A pleasant night with nice people in L.A.

I left the snowy paradise of Minnesota Saturday and flew to sodden L.A. where heavy rains are making hillsides slide into the canyons and arroyos, which is not a problem on the prairie thanks to our canyonlessness. The land does not slide on the plains unless you are very very drunk and then you go to a Unitarian church basement every Tuesday night and talk with your fellow AA members about your emotionally distant father who drove you to drink.

Most Minnesota fathers are distant emotionally and many others are physically distant, those who divorced your mom and married Bambi the cocktail waitress based on an emotion that took him and her to the mobile home park near Miami where he now sits and drinks. I am emotionally distant except sometimes in church or when I eat a toasted sesame bagel or when my sweetie walks into the room and sits on my lap. She is not emotionally distant at all. She married into my family of crusty evangelicals and when they reach for her hand to shake it she throws her arms around them, and as a result their puritan principles are sliding like a hillside. Which brings me back to L.A.

A trip to Minnesota last Tuesday

I flew back to Minnesota in the midst of Tuesday’s snowfall and was proud of my people dealing calmly with snow. The media tries to make a crisis of weather and newscasters speak in emergency tones and verbs such as “struck” and “slammed” are used. Falling snow never “struck” anybody. An icicle may have or a snowball or someone might slip on ice and strike their head, but snowflakes descending have no more impact than falling leaves in autumn.

The blizzard that fell on Buffalo was entirely different, four feet of snow, high winds, twelve-foot drifts, icy roads, deadly temperatures, combined to create a refugee situation and Buffalonians responded with mass heroism, people taking strangers into their homes and feeding them for days until order was restored.

Merry Christmas

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves….

A hike to Times Square and back

The enemy is clutter and I am late to the battle, not wanting to be prim and proper, but I have bags and boxes stuffed with stuff, drawers, shelves, closets, and this must be addressed, otherwise you’ll be reading about me in the paper, Elderly Author Starves in Home, Unable to Climb Over Piles to Reach Kitchen. I exaggerate but the trend is clear and trends that are not interrupted become landslides. Meaningless memorabilia, clothes we’ve outgrown, mysterious tools, ugly art. So I start tossing and then I come across a note from my daughter: “I love you, Show Boy” and of course I can’t throw that away, and so it goes to a pile of saves, along with a sheet of paper with one-liners ( “She was only a stableman’s
daughter but all the horsemen knew her.”). And a picture of my classmates standing on my lawn for our 60th reunion, which prompted me to call up Billy Pedersen who’s in the picture, and because my wife was asleep, I slipped out of the apartment and so there I was, walking down Columbus Avenue and reminiscing about our friend Corinne and the toboggan hill behind her house and thus housekeeping was put off for another day.

Working my way toward a philosophy

I had a dream last night in which I was a stand-up comic and I trained a dog to move his lips as if saying words and I stood in the wings and told jokes lip-synched by him, jokes about dogs (in the first person) and the audience loved it so much, to see a dog tell jokes, that when I came out on stage they were disappointed and wanted the dog to come back and even booed me. There is a lesson here: there is such a thing as Excessive Success, which only leads to high expectations that cannot be met.

This surely was true of Sir Walter Raleigh, a poet, soldier, Queen Elizabeth’s boyfriend, who sailed up the Orinoco in search of El Dorado and failed and came back to London to be accused of treason and thrown in prison and have his head chopped off, a warning to the rest of us: don’t rise too high too fast.

A perfect Christmas, a man among woman

I got an orange, a book, four bags of jelly beans, and 12 pairs of bright red socks for Christmas, which warmed the cockles of my heart, plus which I was a lone male with three fine women companions so I didn’t need to say a word, just an occasional murmur to indicate I was paying attention. Had there been another male present, I would’ve had to talk learned talk about the economy or other topics about which I’m ignorant, which I did enough of in college and now it feels good to put a lid on it and listen to the music of contrapuntal contralto conversation.

We have no need for big gifts, being in the deaccessioning stage of life when we sit down at our big round clunky table and wonder how to divest ourselves of the thing, which was imposed on us by an interior decorator whose enthusiasm for massive ugly expensive furniture ground us into submission, we Midwesterners unable to self-advocate, so we feel we’re living in his apartment, not our own. If anyone wants the table, we’ll pay you to take it away. (It’s big so bring a chainsaw.)

A miraculous evening on Sixth Avenue

I’ve been reading Christmas letters this week and — I don’t know how to say this politely — back where I come from, Minnesota, it is considered shameful to be shameless and write a promotional brochure about your over-achieving children — “Tara was top scorer on her soccer team and won the lead role in ‘Antigone,’ and her essay on chaos theory will be in the next issue of American Scholar. She and her partner Maria whom she met in Trigonometry and who is Phi Beta Kappa from Pakistan are engaged to marry in June and plan to start a family when they move to Cambridge to start grad school.”

Probably I am all wrong about this. Probably I am simply defensive about my own slovenly habits. Probably I am envious, having never excelled in anything other than humility. I hit a brick wall in lower algebra and never got to trig. And now I’ve brought home a pitiful misshapen Christmas tree for which I paid $90. I was sent out to purchase a tree and I brought home a cripple. I had to go out and buy a special orthopedic tree stand with lead weights so it won’t fall over.

Waiting for Christmas, wishing for snow

I flew from St. Louis to New York City last Friday, had a cup of black coffee before takeoff, which put me right to sleep, and awoke on the descent through heavy overcast, no visible lights below even as our wheels were lowered, and down, down, down we came as the ride got bumpy and then sort of turbulent, lights appearing a few hundred feet below, a river of headlights on a freeway, the plane shaking as the ground came up to meet us, red lights on the tarmac, and the wheels hit and the nose came down and he reversed the engines and braked hard and brought us around to the terminal at LaGuardia.

It was thrilling. For all the times I’ve ridden a plane descending through zero visibility, it still is a pleasure, to contemplate the end of my life and then life continues, I text my love (“Landed”), take my briefcase, thank the captain standing in the cockpit door and walk up the Jetway and past Starbucks and the ATMs and the candy stand and out the door into the dark and drizzle and stand in the taxi line and hop in a cab and into Manhattan we go, down dark streets of brownstones, a few hardy souls walking their dogs, and across the Park to the West Side where my love waits for me to come through the door and puts her arms around me.

A rainy December day, long thoughts therein

I saw the phrase “friendship recession” in a headline last week, which has a musical swing to it but refers to growing social isolation, particularly among men, due to people working from home, avoiding crowded places, being reluctant joiners, and then I stopped reading because sociology has always bored me ever since I was nineteen and sat in Dr. Cooperman’s class and looked around at the girls in the room and tried to imagine how I might strike up a conversation with one of them. Talking about sociology did not seem like the way to begin.

I grew up in a family of eight who belonged to a tight group of devout evangelicals, half of them relatives, who believed in holding the secular world at arm’s length, so my parents didn’t associate much with neighbors, but of course we children did and we went to school with non-evangelical kids and so we lived in two worlds and had to keep them separate. I knew the words to “Great Balls of Fire” but didn’t sing it around my parents and I didn’t talk to my classmates about the Second Coming. I had cousins who lived on farms and used an outhouse and cooked on a wood-burning stove and I had city cousins who had flush toilets and rode the streetcar. A lot of sociology going on around me.

Novelist in room 717, recuperating

I picked up COVID last week sitting in an airport lounge, writing, and I pulled my mask down because my masked breath fogged my glasses, and now I’m holed up in a cheap hotel in Fort Lauderdale, waiting for the Paxlovid to kick in. I pass through numerous airports every month because in the comedy business, people tire of you after an exposure or two — the dog who walks into the bar and says, “How about a drink for a talking dog” and the bartender says, “Sure, the toilet’s down there, first door on the left” is not a life-changing joke — and so I keep on the move, and besides, I’m in love with my woman and want to get back to her promptly and not travel by bus. She puts her arms around me and whispers things that nobody else whispers. Sometimes TSA agents feel up my inner thighs but intimacy with a guy with a badge and blue rubber gloves doesn’t interest me.