Close your zipper, your dickensian is about to pop out
Ah the Holidays. I am quite Scrooge-like around them I must admit. I’m an odd man to begin with. I have minimal family, almost zero interaction with the random klan there is, I’ve never been married hence divorced, no inside kids, no outside kids, no down the block kids selling christmas trees in a lot drinking out of a flask to keep warm. My regrets about the lack of spawn I have infused into this world and my lack of a wife are as big as my regrets about Rosie O’Donnels film career and how it never fully blossomed like a budding douche.
But I am spiritual and fateful and odd. There’s an odd pulse of decency in me. I might not live in a house that is filled with fulfilled children and a happy wife that people pass and see the lights and warmth of the residence and say “awww what a happy family”. I would be the guy that rents the top floor of the next house, the one with the garden gnomes and hobos leaning against lamp post yard accents. All the plants in the yard stolen from my job and if you look closely the mulch that surrounds them is really panties from one night stands and chinese takeout menus and pizza boxes or as us professional gardeners call it “the lasagna method” of layers of mulch. I might bring property values down but not peoples holiday vibe.
I think people look at me and see a rosey cheeked, friendly enough irish american fella without a care in the world. I bounce up and down the street going to or returning from work, the bar, the bodega like a tattooed Tigger from Whinny the Poo. I exude a level of staunch heterosexual jolliness that gets most politicians into scandals. But there is a deep, dark pit in me that could hold enough asphalt to pave the entire city. I’m a frustrated artist. A writer that can’t apply myself. I am incapable of love. Damaged. I get off on being alone. A true “holy terror” of a man that subscribes to a polite society and does well in one but who is, ultimately, a lonely prick of a man, a Scrooge if you will. I would mutter “beh, whores arse!” not “bah, humbug!”.
So heres what the Dickensian ghosts would look like to me.
The Ghost of Christmas Past : My drunk father picking up an aluminum garbage can lid on christmas eve and attempting to throw it atop our house as we slept to make us think Santa landed on the roof…..but missing the roof, hitting my brothers top floor window and sending shards of glass into the room and disabling the lights he strung from the top of the house.
The Ghost of Christmas Present: This lovely Dominican lady I work with, Marisol, who has 5 kids and makes me rice pudding and empanadas for me and actually likes coming to work because we are friends. Just put some gay holly on her head or something and she would be the one i would want to walk around with showing my Scrooge ass the positive, current side to things. In one hand would be a heineken, and in the other the Ciroc coconut vodka she can’t afford but I buy her because i like my latina women drinking, it makes me very very attractive. Now thats my kind of christmas present.
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to come: Steve Buscemi in a black north face jacket with a hood on it walking my ass to a cemetery on the brooklyn/queens border and telling me to get my shit together in a long, curse laden speech. Whenever I would chime in with some comment he would smack me upside the head with one of those plastic grim reaper cycles you see around Halloween and say something like “Listen Douche, THATS your grave there and your six feet under us, what the fuck ya think I walked in here with you for? The ambience??? Thwak thwack thwack.
