Maybe I'll Just Leave Town...

When I was a kid I used to think the notion of "home for the holidays" was so romantic.  That travelling home for the holidays would be like in the movies--Mom and Dad would cook for you and have the house decorated and it would feel special.  And you'd go have a beer at the local bar and run into an old high school flame or foe and make adult amends.  But my family was always close enough that the travel usually only took up an hour or so of the morning, and the indecision of whether to light the menorah or trim the tree made things unnecessarily complicated.  I was jealous of movie holidays.  Later, as an adult living states away from my family, holiday travel became hectic and obligatory-like traveling for work or racing to the hospital to watch Aunt Bev die. But with presents.  I should know better.  But after some unexpected turns this year I was hopeful for some holiday magic.  Some feeling of excitement or nostalgia that would propel me into the new year with a new outlook.  So my wife and I set out into the mountains, packed into a van with two cold, wet dogs--one embarrassingly overweight, the other slowly dying--to be 'home for the holidays' with her family.  My in-laws.  (...)  (...)
They live in the house my wife's stepfather grew up in.  It is full of charm and creaks and character.  But as you might imagine it was built back when people took up much less space. The bathroom was not designed for lazy bathing.  The kitchen not made to accommodate dust-gathering monster machinery.  Maneuvering becomes a game of Jenga.  Because my wife didn't grow up in this house I do not get the novelty of sleeping in her old bedroom covered in Morrissey posters.  But we do get to sleep in the attic where the grandkids play-surrounded by tea sets and stuffed animals and remote control cars.  This is where we will wake up at 4 a.m. to clanking dishes and a blaring television, two grown adults screaming at each other about Velveeta because one of them is legitimately deaf.  Their family dogs-originally trained for hunting-will bark when air moves and let themselves in and out of the house as they please, the door banging behind them every time.  (My favorite is Missy.  She only has three legs and looks like Jar Jar Binks and Marilyn Monroe had a baby. My kinda girl.)  And I'll climb down the steep staircase that hasn't had a working light in at least five years in anticipation of creamed tomatoes and gigantic buttermilk biscuits.  And for 20 minutes it'll all be worth it...
Only that breakfast wasn't meant to be this year.  After a visit to the doctor, my father-in-law has given up carbs.  We would also have no hot water as the hot water tank went out after 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve. So there I stood on Christmas morning, taking a whore bath from a boiling pot, trying to make myself presentable for extended family.  You may be wondering at this point if this small town family accepts me as an in-law.  Yes, they do.  I'm showered with gifts.  My father-in-law thinks I'm the prettiest one.  The youngest grandchild understands that he has two aunts who live together.  HOWEVER.  Not one of them knows I'm a Jew.  Dyke?  OK.  Kyke?  No. 
And so I stay closeted--eating the microwaved corn on the cob that is offered to me for Christmas dinner. 
(Sidenote:  To be fair I am not knocking my mother-in-law's cooking here.  Everyone knows that my own mother cooks meat no less than three times before it actually makes it to the table--microwaved for defrosting--boiled to kill anything that may have landed on or near it--and finally oven for the actual "cooking" part.)
And then on Christmas night two heartbreaks--the news of George Michael's passing, and having to explain to the older and more tipsy members of the family the difference between George Michael and Boy George, and learning that I would not be getting the homemade yeast rolls I love so much.  What would we find in their place?  That loose hussy Sister Schubert had somehow made her way to another of my holiday functions!!!!
All was finally calm when we settled in for movie night.  It was there I discovered that like 112% of the female population, I would probably do anything The Rock asked me to.  Though he probably wouldn't ask me for much without access to hot water.
I am most thankful this year that my holiday travels are over.  That I am back to my routine. Taking hot showers in a house where the pets don't know how to open doors.  Where there are no ancient black death stairs to die on. Where I can be half Jewish all the time. Where I can watch the news in peace (sort of).  Though I notice Lester Holt is on holiday vacation.  I wonder if even he is somewhere stomping around in his old bedroom, exasperated by his mother, trying to explain to his family what he does for a living...

They put in all that CGI and I just wanted to die...

Apparently I am becoming quite the Star Wars expert for someone who started studying so late in the game.  For instance, I know that 93% of the men I will be sharing a theatre with at any showing will have split ends for days.  And of that 93%,  85% will be goateed.  And of that 85%,  37% will have fat girlfriends (probably with quirky socks).  The remaining 48% will still be clinging to the commemorative popcorn tins.
I'm also learning that things would be a lot easier if they could've just released these movies in the proper fucking order.  So without further ado--the latest edition of WGW's Star Wars Cliffsnotes...

Rogue One

This one basically follows the same formula as the others--strong willed woman eventually develops a soft spot for some asshole she hates. Tavern scene.  Cheeky robot has all the good comebacks. Only all the creatures look a lot more like venereal disease in this one.
Forest Whitaker clomps and wheezes all around like somebody's halfway house Gramps.
Blind Bruce Lee tries to save Aleppo.
The kid from 'The Night Of' flies everyone in to Vietnam.
Darth Vader is mean.
Pocket protectors are in full effect on all the important uniforms. Is this the case in all of them?  I've never noticed them before.  I guess it takes one under Jimmy Smits' chin for me to pay attention.  Anyway, if I see this look start creeping up on fall runways-I'm out.
And no spoilers--but if you've seen the first one from back when Carrie Fisher and Harrison Ford were boffing (which is now technically the fifth one...again, nerd is a serious requirement here) then you pretty much know how it ends.


There. I just saved you two and half hours you could be using on holiday festivities.  It's a public service, really.

I feel so broke up, I wanna go home...

Road Trip 2016.  Part Six.  L'aventure Finale.


It's been a while and I realize I never did share the last leg of my summer New England road trip.  This only proves two of my most repeated character flaws--1. I have some surface commitment issues, and 2. I never have known when to end a story.  But at the time I had so wanted to let it be known that there are no gentlemen in Connecticut.
We made it to Mystic just as the sun was going down, learning there were only three motels within town limits.  None of them being diamond properties, the first one we happened upon was the winner.  An old school place with what used to be a full service eat in restaurant.  The lobby was brand new and beautiful, until we approached the front desk.  Where we were greeted by a girl who likely looked at a lot of pictures in Mademoiselle magazine and drove a Ford Probe, but missed the prom to have a baby. With lopsided eyebrows stenciled in with greasy yellow-brown kohl pencil.  BTW-one of them was smudged as if someone had run their finger tip straight down through it.  She booked us into a double room, and outside and upstairs we went--into a damp, dark, outdated hallway topped with water-stained drop ceiling tiles.  Some of them broken.  Some of them missing altogether.  It may be the first time I ever inspected for bed bugs, including the time I stayed in a NYC hostel.  The only logical next step was to find some dinner and strategize ways to keep our bare feet off the carpet and bathtub, our bare butts off the toilet seat.
And so I found myself at Mystic Pizza looking at all things Julia Roberts and a dining room full of forty-something women who'd probably spent some time in the late 80s deciding if they were a Kat or a Daisy (nobody wants to be a JoJo)--and a few men who probably fancied themselves Charles Windsor types.  Then the waitress asked me if I would like to keep the menu and I realized she thought I was one of them.  I politely declined.
The next morning was sunny and blue. I woke up alive (lung fungus to be determined)--ready for the final leg of the trip.  The one I'd looked most forward to.  But my travel companion became unhinged no sooner than the bags made it to the car.  And she raged.  And yelled.  About everything.  About nothing. And raged some more.  The girth of it taking up so much space there was no room for argument or reason or defense strategy.  And a feeling welled up inside of me--a slow stirring mix of defeat and indifference, and an anger at having to feel it. And I knew.  That all of the giving up, giving in, going along, missing out--none of it mattered.  And never would. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was.
I never made it to the water that day.  But I experienced Mystic Pizza.  Walked through a Black Dog Boutique I could've taken a shit in.  Shuffled through a gallery tended by a man too busy to answer my question. Then we left for home.  With no photo evidence.
I've never been so caged.  Sharing 70 cubic feet of space through rush hour Bronx traffic, and the never-ending Jersey Turnpike.  With a balloon in my chest and a snake in my gut.  It's the only drive I ever took that made me feel less free.
And I deserve a do over.