Auld Ang Syne

Random notes on turning 60.

Of note.  Of late.

I have stopped eating.  Okay, not stopped.  But for someone who has pounded three large meals a day plus snacks for his entire 60 years (subtract 8 months for baby formula – I then graduated to sirloin), the sudden demise of vacuum cleaner like intake is surprising.  Is this due to age or disinterest?  I don’t know.  But I seem to make due of late with Trader Joe’s roasted chicken breast and peanut butter.  Obviously I need an in house chef.  I think a good cassoulet or a Setzuan broccoli beef or even a Carnegie Deli pastrami sandwich might restore my appetite.  In fact, the thought of all three, preferably served together,  just did.  Disregard previous paragraph.

Lexapro, which is an anti-depressant and Lamactil, which is a mood stabilizer, take the edge off your sex drive, which, at 60, does you no favors.   Actually it sort of blunts that edge with a sludge hammer.   The problem, of course, is that it does nothing to blunt your imagination.  The mind is still willing – even eager -  but the body is not.  At times it seems hardly worthwhile.   Obviously one needs a partner who considers this a creative challenge.  One who will take the bull by the horn.  Grease the joints and crack the whip!  Once more into the breach, dear friend!   All right, all right, enough.  Besides, wasn’t it Mark Twain who said that too often in life, sex is overrated while a good bowel movement is unappreciated.  He was, when he wrote this, I think – yes – 60.  And there is light.  A friend who is now seventy five tells me it was such a relief hitting seventy four years, eleven months, three weeks and two days because he finally lost interest in sex altogether and for the first time in his life got some work done.  Just another thing to look forward to.  Not.  Disregard previous paragraph.

At 60 you sleep less.  You are more restless.  Often, knowing it’s going to be difficult to fall asleep, I go to bed early to give myself lots of extra time to do so.  Once asleep, I wake up a lot.  Someone is snoring and this disturbs me.  It especially disturbs me that the someone is me.   The lovely wife has a remedy for snoring.  She puts a large fluffy pillow over your face.  If that doesn’t work, she sits on it.  One thing hasn’t changed.  I still dream insane dreams.  Crashing airplanes, lost subway cars, trains going in the wrong direction, cab rides to nowhere, abandoned apartments and deserted houses I seem to be living in but have no memory of.  I tried describing my dreams to a therapist one time but I could see she was growing more and more nervous by the moment so I stopped.  At the end of the day it’s probably all just symbolic of sex anyway.  (isn't everything?) Or bowel movements.  (Isn't everything else?)  On the plus side, thanks to the knee injury,  I don’t sleep walk anymore.   The neighbors are happy about that too.  As are the dogs who were getting tired of being peed on in the middle of the night.  Now I’ve embarrassed them.  Please disregard previous paragraph.

One thing about getting older is, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, you have to admit you no desire to be young again.  This is not to say you wouldn’t mind the energy and indestructability of youth, it’s just to say there’s a growing feeling of “thank god, I don’t have to go through that again”.   You lose some of the idealism of youth - lose the feeling of “it’s all going to work just fine in the end”.  Because you know now – from painful experience and lessons hard learned – that a lot of the time, it won’t. Actually I never had any youthful idealism.  I might of thought I did but I didn’t.  What I had – and this was just me, I’m not speaking for others -  was youthful obliviousness. 

A middle class white kid, I grew up in the shadow of Viet Nam and Watergate.    People marched in the streets.  What I remember now is great rock music and a lot of partying.  Oblivious.

In 1973, there was a gas embargo.  Lines at filling stations went around the block.  Drivers of vehicles with license plates having an odd number as the last digit were allowed to purchase gasoline for their cars only on odd-numbered days of the month, while drivers of vehicles with even-numbered license plates were allowed to purchase fuel only on even-numbered days. Unlike the older generation who felt aghast and betrayed,  I remember feeling slightly  inconvenienced.  Yes, there was no car available for date nights but I had no dates so it hardly mattered.  I was oblivious.

In the 1980’s, developing countries across the world faced economic and social difficulties as they suffered from multiple debt crises.  Ethiopia and other African countries witnessed widespread famine.  There was major civil discontent everywhere.  Violence occurred in the Middle East, including the Iran-Iraq War, the Soviet-Afghan War, the 1982 Lebanon War, the Bombing of Libya in 1986, and the First Intifada in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank.  Guess what?  I was in my twenties through all of it, beginning the most unlikely of careers, having a good old time and none of it seemed like that big a deal.   I was totally oblivious.

In the nineties there was the first Gulf War, the first and second Chechen War, the Congo War, the Kargil War, the Kosovo War, the Ten Day War, the Croatian War of Independence and the Bosnian War. Among others.  Others being the Ethiopian Civil War, the Somali Civil War and The Tajikistan Civil War.  And let’s not forget the Rwandan Genocide.  And the Srebrenica Massacre.  And the Los Angeles Race Riots.  And the Oklahoma City bombing.  And the World Trade Center bombing (not to be confused with 911).   I was in my forties now and guess what?  I started paying attention.  Maybe because I now had a wife and a house and children, I wasn’t quite so oblivious anymore 

At 60, I now lose what little sleep I do get over shit like this – shit I would have shrugged off in my youth.  Why?   Because regardless of whether or not the world is going to go on, pretty soon it’s going to be going on without me.  Why sweat this stuff now?  But I do.  I worry about the environment.  About the inequalities and questionable values of capitalism.  About the smug intellectualism of the modern theatre.  About vapid movies and insane video games.  I worry about the Ukraine and Nigeria and the air quality in China.  I worry about gun violence.  I worry about the future of my children. The future of all our children.  About the world we are leaving them.

So much for oblivious.

Do not disregard previous paragraph.

Ah, but your sixties is not a time to get so serious.  Let’s put on a show!  On NPR this morning they did a story on the Palm Springs Follies – an old fashioned review of singers and showgirls and dancers and comedians and magicians and jugglers all of whom are in their sixties, seventies and even their eighties.  They do show tunes, they do Vegas lounge act entertainment, they do Tom Jones – geriatrics in sequins sing What’s New, Pussycat?  A master of ceremonies gets out there and makes Don Rickles like small talk with the audience – all of whom are in their sixties, seventies and eighties as well.  “You!  How old are you, darling?  Seventy-five?  You don’t look a day younger than ninety!  Is that your goiter or are you happy to see me?   Don’t make me laugh, I’ll mess my pants – literally!” 

Oblivious!

Only not really. 

At the end of the show, they do a salute to any veterans that are in the house.  They ask them to rise.  There are a fair number of them, both men and women.  A few are WWII vets, most are veterans of Korea and Viet Nam.  The lights flare, the cast takes the stage, balloons fill the air.  And then everyone sings Auld Lang Syne.

Should Old Acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon;  The flames of Love extinguished, and fully past and gone: 

Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold, that loving Breast of thine;  That thou canst never once reflect On Old long syne.

At 60, you begin to think about the past a lot.

The Church of the Immaculate Bewilderment

I occasionally go to church on Sunday mornings.

The Church of the Immaculate Bewilderment, is for people who don't believe in God but are curious to know, if HE did exist, what would HE really be like. 

Immaculate means blessed or pure.  To be bewildered is to be confused or baffled.    I'm certainly the latter.

Hemet, who is the resident pastor of  The Church of the Immaculate Bewilderment is an ex-research biologist who was forced out of his tenured university position at the University of California when, at the age of fifty, he stopped bathing, shaving, cutting his hair and brushing his teeth.  I met Hemet on a street corner one Sunday morning, where he was screaming and throwing punches at imaginary people,

"You doing okay?" I said, sticking five dollars into the paper cup Hemet panhandles with when not shouting at strangers.   I often do this, give the money to homeless transients.   I hate feeling sorry for people.  It makes me feel guilty.  "Can I get you anything?"  I said.

"A vente cappuccino would be nice," Hemet said with a sweet if slightly decayed smile.

 "God bless both of you," he said after I took the4 money back and went and got it for him.

 "If God exists," I said.

"Come with me," Hemet said and he took me to parking lot behind the Whole Food Market and introduced me to the rest of the congregation.

At the Church of the Immaculate Bewilderment we talk about a lot of things.  We talk about neurotheology which is the attempt to explain religious behavior in scientific terms.   Why, for instance, does it seem that some human beings are hardwired for faith while others are not?  

It doesn't seem fair.   But then, what does?

Edvard, who was a sucessful financial advisor before he retired to become a successful alchoholic, asks whether God, if He existed, would endorse capitalism.   Would He be shorting the commodities market and if so, could this be construed as illegal insider trading?   Which leads us all to the question, would He be a proponent of Swedish style socialism - high taxes, government regulation and health care for everyone?   Or more in favor of the Divine Right of Kings?  And if HE is, shouldn't WE?

We reach no conclusions.

Poulter, a Marine vet dealing with a traumatic brain injury, likes to discuss early religions, now disingenuously termed mythology, where people believed gods were human manifestations of the natural world - sun, moon, ocean, storm - and the noetic - love, war, wisdom.   Why, he'll ask, should people assume that they're any smarter and more devout today than we were back then.

We're obviously not.

Jones, who has paranoid personality disorder, likes to argue about the origins of the universe, did it all come from something or nothing, with a bang or with a whimper, is it expanding or shrinking and either way - who’s fault is that, huh?!  Huh!?

The nameless Gnostic transvestite who suffers from Fregoli delusion which means he thinks different people are a single person in disguise, likes to contemplate different dimensions of time and space.  How many are there?   Hemet will tell you there could be an infinite number which means in an infinite universe of infinite dimensions there could be an infinite number of you. 

God, if you believe in Him, forbid. 

And finally some one, perhaps it's Bethyl, who deals with depersonalization disorder but is female-centric, always asks whether it's even possible to put sacred concepts into human terms and whether a real knowledge of what is or isn't, is even accessible to human beings.

Probably not.

In the end, it comes down to a matter of faith.   Which our ever changing congregation has very little of.  And so we end up starting  the discussion all over again, in search of it.  Frankly it can get pretty loud and stupid and headache inducing, sort of like a French anarchist's convention and so usually, half way through the meditating, questioning, conjecturing, lecturing and proselytizing on Him - or in Bethyl's system of disbelief - Her - I'll get up and leave and go down the street and get an onion bagel. 

But for some reason, I always seem to go back.  

The Church of the Immaculate Bewilderment is always open to new members.

Blue Zones!

Guess what? 

It is a fact that the happiest, longest living people in the world today live in small, isolated, rustic farming  communities called Blue Zones.  

Blue is the color of clear sky.  Blue is the color of clean water. 

In these so-called Blue Zones, life is exceedingly pleasant.  For example, as a rule, all folks sleep in till noon but when tired still manage to take a lot of naps.   They don’t wear watches because they’re not on any clear schedule and so time is not of interest to them.  Food is mostly tubers and roots and grains and there’s a lot of it.  People in Blue Zones drink a lot of herbal tea.  Also red wine that they make themselves which makes the vegetables and whole grains a whole lot easier to get down. 

In Blue Zones, when people want to talk to someone they do not use the phone.  Why?  Because they don’t have any!  Not even landlines!  No.  Instead they take long  walks over hill and dale to the other person’s house.   Amazingly, it doesn’t bother the person they’re visiting in the least.  They had nothing else to do and even if they did, it can now wait. 

 It is of particular interest that in Blue Zones, people of all ages have sex a lot!  Certainly something to aspire to.   Incredibly, they almost always have it with the same person.   Also incredibly, everyone works, usually at more than one thing.   This is because it’s a rule that you must contribute to the community at large, even if you’re old.  No one is excluded.  Especially the elderly. 

In Blue Zones, everyone is so into each other’s business, no one wants to lie or steal or cheat or sleep around because if they do, everyone else will immediately know about it.  To be less than responsible would be considered sketchy.  For some unexplained reason, people who live in Blue Zones are not anxious, bored and restless.   This is one reason they live so long.  Even though they’re all incredibly ancient, they all pretty much feel good about themselves.  Nobody has much money and if they did, they wouldn’t know what to buy.  They do not, at least on a daily basis, deal with information the mind is not equipped to handle and the body to do anything about. 

They have not bitten from the apple.

There are only five Blue Zones left in the world.  There used to be seven but God threw Adam and Eve out of the first one and the one in the mountains of Sardinia has become a four star spa resort developed by the eco-terrorist and Rogaine tycoon, Donald Trump. 

Blue Zones are tanking.   Sad but true!   Their promise of longevity destroys the very isolation that preserves them.   As the world becomes aware of them, they become aware of the world.  People leave and do not come back. 

How ya gonna keep’m down on the farm once they’ve seen Paree?

The opposite of a Blue Zone, of course, would be a densely populated, totally hard wired urban environment – call it a Black Zone.  This is an environment where people rarely sleep, always eat in restaurants, never go out of doors and only interact socially with others to drink designer cocktails, do excellent drugs and dance to loud music.   They have sex with as many others as possible in all sorts of imaginative combinations and in terms of work, are so hyper-specialized, they are practically unemployable.  

In Black Zones people are stressed, alienated and frightened of the future.  There’s a lot of illness, most of it psychosomatic.   Humor is pretty much based on sarcasm and self loathing.   Even the geese only mate for months.   Old people are ignored and marginalized as much as possible.  Poor people are seen as toxic and contagious and are resented as failures.  Everyone is so self-involved that all writing, even biographies, is in the first person.  People lie and cheat and steal to get ahead because it’s pretty much the norm and because it is, everyone has a low opinion of themselves.  They suspect however, that if they had more money to buy things with, they’d feel much, much better.   Confused as to what to live for, most inhabitants of Black Zones die or are murdered or killed as early and violently and tragically as possible and in a temporary, schadenfreuden kind of ecstacy, those still living feel much better when they’re gone because it leaves that much more of everything for them.  

Thankfully, social scientists have yet to discover any of these so called black zones.  They are theoretical at best and will hopefully always remain so.

Pause for moment of dramatic irony.

And now – in the mean time - coming soon to an ocean near you - Seasteading!   Buy a boat and build your own nation-state in International waters!  Sick of laws, regulations and moral convention?  Make your own!  Choose the government you want instead of the government you’ve been stuck with!   Tired of welfare freeloaders, minimum wage, tight building codes, and weapons restrictions?!  F’gedabout’m!     Live with the people you want to live with!   Streamline and start over.   It’s a brave new world out there, morlocks!   Soma for all!

Cue calypso music and singing crab.

Titles. 

Fade to black.

Santa Claus Gets Depressed

Mr. and Mrs. Claus

kris kringle wears faded, red pants, a long-sleeve undershirt, slippers and suspenders   He looks tired.  

He

December the 26th.   Well, thank God, that's over.   I'm exhausted.   Each year it gets worse.    Up before midnight, waiting for the final tick of the clock.  Bedlam, everywhere,.   Toy elves, mad with fatigue, loading the last of the presents.   Reindeer elves doing last minute adjustments to the sleigh.  There's always a harness that breaks, a bell that won't jingle.   The reindeer themselves are nervous, they know what's coming, they have the runs.   The smell, the noise - unbelievable.  Martha is clucking around me like an old mother hen.  Are you wearing your woolen underwear?  Of course, I am.  Fat?  Who's fat?  I have 27 layers of clothes on.  You would be too if you went riding around at altitude on a winter's night in an open sleigh.  Gloves - check.   Hat - check.   Nose like a cherry – if you insist.  Schnapps - - check, check and double check.   Blast off and be done with it. 

Mrs. Kringle enters.  She wears a simple house dress and apron.   She is as excited as Kris is exhausted.

She

December 26th!  Ours is truly a partnership blessed and cherished by God, man and elves alike!   As he flew out the door last night, I felt such a sense of accomplishment.   He was well fed, well dressed, well rested.   It's been a struggle.  For the last few weeks, he's been fussing, fuming, losing his temper.   He always has had an artist's temperament but still, every year, the closer we get to Christmas the worse he gets.   If it weren't for me the elves would probably have been in a state of total rebellion.   The minute he was gone, I broke out the homemade cookies and spiced cider.   It's a treat that we look forward to every year.   A reward for a job well done.  Everyone loves it so!

He

As I go flying out the door, I can see Martha breaking out the cookies and spiced cider.   God-awful stuff.   The Elves will force it down and then make a mad break for the caves where the ale and brandy are stashed.   There won't be one of them left standing by the time I get back tomorrow.  But there's no time to worry about that now.  I pull back on the reins and up we go.  

She

After the Elves have gone to bed, I like to curl up by the fire with a cup of tea and imagine his journey through the cold clear Christmas night.   It makes me feel so close to him and the joy he brings.  

He

At a home near Cleveland, I'm almost killed by a man brandishing a shotgun.   At a condo outside of Dallas, someone has a BMW under the tree.   And a perfectly respectable house in New Jersey turns out to be a bordello and they're having a party.  I contemplate staying.

She

(coughing a warning)

Ahem-hem-hem!

HE

No, better move on.

(Sagging)

Australia, China, Japan, the Ukraine.   It's dawn by the time I get home.  I go in the house, strip off the red suit and take a long, hot shower.   Martha is in bed, dead to the world.  I crawl in next to her.   I try to sleep but can't.   I imagine all across the world, children waking up, running to the tree... and being disappointed.     This is the last year I do this.   I swear it is.  It's time to quit.

She

January 3rd!  He could hardly get out of bed again this morning.   Oh, but it's always like this.  The lovely let down after.   Thankfully I know how to get him going.   Lunchtime!

He

God help me, the only thing we do around here when we're not working is stuff our faces.   Carbohydrates.  Animal fats. 

she

Dinner!

he

I keep dropping hints - how about some whole grains, grilled fish and steamed vegetables for God's sake.  It doesn't sink in.  

she

Midnight snack!

he

I need a a vacation.  A new hobby.    Anything.   Maybe the Elves can help.

She

(not happy)

February 23rd.  They arrived today. 

he

(thrilled)

The Elves ordered them! 

She

Large ugly boxes with garish letters.  Not festive at all.  

He

A 45 inch, flat screen television!   Digital!    With sensurround!

She

He says he's going to hook it up to some dish thingie and we'll be able to watch...

HE

Direct TV!!

she

I hate it.

He

I love it!!  The flickering images, the nonstop action, the complete lack of introspection, the sheer volume of it.   Life, here at the North Pole, seems sadly mundane in comparison.

She

At least I now have an inkling as to why Kris's list is seemingly filled with endless black marks.  In these "programs" he's been watching - many of them seemingly created "for" children, - youngsters are "portrayed" as hip, wise-crackers, in every way smarter and more mature than their parents who are seen as ignorant, inattentive, buffoons.   These "programs" seem to imply that parents and children in modern society have reversed roles completely.  

He

I can't wait to see what else is on!

She

I am also concerned that the Elves seem to have an unhealthy fascination with something called CNBC.   I have no idea what this is but feel they don't bode well for this year's contract negotiations. 

He

Martha!?    There's a lotion on the Home Shopping Network that removes body hair painlessly and without scarring!  Only 29 dollars a case! 

She

Oh, I hate this modern technology.  No wonder people don't read books or write letters or bake bunt cakes any more.   How can it possibly get worse than this?

He

Martha!?   Look at what they Elves have brought home!

SHE

It’s a computer. 

he

Twelve gig harddrive!

she

Kris s going to hook up to something called -

He

The Internet!

She

And that once we do this -

He

The world!!  At our fingertips!   The box!  It says so! 

She

Oh, I do not want the world at my fingertips.   I like it comfortably at a distance the way it used to be. 

He

Martha-slash-Claus at KrisKringle-dot-org!    Yes!!

SHE

It simply can’t get worse than this.

He

Jumping Jeosaphat!  There’s a man in St. Louis, Missourri, Stanley K. Kringle, who says he's the real Santa Claus.  55 an hour plus expenses for public appearances.   Not bad.   I wonder if I can get in on it. 

She

There is only one thing to do.   I will sing and make fruitcakes!

he

Help!  She’s baking!

SHE

I am no longer talking to you.

he

Hah!  Fine!

Silence.  Then:

She

March 26th.  Nothing to report.

He.

Not a thing to report.

She

March 28th.  No change.

He

No food.

She

March 30th.  He's miserable and trying to make me so as well but I continue to sing and bake on a daily basis.

He

All day long she wails like a church cat trapped in a whorehouse.  Between that and the smell of burning brown sugar, I'm going out of my mind. 

She

April 2d.  How long can it go on like this?  I must continue to bake and sing.

She begins to sing Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree”.   He groans, then begins to sing – I saw Momma kissing Santa Claus.  She glares at him, outraged, and sings louder.   They continue to sing.   Until suddenly -

He

Enough!   Serve!   Fruitcake!

She

April 13th.   Success.  He was humming to himself again today.  I knew my fruitcakes and singing would eventually get through to him.  Oh, why can't everyone sing and eat fruitcake every day!

He

Martha?  More people are arrested, committed to mental institutions and more commit suicide at Christmas than any other time of year.   

She

May 1st.  We are no longer speaking.

(a moment)

I am making dumpling soup.

She whistles to herself, not a care in the world. 

She whistles.

She whistles.

He

All right!  You win!  Serve!   Dumpling!  Soup!

She

May 27th.  The letters arrive in bushels now and it makes me feel a new Christmas season is just around the corner.  I don't know how they get here, of course.  It's one of the mysteries.   Kris, I'm sorry to say, hasn't read a letter in years.   I think at some point, they started to make him unhappy.  Not so much the requests for toys but rather the ones that asked for things that were truly beyond him.  

He

Make the soldiers go away.   Let there be no bombings.   Cure my mother –

She

My sister.

He

My lover.

She

My son.   And they all end with the same promise –

He

Grant me this Christmas wish and I will never ask for anything, ever again.

She

Still, I take the best of the letters and pack them carefully away in a trunk.  I know that someday, he'll want to read them.  I just know it.   

He

June 1st.  Martha!?   Martha!!?  I'm going to Hollywood!   Don't wait up!

She

June 7th.  It is too much to bear!  Kris has been in touch with something called a talent agent.   Apparently when this "agent" discovered that Kris has no formal representation he went absolutely mad with excitement.   He started talking about licensing fees, subsidiary rights, guest appearances and royalties.   Kris suddenly has dollar signs dancing in his eyes and we....

(fighting tears)

 - are no longer speaking.

He

June 10th.  The Elves will take me down into Canada and I'll proceed from there.  he travel department has whipped me up some documents - a passport, a diver's license, a credit card – oh, and almost one hundred dollars in cash!   How I'll ever spend so much hard currency in so short a time is beyond me

She

June 23rd.  It's been a week and I haven't heard a word from him.  I'm worried sick.  

(a beat)

June 26th.   Still no word.  I tried his cell phone. I got two wrong numbers, a very rude overseas operator and a recording that told me the user was in a nonservice area.   I don't know what to do.  

(a beat)

June 29th.    I did the unthinkable.   I went to down into the shop to the computer and I went on line with the hopes of finding Kris.  It wasn't easy but by accessing newspaper stories and hacking into classified FBI websites I was finally able to track him down.  He was stranded in a holding cell in Toronto while the authorities investigated the false passport, the fraudulent driver's license, the stolen credit card and the one hundred dollars in counterfeit bills.   It's terrible how anyone with a beard is suspect these days.   Needless to say, Kris is going to give the Elves in the travel department a very good talking to when he gets home.  Home.   Oh, I wish he'd come home. 

He

July the 1st!   L.A.!   It's wonderful!  Martha?!   Amazing!   The Bel Air Hotel!   Swans in the fountains.  Macadamia nuts free at the bar.   At dinner last night, I had poached cheeks of grouper in a tangerine and ginger essence with a saffron infused pilaf and braised baby bokchoy on the side.   The agent paid.  He says I'm going to be big, Martha.  Big!

She

I must admit, it's lovely to hear enthusiasm in Kris's voice again.

He

Me.  A big thing!  Can you believe it?   Me.

She

You.

A moment.

HE

(very quiet)

July 3rd.  Martha... I'm home.

SHE

July 3rd.   Something has gone horribly wrong.    

He

The man you've been living with for all these years... is not me.  

She

What?

He

The agency's legal department.  They did some research.  It seems the name and persona of Santa Claus doesn't belong to me at all.  It's part of the public domain.   I am no more Santa Claus than you are.   Anyone can be Santa Claus.   Anyone!   It’s their right.   To be a quaint, old fashioned, unappreciated, overworked buffoon who’s only good for paid public appearances, product placement and advertisements... and who’s time is well past.

She

What can I do?

He

Leave me... alone.

She

September 20th.   It's been terribly quiet around here for the last two months.  Normally things are buzzing by this time.  Not this year.   Kris just sits, staring into space.   There will be Christmas this year but it will be a Christmas without the spirit of Santa Claus.    And if I were to be honest, I would have to say that spirit has been missing for a long, long time now.   It will take a miracle to bring it back.  More than anything though. . . I miss him.   My husband, my partner, my friend.  I miss him so.

HE

What, Martha, are you crying?

She

I'm sorry, it's nothing.   I'm so sorry.

He

No, don’t be.  Please.   Look.   Look at these.  Letters.   I found them in the trunk upstairs.   You saved them.

She

Yes.   I thought you might like them someday.

He

They're good.   Very good.   This one especially. 

SHE

Which one is that?

HE

The famous one. 

SHE

Actually it was the reply.  "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”

he

“He exits as surely as... as love and generosity and devotion exits.   Alas, how dreary would be the world if... if there were no....

(faltering)

...no.... Santa Claus.   There would be no faith, no poetry, no...

She

- no romance to make tolerable this existence.  We should have no enjoyment except in sense and sight.  The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.  No Santa Claus?   Thank God he lives.  And lives forever.  A thousand years from now, nay, ten time's ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the hearts of childhood.

A moment.

He

Martha?

She

Yes?

He

I've misplaced my boots.  Would you happen to know where they are? 

She

Of course I do.

He

And my gloves? 

She

Yes.

He

And my hat and coat?

She

Those too.

He

And my list, of course, I must have my list. 

She

I have it right here.

He

We have work to do, don't we.

She

Yes.  Yes, we do, my darling.  Yes, we do.

he

But first... one thing.

she

Yes?

he

Lunch!!!!!

He exits. 

She

December 24th!!!   The blessed day is finally upon us.   Oh, the last few months have just been the wonderful beehive of activity.   Kris has been an absolute dervish, everywhere at once, designing toys, reading letters, keeping everyone's spirits up.  It's a happy, healthy Santa Claus who ventures forth this year.   Kris is a changed man.

He 

(off)

Martha!?  Martha!?

She

In here, dear!   And yet the same.

Kris enters. He is not the chubby Santa of coke commercials but a regal father Christmas in long cape and brocaded vest and crown-like cap.

He

Well?  What do you think?   Polypropylene.   So much for woolen underwear.

She

You are so handsome.   I'm almost of a mind not let you go.

He

Ho-ho-ho!   December 24th!    It's been quite a year.  It almost did me in.   But!   The dude... abides!    And ever will!

She

Beautifully.

He

Well!   I’m off!   Martha? 

She

Yes?

He

I could never have done any of this – ever - without you.

She

I know.    I'll wait up.

They embrace.  He exits.   Then softly:

She

And I heard him exclaim 'er he drove out of sight.   Happy Christmas to all.  And to all a Good night.

lights to black

Hope

As I’ve gotten older I’ve had a harder and harder time with the concept of hope.    Read too much.  Too many newspapers.   Tough world. 

I hope things will work out but I’m not surprised when they don’t.  I hope for the best but I prepare for the worst.

Because hope is not expectation.  Hope contains a small element of doubt. 

Just hoping.  

And hope and faith are not the same thing.  Faith suggests confidence and assurance.   It will all work out in the end!   

Even if it doesn’t.

Hope suggests that the best is not a given, that there is a need for outside intervention and if it’s not forthcoming, well....  one can only hope.  

And why not?

The opposite of hope is hopelessness. 

Imagine.

To be without hope.   To be in a place of no hope.  No hope for the present.  No hope for the future.   No way out.   No rescue.   No help.

No hope.

No.

Hope is a choice we make.   By choosing to hope, by giving others hope, we make hope real.  At least real enough.

This is real enough.

My son met his honorary godmother, Jodie, when he was four and she became our neighbor.   He would go over and they would sit outside on the terrace and they would chat.  Sometimes he would just sit as she worked in the yard.  And smoked.

My son has autism. 

Jodie got him.   Applauded him.  Never got impatient with him. 

Their relationship grew deeper over the years.   “I’m going to “Jode’s” my son would say and off he’d go.  Daily.  Twice on weekends.   She was patient and watchful and wise and for a little boy who had trouble making friends, she was the friend.

Several years ago Jodie moved to Berkeley to be closer to her daughter who had recently given birth to twins and needed the help.   Her departure was tearful and difficult.   For all of us.  But especially them. 

I will see you, my son kept repeating, as much a question as it was a statement.  And every single time Jodie answered, we will see each other.  And you will call me.  And I will call you.   Now give me another hug.

And even though we would always see Jodie once or twice a year, their relationship became one of cards and holiday gifts and letters and long weekly phone calls.   Twice on weekends.

This last spring Jodie called to tell us she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  Lung cancer.

I’m not sure how but my son understands death.   At least well enough.  You will be gone, he’d tell her on the phone.  I’ll be in the clouds watching you, she’d say.  You’ll be watching me, he’d say.

In July, my wife and son went to Berkley to visit Jodie.   He and Jodie did what they always did.   They sat on the couch..   They laughed.   They reminisced.    My son likes to start most conversations with, “Do you remember the time?”   And of course, Jodie did.

You are the best, she said.  Don’t you forget it.

I will never see you again, my son said.   A question as much as a statement.

No, but you will take some of my ashes and you will put them in the ground under our favorite tree, she said and we’ll be close to one another. 

Okay, he said.

My wife and son returned.  He and Jodie talked on the phone whenever  Jodie could.   Every other day.  Twice on Sundays.   Two indomitable spirits.  Still, she grew weaker.  It was harder and harder for her to breathe. 

The last time he called, Jodie couldn’t speak but asked her daughter to tell my son that she loved him.   Love you too, my son said.

Last night, Jodie passed away.

When we told him, my son was very quiet.   As if he was trying to puzzle it out.   And then after awhile, he went out in the yard to pick flowers.  For Jodie.  He brought them in.   Just the blossoms.  He put them in bowl.   We all said a prayer over them.   And then, he took them next store to what had been Jodie’s house.   His grandmother lives there now which is really nice.  He put the bowl on the table in front of the outdoor couch where he and Jodie used to sit.  And then he came quietly home.

Not sad.   Full of the hope he’d been given over the years.  By Jodie.

Dressing Left

Dressing left and dressing right are terms that most men, at least those who wear suits, know.  It's a term used by tailors when fitting suit pants.  To "dress left" means that one keeps one’s male appendage shifted in the general direction of the left trouser leg.  Likewise for the right.

According to medical researchers, most men should dress left.  This is basic biology,  The left testicle is lower than the right.  It was made to swing to the left.  Swinging right is uncomfortable.  Perhaps this is why right dressers are often in bad moods.

I dress left.  Way left.  Far left, filling the pant leg.  I have always dressed left.  I will always dress left.   It’s just the way it is.  I do not and cannot go right.  It defies logic.  It does not compute.  When I am with people who dress right, I feel like a member of the Star Ship Enterprise listening to Klingons without the help of a universal translator.

I feel that left dressers are open minded.

I feel that those whose appendages sway right are often – pardon the pun – rigid and dogmatic.

I feel that left dressers are compassionate.  I feel right dressers are penurious.

I feel left dressers care about other people.  I feel right dressers care mostly about themselves and others exactly like them.  

I feel that left dressers are reasonable. They are in touch with their feelings.   I feel right dressers are entrenched and declamatory.  They yell a lot.  Even when the elected president of the United States, who undoubtedly dresses left, is giving a state of the union address, they yell.  This is possibly because those who dress right have a tendency to inadvertently sit on their packages.  Because men think with their d***ks, this turns off their brains.   

You’ve no doubt heard about the study that was done at the University of London.   It was instigated by the actor, Colin Farrell, definitely a very left dresser and it found that those who dress right have brains with smaller amygdales than those who dress left.  Amygdales control fear and primitive emotions.   It was also determined that right dressers have smaller anterior cingulates.  This is the part of the brain that’s responsible for courage, trust and optimism.

Translation:  Right dressers are anxious, fearful and pessimistic about the their appendages.  

Left dressers are creative with it.

Right dressers, when attending 50 thousand dollar political fund raisers at mansions in the Hamptons say things like:

“"I don't think the common person is getting it.  We've got the message.  But my college kid, the baby sitters, the nails ladies — everybody who's got the right to vote — they don't understand what's going on. I just think if you're lower income — one, you're not as educated, two, they don't understand how it works, they don't understand how the systems work, they don't understand the impact.”

This was said by a woman waiting outside the mansion in a spanking new Ranger Rover, pissed off at all the left dressers who were blocking the valet and carrying signs that said - “50 thousand dollars would send my kid to college!” 

(By the way, unless their breasts are identical, women can be right and left dressers too and this was obviously a woman who’s right boob hangs down to her knee.)

Moving on.

What I like about left dressers is they stay in shape, buy organic, play tennis and believe in evolution, an infinite universe and global warming.   What I don’t like about right dressers is that (except in California) they are overweight, watch football on TV, think eggplant parmesan is a vegetable, don’t believe in dinosaurs and think that the melting polar ice caps are just a phase we’re going through.

Maybe this is because right dressers believe God is taking care of them and in return, they are taking care of Him.  Left dressers believe God has better things to do and doesn’t need the help.

(It should be noted that there are a number of people in the world - terrorists and suicide bombers and bigots and religious fanatics and military regimes that enjoy killing their own citizens come to mind - who dress neither right or left but instead stick their appendages back between their legs and safely up their butt holes.  This turns off the flow of blood to the brains completely.)

Right dressers don’t like government. 

Oh, God, I’m back to government.

Okay, what with the current state of affairs, no one likes government. 

But left dressers at least like the concept of government.  They like the idea of a well run benevolent organization that provides social services, social security, medical care and funding for the arts.  They like it when children and young people are well educated and when people who are without work or a home are not allowed to go hungry.   They like their roads paved.   They like it when a truck comes by to pick up the garbage.  They realize said services cost something and they don’t resent footing the bill.   

To quote Oliver Wendell Holmes, who actually dressed neither right or left but instead scotch taped his appendage so that it aimed straight up at his navel –

 I like paying taxes.  With them I buy civilization. 

Like the lady in the Hamptons, right dressers don't.  They think they’re being forced to foot the bill for all the worthless deadbeats who don’t want to pay their fair share for a decent suit and so they’ve decided they don’t want to pay for anything.  This is partly because civilization and college tuitions be damned, they don’t like being told what to do.  They think being told what to do gets in the way of their right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness which means driving a Range Rover and making more money. 

(As a left dresser, I do wish I was allowed to decide exactly what my taxes are buying.    Bridges to nowhere, aid to Pakistan and Lockheed Martin – no.  The California University system – yes.  And I drive a BMW so really, you can tell me to shut up.))

In conclusion.

George Bush, who is a right dresser once said – or maybe it was Will Farrell, who dresses left, pretending to be George Bush who said it – or wait, no, maybe it was Justice Antonin Scalia - but whoever said it, it still holds true –

“...about four- five ‘underd years ago when God booted Adam and Eve out of The Garden of Eden for adulterary, an ol’ boy could dress any which-a-way direction he pleased, cause, a’ course, as everybody knows, Jesus wore robes...” 

Yes.

Jesus, who I think we all can agree was a pretty cool cat with his head on straight, wore robes. 

Presumably with nothing underneath.