The Winter of My Discotheque

"My Soul: A Self-Portrait"

Don’t the trees look like crucified thieves?
Warren Zevon, “Desperadoes Under the Eaves”

Hey, guess what? The Daily Wrazz is a year old! Hey, guess whatter? This is my hunnert post! Even with dismal math skills, you’ll quickly deduce that my blog hardly qualifies as “daily.” But with a considerable graveyard of ditched verbiage in my digital past (I bore so easily — myself and others), the fact this sucker still exists is a monumental achievement.

Especially when you consider that every year at this time I sit and calmly await the onset of my annual melancholy. Well, that’s what I call it, but to be honest I’ve never been able to differentiate between melancholy and sloth. But it hits like clockwork every winter. Back when your roving scrivener was ankle-high to an AP History textbook, this would usually be the time my grades started slipping. I’d lose interest in scholastic regimen and let my homework fester like a PBJ forgotten atop a radiator. My responses to test questions — even the essay portions at which I excelled (flush am I with B.S.) — may as well have been glum variations on “What’s the use?” Compounding that was a heart heavy with pant and pine as I’d gaze into the living-room fireplace, wondering what it’d be like to unfasten a brassiere in its erotic crackle.

I don’t know what causes it. Perhaps it’s the trees, stripped of their loveliness, dead to me, dead to us all. Perhaps it’s the puffy winter garments that turn me into a bloated potato, or the harrowing conditions I face as a lowly pedestrian when God spits ice down my block, coating every surface — even candidates for necessary balance — in embarrassment and pain. Also, I’m not a big fan of white everything, or the threat of white everything. Give me a gush of visual variety besides the numbed crimson of misery-laden cheeks (what an optimist calls “rosy”).

The sad thing is that I’ve no real reason to be sad. I’ve a steady job with a reasonable income, something I enjoy doing. Plus, I received two additional potentials today that please me greatly as an unrepentant capitalist. God, did I wanna blow some cash at the news. I compromised by dropping ten on a used copy 0f the late Robert Palmer’s (no, not this one) Deep Blues, which joins other tomes on my shelf of inspiration. Best of all, I have clean clothes for tomorrow, which is nice, considering I’ve slipped into the same dress shirt and high-school athletic tee two days straight. (That, I think, is the lazy part. Perhaps a shave’s in order too.)

The First Thanksgiving: So the Indians sat at the kids' table?

Even better: Thanksgiving lands next week. A most welcome respite of family interaction, wooly sweaters, acres of gravy bleeding through dark-meat dams, banter swimming through the pumpkin-cinnamon air, and, most importantly, leftovers, so’s I don’t gotta visit the 7-Eleven to fuel nocturnal scribbles. (NOTE TO SELF: Pitch to the empire a Cranberry Sauce Big Bite, drowned in gravy and stuffing chunks ‘stead o’ gross, goopy chili [Stove Top squirts ‘stead o’ starchy bleats].)

Then, with the gobble growing rear-view faint, I can bust out the Christmas music proper: Dean Martin, Twisted Sister, Bootsy Collins. In the holiday spirit I could ask my father to loose the Cory Frye Archives, particularly my long-lost Screaming Santas EP, with its ever-so-festive rendition of Big Star’s “Jesus Christ.” Maybe I’ll excavate enough space in my apartment rubble — now that I’m finally making enough to afford it without my savings account giving me the finger — to park a Douglas fir, along with presents and flocking and sprinkles of glittery white shit I’ll be vacuuming up and blasting off socks ’til June.

Better yet, to make a little coin on the side, I’ll install a bad-ass speaker system and transform the whole of my lair into an exclusive club. Nothing snuffs wintry sadness like the Hustle, a VIP room and a humidor. But, then, what kind of cover should I charge? Should I make exceptions for acquaintances? Will crashers exploit my natural sympathy, tug at my conscience with pleas of “But it’s Christmas!”? What kind of world do we live in when your fellow man and even your closest friends are willing to take advantage of your hospitality like that? And since department stores hail the coming yuletide as far back as August 16, does that mean I’m up to my eyeteeth in freeloaders five, six months out of the year? Whatever happened to peace on earth, good will to men? Those fucks! Those evil pricks! You know what? Shit on Christmas, piss on winter, and butt-jack that fat, jolly consumerist propoganda icon with the fossilized remnants of our moribund American economy! Aw, hell, I’m gloomy again.


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