Learn From It

Nothing is what it seems; nothing is what you expect. Nothing is nothing-at-all.

This is the life you choose when you choose, the one you lead when you lead. And in an acute sense, sometimes the way to lead your own life is to let Pan lead you along his path. I know, it makes no sense in the telling of it. But that's alright. Life, dear friends, is in the living.

On Friday—yesterday—I went down to work, knowing it would be desolate, that I'd likely be the only one there. I was there because, well, I'm not sure why because I could have easily telecommuted. Ahh, but I did need to pick up some things at the Company Store down on Apple Campus, and so I did that. So I hopped on a Caltrain Baby Bullet, where Santa handed me a candy cane and wished me a Merry Christmas. I smiled for longer than expected. But down to Cupertino I went. Which led me to the rest of my day, living in the vault of the sky, our City, a welkin on earth.

I had set to buy a few small items that Sam wanted, and ended up participating in Christmas more than I'd expected: I found something for one of the best guys in the world, my Fred The Plumber, and something for David B., the manager of the place where I played Santa—twice!—this year (pics to follow ASAP).

Our manager sent us all home early, and off I went, having to take a $20 cab ride from Apple to the Caltrain station. I got back to the City mid-afternoon, expecting to just chill for a while. Not to be. I had to drop off a package at a friend's and decided to stay out and drop off David B.'s gifts as well.

I knew he was working, so I stopped in at Daddy's 440. On the way over, rain threatening, I thought of my Aunt, the one I've mentioned here many times. Her favorite cocktail was a Manhattan, and whenever the mood strikes—which ends up being about once a year—I have one in her honor. And to honor my own memories, I always get an extra cherry in mine: Tootsie (her nickname) would let me have the cherry from her drinks. I was quite a little boy, and my mom never knew, but it was something special for me. Just enough taste of bourbon and sweet vermouth to convince me that adults drank potent drinks and I'd never do that and I'd never become one.

Well, one out of two ain't bad.

I asked David for one, and he brightened. “I make the best Manhattans in the world. Did you know that?” “Nope, I didn't. Oh, and can I have an extra cherry?” He smiled. And you have to understand that when David smiles at you, the world goes away. It's like that.

Well, one Manhattan turned into three: he does make the best Manhattans in the world—Toots would have approved.

David's partner, John, stopped by and I chatted with him for well over two hours. Carol Merrill, Grease 2 and any number of other topics were covered. John and I hadn't ever had much of a chance to talk, but this certainly made up for it.

A man with an East Texas accent from the Avenues interrupted us, and rubbed the hair on my forearm, swooning. I was embarrassed. John is a diplomat. The man said that it was obvious that two such handsome men were a couple and I had to point out that no, in fact, John belonged to David and vice versa, but assured him that I had my own handsome man at home. The man bought a round of shots. “Easy stuff,” David said, handing us little glasses full of Peach Schnapps.

Having a “long drive” home to the Avenues, the man excused himself and set down his still-two-thirds-full drink and walked out. Just as John and I recovered from the whirlwind of the man, he popped back in and handed me a small wrapped gift: for you, he says, and is gone again.

I'd just finished China Boy by Gus Lee on the trainride home, and ever since the first couple of chapters when he related Chinese culture to food, I'd been craving it. So after I left Daddy's 440 Castro and made a quick stop at the video rental place (none of your business), I ran across the street to get some food: BBQ Pork chow fun and chicken chow mein. Two pints packed with food for $5.20. Not bad. I dropped $1 into the tip jar, then fished out another from the wad of bills she'd handed me back and dropped that into the tip jar as well. “Enough! Enough! Too much! Too much!” she blurted, smiling. I just smiled back, warmly. “It's fine, it's fine,” I said through the lingering smile. “Happy Holidays!” she said, voice chasing after me as I walked out. The broken English of an “anti-Christmas” saying made me feel more in the soi disant “Christmas spirit” more than any other moment.

I zipped home in a misting rain on the Vespa, happy to find that I had not only soy sauce in the cupboard, but also chopsticks in a drawer, two things I'd forgotten with the take-out.

I. Ate. It. ALL. OMG.

I scarfed it down while watching the best/worst TV show of all time, Passions, the NBC Soap. Poisoned guacamole (!!!) led to an accident which led to the handsomest man in daytime to be laid up Schiavo-style in bed for weeks with his shirt off. In classic (that is to say, dumb-ass) soap style, he miraculously shows up at Christmas Mass (with a shirt on, dammit all) and claims a real “Christmas Miracle”. If it weren't so campy, it'd be offensive (though I imagine that most people wouldn't be offended if only it weren't so campy).

It was also a few days worth of multiple references, including JM J Bullock, Glynnis Johns and, today, more Glynnis Johns and Bill Pullman. Julie Andrews, Camelot, Cabaret and Mame.

Tonight I'm watching Auntie Mame, one of the many DVDs that have Christmas references. It seems the least I could do for having such a non-Christmassy Christmas so far.

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