of the party, the hero of the pub. He arrives much like Santa, uh, sort of, with a sled equipped with kegs and mixology equipment, and pulled by wolfhounds seemingly named by Hunter S. Thompson (Jitters is by far my fave).

Just as Santa brings gifts and Christmas cheer, Paddy brings happiness, mirth, and much-needed social lubricants to a party that might be in danger of slipping into the scary realm of suppressed yawns, half-finished pints, and lame excuses made on the way out the door.

Much like ole St. Nick’s famous Twas the Night Before Christmas arrival poem, Paddy’s arrival is told in rhyme and takes place in one night. He woos a pub full of revelers in a tale that is rather witty, surprising, and definitely makes you run to the fridge for another glass of loudmouth chowder. The whole effect is that the picture book A Visit from Paddy O’Kegger is rather charming. It’s a quick read, so it’s the perfect bathroom book (or can be read with one eye closed, if need be).

Along with the witty language the artwork is a huge asset in terms of charming the reader and conveying the story’s details, both overt and subtle. It is digitally illustrated in warm tones that is curiously detailed and very pleasing to the eye. The story’s setting seems to be a northern locale, but oddly under water (or beer). The details are sneakily witty and could consume you for hours, whether studying the wolfhounds’ personalities or placing backstories to the background characters. (This might be especially true if you personally know one of the authors…Ahem…My twenty year old self makes a cameo. Ahem.).  

A Visit of Paddy O’Kegger is a charming read and equally as charming visually. It’s very much worth having on your coffee table for a laugh, a quick dive into the artwork, or to put together a drinking game out of the details. Almost a prerequisite. But it’s mostly pleasant just to open the book to enter a mysterious northern landscape where the pubs are inviting, the people ready for a pint, and Paddy O’Kegger is brought home by his trusty wolfhounds who know the way and can easily pass a breathalyzer.

Follow this link to buy in either paperback or e-book, have a merry Christmas, and to all, a good nightcap!

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The First Third of the Christmas Movie

Sadness

This weekend was a working one. I taught on Saturday and have numerous proofreads to do on top of a series of edits that need to be done for an article I have written which came back from my editor essentially dipped in virtual red ink. So instead of relaxing with Doctor Netflix and stew over a snowy and (oddly) rainy weekend, I was teaching, proofreading, and hunched over a computer looking for synonyms for “vengeance.”  

I know, I know. Woe is me, right? We all get under pressure and get stressed, especially when it comes to work related joys. And other than my obviously better looks and culinary prowess, I am no different from you.

What is bothering me currently is that it’s Christmas time.I am a sucker for the Christmas season. The lights, the music, even the hustle and bustle bring me some comfort at a time of year when the daylight is literally cut in half and my workload is literally doubled. And Prague puts up charming markets and the pubs are full of the revelers of employee Christmas party season.

But, whether due to stress or worry, I am just not noticing it all. I walk with my head down, get to my flat, work hard. I’ve consoled myself with the knowledge that there’ll be time for reveling when I get on a British Airways airplane on December 22nd and order whatever alcohol they can get me fastest. But for the moment, I am missing the season and I don’t like this.  

I fully buy into the belief that Christmas (like its predecessors)were bright spots in a dark, otherwise scary and dismal time of year. The cheery atmosphere and the yuletide mirth are meant to hold back the anxiety of pressure and darkness. And if you go beyond the ring of lights cast by your house or your neighborhood, it’s mostly dark and cold and scary out there.

A whole lot of Christmas movies play with this idea, don’t they? There’s often a character who’s stressed beyond words, under an immense pressure, or in trouble. George Bailey’s worries were existential, Ralphie’s were social and materialistic. But choose even the lowliest Christmas movie that Hallmark has to offer and you’ll see that everyone is struggling with something(as are most characters). Whether it’s loneliness, overwork, misplaced attention, or the need to find Bigfoot (truth), the main character of a Christmas movie usually spends the first third or so of the movie quite miserable.Sometimes they don’t even know why.

What we do know is that they won’t end the movie miserable. By the end they will have found the true meaning of Christmas, found the love they didn’t know they were looking for, resettled into the cozy little town that is more home than the big city where they are an ad exec. Something will change and their cold hearts will be penetrated by the Christmas Spirit and suddenly they will notice the lights, the mirth, the warmth, and the comfort. We, as viewers and no matter how corny we find it, know that this will happen. But they don’t.

The thing is, I currently feel as though I am in the first third of that movie. I am stressed, neglecting the lights and the fun. I haven’t hung one decoration, visited one market, or watched a Christmas movie. I’m also tightly-wound and irritable. I lectures the cat for ten minutes yesterday about turning off the faucet after drinking from it. When Burke accidentally broke a mug in the kitchen I was so angry my vision went blurry. When asked if I would attend the employee Christmas party this week I said “are you kidding? I have too much to do.” And I meant it!

I have become that Christmas character who is in need of aB-2 shot of Christmas Spirit. Now, in the movie, we’d know I was going to seethe light(s), appreciate the larger picture, and then come out of my funk for some big Christmas revelation. And while I hope that’s true, I feel as though I am allowing superficial stresses ruin one of my favorite times of year. Perhaps it’ll all have to wait until I work a butt groove into my seat on that airplane.Maybe I should watch only Christmas movies on the flight so my parents don’t pickup Ebenezer Scrooge on Saturday afternoon. Or maybe I’ll just blow off work in lieu of a Christmas market and hot wine. 

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Lost in the Mall

It was December 23rd and the Neshaminy Mall was packed. The shops were overflowing with deranged shoppers. The food courts were like Valhalla sans booze or war hammers. The mall staff looked crazed and exhausted, as if they’d just been on a weekend bender with Charles Bukowski. The walkways of the mall were jammed with people trying desperately to get last minute gifts to bolster Christmas piles. It was all happening to a soundtrack of Christmas music, store announcements, and screeching children.

My mom and I had made a morning of it. Well, she makes a morning of it every day. My mom rises at about 5 a.m. every morning and begins a day that would flatten a senator. She is the most active person I have ever known. Three decades raising four kids and five decades raising my father has left my mother in a perpetual state of activity and motion. I have never known her to not be busy. She shops every day, works every day, and does a number of activities within our little community. When she is at home she’s cooking, cleaning, reorganizing, and building. This is in direct contrast to my dad, for whom a bank run and a nap in the same day requires another nap.

Since my mother would be up and out early, I knew I would be too. And sure enough we were up at 6 a.m., caffeinated, organized, and out the door by 8:30. Once at the mall, we had a bagel and coffee and made a game plan. Her priority was to get me a coat for Christmas. My priority was to buy 97% of my Christmas gifts. We started at Boscov’s. Boscov’s is a department store where my mother dragged me each August for a decade to buy back to school clothing. She brought me and my siblings here before countless Christmases to shop in the evenings after work. The ground level is immense, aisles cut through uncountable racks of clothing and accessories sectioned off in age-old classifications: ladies, misses, juniors, men, young men, intimate apparel, active, LL Bean. Upstairs is kitchen and dining room, downstairs is living room and bedroom.

Department stores are my mom’s natural habitat. Today she read the crowd and store conditions the way a Sioux tracker might observe a valley or a forest perimeter. She grabbed a cart three times her size and swerved it down the aisle in the same way she drives the SUV that is fourteen times her size. She clipped me in the hip twice and then took it off-road without warning. She squeezed it through the racks of clothing into nooks and crannies where carts aren’t supposed to go and, thusly, do not fit. It was like watching someone maneuver an airboat through a miniature garden pond. She whistled the whole time until she shouted my name from some invisible locale. We then had a disembodied conversation.

“Damien?”

“Yes?”

“What about this one?”

“This one what?”

“This coat?”

“I can’t see the coat.”

“Why not?”

“I am not with you!” I looked around wildly. My neck began to heat up. She was nowhere to be seen and I ran into a rack of shirts more expensive than my rent. I took several deep breaths and listened for my mother’s response. When it didn’t come I offered: “Mom?”

“What about this one?”

“Holy shit.”

“Oh that’s real nice language.”

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Happy Christmitzvah

Christmitzvah

Get Christmitzvah

My sister Amanda and I were huddled beneath the wall in our living room. The Christmas tree stood to our right, kept precariously erect by fishing line tied to various sections of banister post. We had belly crawled from the foyer and then gingerly tiptoed between gifts that had come in the mail or from my parents’ work contacts. I hushed her with a finger. Above us, in the kitchen, my mother played Mah-jong with her friends. Their discussion jumped from Oprah Winfrey to the seasonal financial concerns. When the talk finally turned to gifts my sister and I made eye contact. This was exactly the point of our intelligence mission. Gifts. Our two younger siblings were upstairs sleeping or watching Christmas specials, but as the oldest I had a responsibility to get information. Amanda was next oldest, my second in command. So, we listened.

“I’m going to pick it up this weekend,” my mom said.

“Who’s it for?” one of her friends asked.

My sister and I goggled our eyes. The mother lode. But before my mom could say anything further, one of her friends laughed a short horrific cackle and said, “I had to give Michael the talk last week.”

“Oy, how did that go?” one of them asked.

My sister’s fledgling OCD thwarted our plan when she reached out to right an errant Christmas ball and upset the house of cards equilibrium keeping the tree upright. It listed, we were forced to hold it in place or become impaled by hundreds of pine needles, and my mother and her friends were alerted to our eavesdropping. I managed to convince my mom and her cross-armed Mah-jong partners that we were just snooping around the gifts under the tree. And, left without proof of any further misdeeds, she sent us upstairs where we joined the other two watching one of the dozens of Christmas specials on television in late December.

My external environment during the 1986 holiday season was probably the same as it had been in 1985 and 1984. My family and I lived just off the teardrop of a cul-de-sac on a hill high in a suburban development. We were surrounded by trees and fences and other houses. It was in that cul-de-sac, compacting snowball ammunition that my friends and I – Skip, Joe, Eddie, Mike, and Ben – were engaged in our seasonal debate on the rivalry between Hanukkah and Christmas.

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I’m Better than you Because I Travel

So, it’s no secret that we all should be travelling all the time. Go into debt if you have to, but travel. You’ve seen the memes. It’s very enriching. And don’t mistake me for a tourist. Tourists go to Ocean City and Disney World, two places I don’t go to unless my parents are footing the bill. I carry a backpack, not one of those rolly thingies. I hate buses. I would rather wrap myself in banana leaves than stay in a famous hotel. Also the places I travel to are usually filled with people who don’t speak the same language as me. Or brown people. Or Asian people. And these things make me a much better person than you. Here are some ways that travel has made me a fantastic person.

I spent two weeks in Africa a few years ago and now I totally understand racism. People looked at us the whole time. We stood out like a sore thumb. It was so annoying. People kept asking us for money. It was probably really stressful for the hotel security who had to keep scaring those kids away from the other side of the fence at the pool. It was so annoying. But afterwards I did what I always do. I sat under a tree indigenous to the country, took out my moleskine, and searched my soul. I demanded that I learn a lesson from the experience. The lesson was that now I totally and completely 100% understand what it’s like to be black in America. Maybe in the northern states. I understand what it’s like to be black in Milwaukee. I am one with my brothers. Fist in air.

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Obituary for my Season Spirit

Photo courtesy of Andy Thomas at Wildlifeprints.com

This last Sunday morning, at 8:13 am, my Season Spirit passed away quietly in his sleep. He was twenty-seven days old.

We did everything we could for him. He was tucked chest-deep under The Holiday Aisle comforter I’d bought him which depicted Christmas trees and wintry homes. A random selection from Spotify category Autumn Road cooed at us from my laptop, which simultaneously played Planes, Trains, and Automobiles (on mute). I was chanting a list of fun autumn activities from realsimple.com.

We tried everything, but by the time we got his pumpkin spice muffin to him, he was gone.

My Season Spirit was born in late October, when the daytime sky was brilliant blue and the evenings still conveyed a feeling arguably that of cozily creepy and not yet morbidly depressing. He was born on a Thursday before a long weekend, perhaps the most optimistic day of the week buffered by the boost of an extra day off. He was born after the leaves had just started changing, but before they lay around the city in soaked clumps. He was born while we prepared for the season’s first screening of Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin. I was donning my favorite roll-neck sweater, testing out a bourbon spiced flavored coffee, and gazing out the window at the leaves and baring trees, enjoying the season’s last reflection on the cycle of life that wouldn’t focus intensely upon my death.

Or maybe it was indigestion.

So ripe were the conditions that my Season Spirit just came out with a big smile on his face. Sort of like that thing that Craig T. Nelson pukes out in Poltergeist II, only it was wearing a scarf, a jauntily tilted newsboy cap, and he was humming the rhythm to Autumn Leaves. And now he’s gone.

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The Haunted Toaster

Professor Percival Plumefeather and Paperfeet the Cat.

Sunday sucks. Sure, I can sleep in and eat a leisurely breakfast. But after that the hours storm by as I watch helpless. This feeling of angst (read: epic morbid depression) is worse in the autumn, when the sky is gray all day long, thus making it seem about 4 in the afternoon from 8 am until the actual 4 pm, at which point it then appears to be about 8 pm.

Making all of this even worse is a pressing deadline for a writing or editing project. Now, I do enjoy writing and editing work. Usually. Often. OK, sometimes. More often, I come up with creative ways to avoid the work, just like everyone else.

And so my procrastination mission begins. I start by checking my email 9 times in 23 minutes. I groan through a smile when I have an email. Then it’s to my normal stomping grounds. Mental Floss, AP News, Twitter, Facebook. The Book is filled with football predictions and statements of either support or aggression. You can only look at so many GIFs of hot girls winking on Twitter. I check my email two or three dozen more times (both email accounts – work and private), but nothing doing. I visit a site of ill-repute for about 129 seconds. I have a sandwich and read some more articles. Trump’s still a nit. Today he’s being a nit in France. I write an unflattering post about his self-promoted tough guy image vs. the fact that he doesn’t want to stand in the rain, but then I cancel it.

It’s the haunted toaster that saves me.

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