Christmas Mem'ries
Season's Greetings from New Orleans, Y'all! When I was asked to guest post for Paul's blog, naturally I was flattered. I delved deep into my imagination for things to write about. I wanted it to be holiday-themed and relevant for this time of year, but I have found it very difficult to get into the Christmas Spirit so far. With the holiday itself merely days away, I find myself distracted with the reality that I have completely left everything until the last minute. I haven't bought a single gift or mailed even one Christmas card so far. I could blame the horribly unseasonable weather in New Orleans or a demanding work schedule, but what it comes down to is my own supreme laziness. At least I own that. Originally, I thought that a New Orleans Christmas Card would be nice. A post filled with images of yuletide on the river, the Festival Of The Bonfires that lights the way for Papa Noel along the levees in the Parishes farther down the Mississippi. Pictures of graceful Creole Townhouses with cast-iron balconies festooned with garlands and lights, reflecting on the wet, worn cobblestones of the Vieux Carre. That would have been nice....
Then I got here up with a few stanzas stimulated by way of Christmases' beyond spent with Paul as his next-door neighbor in Florida. We constantly had this kind of time! Christmas was a huge deal on 7th Avenue and turned into indeed a celebration to closing the complete year long. A few traces of poetry were very stimulated even as others have been just too weak or vulgar to be blanketed right here. I wouldn't want Paul's weblog to get flagged as inappropriate just for the sake of a few penis jokes, however a number of the respectable ones are too true to waste, so I render them here for you. Ahem......
"Christmas Mem'ries"
By Brandon Bergman
Christmas reminiscences as a toddler have been magic and all,
But the maximum memorable ones had been with our pricey Uncle Paul!
We'd stand up on The Day, some with Champagne in hand,
And stare upon Paul's tree,
Oh the gives! How grand!
We might tear open items, paper and ribbons in piles,
Peaches and Toenisha could create ethnic hairstyles!
We could sing and we might giggle. Even play a few jazz,
"Another glass of Champagne for the Lady Shabazz?"
It all went downhill from there, kind of how the vacations themselves might simply collapse into shameless episodes of alcohol consumption at the same time as the temperate Uncle Paul would watch in bemused horror as Kevin and I opened some other case of Prosecco. Ah, the coolest old days. They have been right. They had been vintage. They had been days....
Then I remembered the Christmas of 2006. A day that will not soon be forgotten. Our dear sister Kevin had regretfully gone to North Carolina for the holidays, leaving our Christmas table in person but certainly not in spirit(s). I had befriended a couple of New Orleans Katrina refugees, Angelique and Zak, the previous year and invited them to spend a lovely Christmastide at our table along with a friend of theirs named Steve. The weather was warm for St. Petersburg in December and a grand al fresco meal was planned. Zak had brined a turkey and brought the raw bird to roast in my well-used oven. The other side-dishes were waiting for their turns in the oven while the turkey bronzed and crisped.
Meanwhile, we had a few hours to kill, so we began consuming a variety of pink wine and carried on such spectacular communication on the balcony. Allow me to remind every body who doesn't understand, Paul does no longer imbibe of the grain or of the grape. As he had Christmas Joy to spread in Tampa, Paul took off to return later when dinner could be served.
He again to discover 3 former and one future New Orleanian rip-roaring with the "Spirit" of Christmas. Dinner become served and I agree with that it was scrumptious. I cannot don't forget what became served, however with such completed chefs inside the kitchen, how could it were anything less? God, I wish I should consider...I recollect the wine, however. And alas, the next series of occasions... I couldn't block it out if I tried, nor would I need to, as those are the days of our lives.
A little back-tale: For my birthday the previous August, Paul had talented me with the unanticipated present of liquor. Not simply any liquor, mind you, but a bottle of Absinthe. Ah yes, The Green Fairy. The stuff that Van Gogh drank that inspired him to cut his ear off and ship it to a no question, horrified and confused lover. The same drink that many a Bohemian artist had misplaced their minds from imbibing frequently. Thanks again, Paul!
Anyway, after dessert was served and the party had been in decline for several hours, I suppose that our dear Uncle Paul craved a little after-dinner entertainment. The fact that we had no spinet to sing carols around made no difference. I was ready to bid our new friends adieu, when Paul suggested "Why don't you bring out the Absinthe?" Ever the shit-stirrer, but a wonderful idea, nonetheless. I rounded up every cordial glass that I could find, set out the appropriate number of sugar cubes and chilled ice-water for the louching of the Absinthe. What an elegant way to end such a marvelous evening! I proudly poured the Absinthe into the little glasses, carefully poured the chilled water over the sugar cubes through the little slotted spoon that came with the bottle and watched the alchemy as the liquor changed from chartreuse to a milky jade color. Magical! Such promise was held in those little glasses! I distributed them to my guests, a toast was made and I drank the contents in one shot as though it were the free Apple Pucker that they give out at the bars here in New Orleans. BOOM! The stuff hit my gut like the blow of a jackhammer and was violently expelled from my gut over the side of the balcony. My guests sat in stunned silence as I retched. And retched. Feeling the need to mark the occasion with words, I made the declaration "It is poison. Don't drink it." To which Angelique replied, "Oh no..." I mean, what else can you say? I went to the bathroom to clean myself up a bit, and returned to the table, still surrounded by my uncomfortable guests, only to have Paul point out the streak of black vomit on the left side of my shirtfront. What happened next is but a foggy memory, but none the less, a memory, unfortunately. Zak entertained us with a delightful and erotic strip-tease, exposing everything to us as if we were a team of doctors out to discover a problem within his urethra.
He even gave us a bit wink to punctuate the burlesque, however no longer with a beaded-eyelash, if you understand what I mean. I agree with my lover of the time had punched the opposite guest inside the ribs for telling an offensive shaggy dog story whilst Zak and I ran across the courtyard in our underwear in some type of Bacchanalian celebration of wine and revelry. I'm not certain what Angelique turned into doing. Counting the range of times she'd visible this conduct in the beyond, I guess.
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We finally bid our guests "Goodnight, and Merry Christmas!", and "Let's do this again sometime!" Needless to say, that time has yet to be repeated, thank Christ! I remember waking up the next day with a strange and deep gash on my leg from a falling broken wine glass and a vague, but still painful memory of the night before. As I related that story to Kevin on his way back from North Carolina the next day, I realized that Paul had gotten up much earlier on Boxing Day, and had told him his version of the events of Christmas. I wonder to this day how they differed.
But Paul, as I gaze at the lurid crimson glow of my Christmas Tree right here in New Orleans, I reflect onconsideration on you. I wonder how you're spending this Christmas with out the antics and melodrama which you absolute confidence enjoyed in previous years, inside the corporation of myself and our dear sister Kevin. I understand, for me at the least, that those were the happiest Christmases of my lifestyles. So prepared. So memorable. I additionally consider the lurid purple glow that comes from my front window in the Treme and suppose, "Might passers-by using assume that that is a brothel?" One can in no way tell inside the City of New Orleans. The records of prostitution on this town is so indistinct.
Brandon Bergman is the writer of "Where The Sweet Olive Grows", an insightful weblog, committed to the maintenance of New Orleans lifestyle.