Family tree, 1965

I was up late again, sitting at the computer trying to get some writing done until long after midnight. I was having a little trouble with my focus. The ideas just weren’t coming to me, probably because of the day. Even though I’m well into middle age and not at all religious, I was working on Christmas Eve — how Dickensian! I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of my rum, snickering at the image of my bulk crouching on a high wooden stool, scribbling in an enormous ledger while my breath fogged the air. But then I remembered I was playing the roles of both Scrooge and Bob Cratchit. I’d no one to blame but myself.

I had stretched and started to get up when I heard the wood floor creak behind me. How weird, I knew none of the cats were in the room with me, or thought I knew. I started to turn to look.

“Please don’t turn around. It would really be a very bad idea.”

The deep voice was stern and commanding, the voice of someone used to being obeyed. My mind racing, I considered the possibilities. The office door was in front of me. The two windows into the room both had their storm shutters down. How the hell did a burglar get in here?!

Stay calm, I told myself, just do what he says. “Okay, I’m not turning around. You are in charge. What do you want? I don’t own much other than this computer.” I hoped the tremors in my own voice weren’t too obvious.

The floor creaked again, a step closer. Oh no, I thought, he’s going to knock me out. Well, if I’m out at least I won’t have a heart attack, I guess. I closed my eyes and tensed for the blow.

“Relax, I won’t hurt you. I can’t let you see me. There is a protocol, a tradition that must be observed. Just don’t turn around. Please.”

He had an odd but subtle accent, like someone who had moved to the Midwest a long time ago, but with traces of their original language remaining. It was pleasant, really, a rather soothing sound. Against my will I found myself relaxing.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, I promise not to turn around. Just tell me what to do.”

“Do? I don’t need you to do anything, Marc. I just want to talk with you a bit. You don’t mind, do you? It’s been a while since we’ve spoken, and I could use a rest.” There was a rustling of heavy cloth, the sound of one of the many boxes sliding across the floor, and a deep sigh as he sat down.

He knew my name. Great. “Sure, um, we can talk. I like to talk. What do you want to talk about?”

Cellophane crinkled behind me, then a muffled crunch. A familiar, spicy smell filled the air. Peppermint. Now I’m not the brightest guy in the world, but by now I was starting to get a sneaking suspicion about this. “Wait, no, c’mon, seriously? You’ve got to be kidding, you’ve got to be fu—”

“Come now, Marc. Do you think I like that kind of language? I look the other way as much as I can, but it’s more difficult when people use those words right in front of me. It makes me sad, too.”

Yeah, that cinched it. I didn’t need to see the suit.

“I was checking the records the other day, and I noticed that you haven’t sent me a list for years and years and years. Why is that, Marc? You don’t want any presents? Do you really have everything you want?”

“Well, no, but I’m a grown-up now. Well, adult, anyway. If there are things I need I buy them, and if I can’t afford them then I don’t really need them. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?”

“Oh yes, yes, that’s how many people choose to do things, yes. But that isn’t part of the rules, you know. You are always allowed to ask for gifts.”

“Maybe I can ask, but who will buy them? My dad? I’m fifty years old, for— for crying out loud. Do you expect me to make out a list and address it to the North Pole?”

“You could, you know. Plenty of people do. But the letter isn’t the important part. Believing is. Isn’t there anything you want, something you know you can’t get on your own?”

“I think you have the wrong Peanuts special. The Great Pumpkin is the one about belief.”

“Still a smart-aleck, aren’t you?” he chuckled. (I don’t need to tell you what his laughter sounded like.) “No, this is about dreams and wishes and hope.” He paused, then chuckled again. “What do you want for Christmas, Marc? If you want we can skip the part where you sit on my lap.”

“Thank heavens for that!” I laughed, in spite of myself.

I could feel him looking at me, into me. “Seriously. It’s important. Tell me what you want.”

I thought of some of the material things I would like to have, the trips I would like to take, but ruled them out. I thought about the things I knew my friends needed but couldn’t afford, and the gifts that might make them smile. Then I got to the big stuff: all of the jobless people, the troops fighting overseas, my friends fighting disease.

“I guess world peace, and end to hunger, and a cure for cancer would be asking for too much, huh? Not to mention it would be an unbearable cliché.”

“So? A fat guy in a red suit isn’t a cliché? Marc, when you were a little boy, did you ever ask for a gift and not get it?”

“Don’t you know?” Silence. “Yeah, okay, of course. It happened all the time.”

“And what did you do when all the gifts were opened but there was no chemistry set under the tree?”

“It depended on the gift. If I really wanted it I’d whine to get it for my birthday, or save up my money for it. Most of the time, though, I would forget about it.”

“You were disappointed, though. Of course you were. But since it didn’t cost you anything to ask, what made you stop asking?”

Because the holiday became all about the presents, and the presents were a matter of money. But I didn’t want to say that to him, so I kept quiet.

For a few minutes we listened to the wind picking up outside the window, moving through the palm fronds.

“Why did you stop at my house? I don’t have any cookies, or milk, either. What made you decide to stop here and scare the heck out of me? I don’t get it.”

There came a deep sigh; peppermint filled the air.

“Well, you have conversations with cats, so you are obviously—”

“Crazy?”

“Let’s say receptive. And you squeaked onto the nice list this year, too. Barely.” He paused. “Besides, I thought you could use the company.”

I thought the empty house around me, sighed, and took another drink. “Yeah, okay, you have a point.”

From behind me I heard the sounds of weight shifting, and a faint jingling of bells as he stood up.

“Most people only ask for toys of one kind or another. When someone does put together a less materialistic wishlist others treat it as a joke. But tell me, what’s so terrible about asking for a happier world at Christmas?”

“Because world peace doesn’t fit in your magic pack, obviously, or someone would have gotten it by now.”

There was a jingling again. I suspect he was shaking his head. “Sometimes you don’t get a chemistry set the first time you ask for it. But if you really want it, you’ll find a way to get one. If not this year, then next year, or the year after that. You just have to want it enough to ask for it, to tell people that’s what you want.”

Weight shifted, and the floor creaked again. “If enough people ask for the same thing, it’s a lot more likely that they’ll get it.” He laughed aloud. “Except for those new dolls. There are never enough of them. I can’t figure it out.”

A heavy, gloved hand settled gently on my shoulder. He spoke quietly. “Keep wishing for things that make you happy: big or small, simple or complicated, personal or for everyone. Everyone deserves presents, Marc. And I’ve given you something I know you need right now.”

As the scent of peppermint faded from the room I turned to look, but there was no package, no stocking, nothing at all to indicate that he had even been here. It didn’t hit me until I stood up to refill my glass. “Well, of course. What else?” I said to the empty room. I may not have asked for it, but he gave me something I really need right now.

He gave me hope, enough to share.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays, friends. May you get everything you ask for, and more.

[This story first appeared in December, 2009. We hope you have enjoyed this "encore presentation," or if you prefer, a Hidden City Holiday Classic.]

Share/Bookmark

Image via jspad on Flickr

It was the end of December, and something was missing.

I wasn’t the only one who’d felt the absence. Several friends had mentioned the lack of that special December-y something in the air. I’d initially chalked it up to the lousy economy, but even the people I knew who still had money noticed it. The jaunty sleigh-bell tunes were tinny, the sonorous hymns flat, the winter wonderlands dismal and grey. Clearly something was wrong.

Not having anything else on my schedule, I decided to go looking for the elusive holiday spirit. How hard could it be to find it? I mean, like the song says, it’s the most wonderful time of the year. How do you camouflage that?

I found traces of it here and there. Even though the donations were smaller, people were still giving to help the needy. Every now and then I’d come across a new piece of holiday music that wasn’t just cashing in on the season. A waitress at a regular joint threw in a free piece of pie with a wink and a “Merry Christmas.” But still it was nothing on the scale I’d usually see.

So I wrote off 2010 and gave up, heading to a blues joint for a glass of holiday cheer of my own.

That’s where I found him. I can’t tell you how I recognized him. I’m a storyteller. You just get a feeling for these things. But there he was, slouched at the bar. He was drunk.

I sat down on the barstool next to him, in a miasma of peppermint fumes. “Shouldn’t you be out there spreading cheer or good will to men something? What are you doing?”

He turned toward me. He was younger than I would have guessed, late thirties or early forties, close-cropped black hair, sallow complexion, sharp nose and chin, wiry build, in a red leather trench coat and green t-shirt — the kind of guy that finishes fights someone else starts, and with that coat in this kind of bar, he’s used to the fights. He glared at me through eyes like polished coal.

“I would tell you where to shove your goodwill but you might like it.” His accent was vaguely British, clipped, with a lot of travel mixed in. “Why do you care, anyway?” He reached across the battlefield of empty shot glasses for his beer.

I shrugged and ordered a drink of my own. “This year sucked. I was hoping for a little cheer to taken the edge off all the disappointment. You know. It’s traditional.”

He glared at me over his glass. “Traditional, is it? What do you know about tradition, anyway?”

“I know enough to recognize you.”

At that he paused, staring into space for a moment, then shrugged. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you in here getting drunk on peppermint schnapps and beer—”

“Cider, thank you very much!”

“—cider, when you are supposed to be easing the burden of a weary world?”

“Easing the— Do you really talk like that? Hell, do you believe that!?” He leaned over to me and dramatically sniffed. “Sure you aren’t the one who’s blotto?”

I tried not to roll my eyes, and I may have succeeded.

“Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass this job can be? This isn’t one of the cushy, straightforward gigs, like the one the fat man scored.” He tossed back another shot of schnapps. “What a joy that would be, having a clear mandate. Fly around the world in a night bringing toys to kids, everybody loves you. Even when they don’t get what they want they don’t stay pissed for long because hey, everyone’s relieved they weren’t on the ‘other list.’

“Or the old man with the hourglass. Yeah, that’s rough, huh, ooh, yeah? No one pays any attention to you until the last couple of days, then the champagne corks fly and there are fireworks and people kiss and you get turned back into a baby! I mean what the hell? That’s a job?”

“Well, there are the resolutions…”

“Oh, that’s a load of crap. No one takes them seriously. The days of sober reflection of the year gone by are over. Now it’s all top ten pop culture lists and dropping some talentless pseudo-celebrity off a tower. The old geezer in the top hat doesn’t even notice.”

“I can see your point.” I wasn’t sure I did, really, but I didn’t want to rile him up more than he already was. “But what about… you know. Him.”

He stared at me for several seconds. “Let’s not go there, okay? He’s a nice enough guy, and has good intentions, but his followers think they own the season. They’re a big part of the problem. Hey!” He threw back another shot and slammed the glass down on the bar, then turned toward the bartender. “I’m running low over here.”

The apparently unflappable barman was at the end of the bar chatting with another customer, a set of ridiculous felt reindeer antlers perched on his head. He cleared away the legion of glassware with a wry smile, wiped down the sticky residue, and began setting up a new rank of soldiers.

“What do you mean, they’re the problem?”

“A bunch of the big guy’s followers are getting their knickers in a twist over people saying ‘Happy Holidays’ instead of ‘Merry Christmas.’ It’s pretty stupid, really, but that crowd thinks they run the world, anyway. I’m going around spreading holiday cheer, and some uptight, insecure little douche bag says that somehow people are using me to declare war on their faith. There are wankers all over the world killing each other over religion, but somehow someone saying ‘Happy Holidays!’ is the bleeding problem?”

Two freshly emptied glasses hit the wood counter in quick succession, followed by a relatively discreet belch.

“So if you don’t handle Christmas or New Years, what exactly is your part in the season?”

He paused while the barman filled the glasses, then poured another cider. When the antlers pointed in my direction I waved them off.

“Look, around here the fat man gets most of the attention, followed by the carpenter. Mammon’s numbers are way up there, too.”

“Mammon?”

“God of money. America’s number one religion with a bullet, as you say. But those three are just the big guns. There are plenty of other people people celebrating different holidays in different ways. You got your Yulies, your neo-pagans, traditional pagans, and modern druids, but they tend to be fat middle-aged men in brown polyester robes trying to score with hippie chicks. (It’s an English thing, I guess.) And to make it all worse, when the lunar calendar ends up in the right place you can end up with Chanukah and Eid al-Adha in there, too. Jews, Christians, Muslims, crystal-waving solstice types — all tossing around greetings and stepping on each others’ toes. It’s my job to do what I can to let the year close out on a high note, by finding a common ground.”

I sipped my rum as he rambled. He was getting more animated as he started to veer toward a full-blown rant, but fortunately, the jukebox started playing Charles Brown’s “Please Come Home for Christmas,” and the mellow backbeat seemed to calm him down.

“I just get so bloody tired, you know?” He slid down a bit further on his elbows. If it isn’t the Holier-Than-Thous badmouthing me for self-serving political purposes it’s the merchants and money-lenders exhorting people to spend beyond their means in the name of a tradition that didn’t even exist a century ago. And that leaves desperate charities using the season to beg for more money for their causes, when the people most likely to give are those who can afford it least. It’s enough to drive a guy to drink.”

He lifted the last shot. “Speaking of drink, cheers!” He knocked it back, only spilling a little, and only wobbling a bit more.

I took another sip of my drink and decided to make my move. “So you’re quitting, then? You’re done with the whole Holiday Spirit business? You’re going to leave us on our own?”

He paused, glass halfway to his mouth, and looked sideways at me. “I didn’t say that now, did I?”

“Well, I think you should. Frankly, as nasty as people can be, I still think we deserve more than a half-assed self-pitying excuse for a spirit.” He snorted and threw back another.

“No, pay attention to me. I think you owe me that much. Have you looked around lately? You know how bad things are these days, particularly in America. There’s damned little hope in the world, and everywhere we look it’s all violence and hatred.”

“It’s been that way forever. What’s your point?”

“My point is that it hasn’t been this bad forever. It’s a unique situation right now that’s emphasizing our differences and hiding our common bonds. This season — religious or secular — has traditionally brought us together, given us a reason to hold out hope that maybe next year will be better. This year, though, the spirit’s deserted us. You have deserted us, and why? Because some shallow, mean-spirited, materialistic people have made your job harder than usual? Because some self-righteous religious types have tried to co-opt an ancient tradition? Because of politics?! Really, that’s it? Well, boo hoo, boo hoo.”

“Hey, c’mon, don’t be a jerk about it, be nice!” He was starting to whine. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like…”

“I’m sorry, that’s crap. I know very well what it’s like to have people deliberately misrepresent you, who hate you, who wish you were dead. I know what it’s like to have a price-sticker put on the value of your life, and have people think you deserve to die if you can’t pay it. And you know, I don’t have that advantage of being immortal, either, unlike some people I could name.”

He stared at the bottom of his glass for a moment, a hangdog look on his face. I softened my approach.

“Look, I know something about how these things work. You wouldn’t have this job if you couldn’t do it. No, it isn’t as flashy as some, and no, you don’t get the recognition you deserve. But there are a lot of us out here, a lot of people who depend on your efforts to get us through December. More than usual, this year.”

“Besides, you don’t impress me as the kind of guy who gives up without a fight.”

He perked up a bit at that, and a wry grin curled his lips.

“You aren’t wrong, my friend, you are not wrong. Hey, Jose?” The bartender came over.

The man in the red trench coat stood up without a hint of unsteadiness and patted down his pockets. After a minute’s searching he took out a large silver coin and a sprig of holly, complete with red berries. He slid the coin across the counter.

I couldn’t see what kind of coin it was, but when Jose picked it up he took off the antlers and said with real sincerity,” Hey, thanks, buddy, I appreciate that!”

He then turned to me and shook out his long arms, then cracked his neck audibly. “Ah, well, I’m feeling a bit better now. There are still a couple of days left to try and spread a little joy, too. Let’s see what we can accomplish.”

I tensed up. “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

He reached over and pinned the holly to my lapel, smiling wickedly. “What, you think I do this by myself? It’s a team effort, chum. I may start things rolling, but it’s up to you people to share it. Consider yourself a Deputy Holiday Spirit.”

“Me? Wait, what am I supposed to do? I hardly ever leave the house these days!”

He rolled his eyes, but with humor. “What do you think? It’s the twenty-first century: use the Internet. Tell the sodding story!”

He opened the door into the cool evening air and took a deep breath. “And also, you know? Thanks for making the effort to hunt me down. I appreciate it.”

I fingered the points on the holly leaves. Beats a tin star, I suppose.

I called out to him, raising my glass. “Hey, happy holidays!”

He shook his head and laughed as he walked into the night.

And happy holidays to you, too.

[Note: This story originally appeared on Hidden City on December 24, 2010. We hope you enjoyed this "encore presentation," as they say.]

Share/Bookmark

Moving from South Florida to the DC/Maryland/Virginia area involves a bit of culture shock. Following are a few of the areas where I’ve had to adjust. These are just my initial impressions, so salt them as heavily as you’d like.

Autumn trees, Maryland

Geography

• When you break it down, nothing is straightforward here, least of all the roads. Everything curves and twists, moving through odd arcs and angles: up, down, left, right, and every variation between.
• There isn’t any street grid (except in DC itself). Particularly in Maryland, the streets curve back on themselves with reckless abandon. I can’t prove it, but I am fairly certain I went through an intersection where a road crossed itself.
• This twisty pattern is further complicated by these things called “hills.” I would try to explain it for the education of native Miamians, but I suspect their brains won’t be able to grasp the concept of higher elevation without being in a condominium. Everything is above sea level. I think the sea is above sea level.
• The cities are spread out across land, rather than running from one right into the next. Paradoxically, you can drive through several states in the time it would take to get from South beach to Boca Raton. Since moving here I’ve been to Maryland, DC, Virginia, and West Virginia, and I’ve been a comparative homebody.

Winter yard

Environment

• Bear in mind that I’ve only been here through the end of summer, fall, and the start of winter, I’m sure this will change.
• One of the first things I noticed is how green the land is. As weird as it sounds, there is more access to nature here than in all of South Florida. It brings home what my British friend said on her visit last year: Miami smells like concrete. There nature is something you use to sell condos; here, nature is built into the culture.
• Seasons aren’t defined by the arrival of northern tourists. You can see the passage of time all around you.
• The sun sets at 3:30pm and doesn’t rise until around 10am, but I hear that varies by time of year. Again, it isn’t always the same! How do they cope with all this change?
• The humidity ranges from “Did I fall in a creek and not notice?” to “Hang on, I need to patch the cracks in my face.” This can be disconcerting.
• This leads to something I had only heard about on television commercials: static cling so severe that two pairs of slacks and three polo shirts can be removed from the dryer with two fingers.
• There are corner bodegas older than Miami. History is respected and honored, not paved over for a new mall.

Sunset over the Potomac

Food & Culture

• Many people are multilingual, although relatively few speak Spanish only. With the extremely large Ethiopian community, you’d think I’d hear plenty of Amharic, but they all speak English, too.
• “Spanish” isn’t a synonym for “Cuban” here, even among ignorant Anglos. In fact, Cuba is generally seen as just another Caribbean nation, not the center of the universe. Interestingly, from this direction, Canada is located between DC and Havana.
• I haven’t found a place to get a cafecito or some masas de puerco yet, but delicious pho and wat are everywhere. In fact, by comparison, Miami’s culinary options are positively provincial.
• Being an intellectual isn’t automatic grounds for mockery, perhaps because intellectuals are in the majority (in spite of the presence of Congress).
• There’s a baseball team which is actually admired by the locals, perhaps because it doesn’t sell off its best players every year. I can’t tell you if they are any good, but how well they are playing doesn’t affect the amount of support they get, unlike Miami, which only supports teams when they are winning.
• People wear clothes in public, even when they are going out to clubs. I wondered why the women looked odd to me, but then I realized I hadn’t seen a bare midriff since I arrived.
• Did you know breast implants come in cup sizes smaller than DD? I’ve seen occasional ads for plastic surgeons, so I’m sure someone’s buying them, but I have yet to see a woman displaying a prow ready to be christened with a bottle of champagne. As opposed to, well, basically all of Miami.
• Just as in Miami, many people take themselves far too seriously. However, instead of arrogance based on cosmetic surgery and national origin, locals get snooty over job titles and living in the right neighborhood.

The single biggest difference between the areas, though, is their attitudes toward change. Miami is a young region — America’s obnoxious teenage daughter with her daddy’s Platinum AmEx — and still doesn’t know what it wants to be when it grows up. Most of its energy is focused on the ephemeral and superficial, and it turns up its nose at the past the way a kid rolls her eyes at her parents. But it is filled with creative potential, and once it stops staring into the mirror it will be a creative powerhouse.

Conversely, DC is a moderately successful middle-aged white guy who thinks he has it all figured out, as long as no one changes things around on him. There’s a reverence for the past, but it’s so comfortable with the status quo it has developed an unfortunate tendency to resist change. Regardless of what you might hear, Washington is extremely conservative: even the liberals are skeptical of anything too radical. However, it’s adult enough to recognize the value in progress. And when it takes off its Brooks Brothers suit for a while it knows how to shake things up. Remember, 1980s Washington was the birthplace of the hardcore punk movement.

In the end, though, maybe it’s the weather. In DC seasons change, leaves fall all around us, constant reminders of the inexorable passage of time. In Miami, nothing really changes, so tomorrow never comes; it’s always summer vacation.

Share/Bookmark

“You should never apologize for your failure to post on a regular basis,” I am told. Yes, but… well, I’m told a lot of shit I don’t believe, generally by people who are paid to fill conversational dead air with their alleged wisdom.

So, sorry for the unconscionable gap in updates. There are reasons (of course), falling into two categories: either they aren’t terribly interesting to people who are not me, or they are too personal to share here. “Too personal?” I hear you say. “You are the poster child for oversharing!” I can’t argue with that charge, but that needed to change for a while. I hope regular updates will begin again soon, but no promises.

For those of you who know me — either in person, or as distant friends — I have an offer. From time to time I will be writing updates of a more personal nature, things which should probably avoid Google’s watchful eye. If you’d like to receive this updates via the ancient technique known as electronic mail, then you can sign up here.

Finally, as has become one of my two Thanksgiving traditions, here is this year’s edition of my cranberry relish/sauce recipe. It’s pretty tasty, if I say so myself. If you try it out, let me know what you think.

Cranberries 2011

Ingredients

• 3 bags fresh cranberries
• 3 cups dark brown sugar
• 3 cups water
• 1 Tbsp orange zest (I used tangerine)
• 4 Tbsp finely diced ginger root
• 5 cinnamon sticks
• a dozen whole cloves
• 1 cup dark rum (This year I used Kraken Spiced Rum)

Instructions

• Add brown sugar, water, cinnamon sticks, and 1/2 cup rum in a stock pot with lid.
• Put cloves in a tea ball and hang in pot.
• Bring pot to a full boil.
• Add cranberries, stir well, then let the pot return to a boil.
• Add orange zest, diced ginger, and remaining rum.
• Stir again while waiting for it to return to a boil one more time.
• Reduce heat, cover the pot, and let it simmer for 5-10 minutes.
• Turn off the heat, take off the lid, and move it to a cool burner.
• Allow to cool to room temperature, which will let it thicken.
• Once cool, remove the tea ball/cloves and cinnamon sticks.
• Put into a bowl with a tight lid and refrigerate until time to serve.

Notes

1. I ended up doubling the ginger root, since the piece I bought was rather wimpy, flavor-wise.
2. If you like you can replace half the water with orange juice, but you might want to reduce the sugar a little.
3. It makes an amazing topping for vanilla ice cream, and while I haven’t tried it, I bet it would work pretty well on waffles, too.
4. This year’s recipe is dedicated to Shark Girl, aka Amanda Stewart. I really wish I’d spent more time with her before leaving Florida.

Share/Bookmark

In May of 1998 I made my first trip to NYC, in the company of my friend, Diana. It was a very short trip, just a couple of days, so there wasn’t time to see much more than a couple of landmarks. I fought my acrophobia enough to go to the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

To my surprise, I liked being up there, and took several photos on my crappy disposable camera. I would probably have taken more, but this was pre-digital, and I was cheap.

Later, we took the ferry to Ellis Island. During the transit, Diana pointed out the towers, and suggested that maybe we should head there next, as I might like to take some pictures from the other end of the island, too. I was a little nervous about going up still higher, but I liked the idea.

By the time we’d finished touring the Ellis Island memorial, though, I was physically and emotionally exhausted, and begged off.

“I mean, this won’t be my only trip to New York, and it isn’t as though the towers are going anywhere, right?”

May, 1998

Share/Bookmark

I knew I’d face various unanticipated difficulties in moving out of state after decades living in South Florida. However, I didn’t foresee this: Some very kind people and good friends have arranged a public going-away party for me on this Saturday, August 20th. To be honest, I’m a bit uncomfortable writing about it. Inviting people to a party in my honor feels — well, pompous and self-aggrandizing. It’s not the way I was raised; I’m kind of old-fashioned like that (and in no other significant way). Still, a couple of people have remarked on my failure to promote the event, one even asking if I was actually planning to attend. Hence this (vaguely creepy to me) post. So, to make it official:

Marc Kevin Hall
(aka @mkhall, aka “that Hidden City guy”)
in his last public appearance in South Florida!

One Day Only!

Saturday, August 20, 2011, 4–11:30pm!

Carrabba’s Italian Grill
3921 Collins Avenue
Miami Beach FL

Requests for autographs will be closely inspected for sarcasm.

RSVP via Tweetvite or Facebook, or just show up.
(I mean, it’s a public venue.)

I’ve had the pleasure of meeting many members of South Florida’s digital community over the years. If you are so moved, I’d love to see you again before I sail into the West move to DC. And if we’ve not yet had the chance to meet, this would be a great time to do so. There are many local people with whom I wish I’d had the opportunity share a frosty tropical beverage.

My thanks to Miguel Lopez, Maria De Los Angeles, and Jami Reyes for putting this together. I may be embarrassed by the attention, but I am even more grateful for their friendship.

I hope to see you Saturday.

Share/Bookmark

1992 notes on Hurricane Andrew

I was living with my wife in a Plantation apartment when Hurricane Andrew struck. I believe it was Marie’s first hurricane, and while I had been through several tropical storms during my twenty-two years in South Florida, it might as well have been my first, too.

This comes to mind because I recently discovered a small group of torn-loose steno pages in a dusty manila folder. The day prior to projected landfall I had started scribbling down some notes for some reason. Since this was years before the founding of Hidden City, I can only assume it was for possible use in my ‘zine of the time, Ambergris From Leviathan, but in truth I have no idea. Maybe I was writing myself past the fear. I do that.

It’s a bit premature, I know, but for your possible amusement I’ve transcribed the notes as is. Again, these are from August 23 and 24, 1992.

I guess I should start this before things get too weird.

I first heard about the hurricane on Friday, I guess, on national news (NPR). I didn’t pay much attention to it, because it had been a hellish week at work, and I was too brain-dead to notice much. On Saturday Tucker made a joke about it, and Tanya took Marie “hurricane shopping” with her.

When I got up this morning, there was news on the TV about it heading dead for us, with no chance of petering out. I went to the office to shut down the computers and phones. On the way to the ATM to get cash, I gave a ride to an elderly man I saw walking along.

His name was Sam, and he was heading to church. He had lived through several hurricanes himself, but seemed cautiously confident.

We decided to go to my parents’ house, and dismantled our apartment. I took all our photos and financial records and put them in boxes, along with all my diskettes and copies of AFL. We called the insurance company, and we are covered for $20,700. Marie said she had the REM song “It’s the End of the World, as We Know it” playing in her head.

Custer [our cat] has not taken well to the new quarters. My mother has three cats here (all bullies), plus she has taken in two neighborhood cats. As soon as Custer got out of the carrier, she rqan under a cabinet, and refuses to come out. I am very worried about her.

I have been (predictably) thinking about my mortality today. I have done a lot of evil things in my life, which I won’t ever atone for. The last few years I have tried to be a better person, as much as I can be. But maybe this is the end? I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.

The scariest thing about this hurricane is that for all the preparations my father and I have made, we could still be killed by the roof coming off the house. Nothing we can do about it, and it isn’t likely. There are also some windows int he house — facing a well-protected entranceway — which do not have shutters. We could lose one of those window, and get some very scary results. But it should be okay.

I have also had a lot of thoughts for friends in dangerous areas. Millie and Al live in the first evacuation area, but when I called at 10am, I got their machine. I hope they are okay. Also my friend Otto, and Bebbie and Ronnie, who just moved to Kendall.

The saving grace of having to watch all the TV coverage has been Brian Norcross, Channel 4 weatherman. He has taken a no-bullshit attitude, calling people who won’t evacuate “plain stupid.”

It is strange being in my parents’ house. I took a shower in my old bathroom, and we’ll be sleeping in my old room. No hurricane party here, though. We have things to drink, and I brought a bottle of Courvoisier from the apartment (for medicinal purposes, of course), and ‘Rie brought Wild Turkey.

—–

5:00 AM: Woke up when A/C went off. Still just like a real bad thunderstorm. We have finally gotten Custer to come out — okay, she came out on her own, and we left her alone until she had calmed down some — and into my old bedroom. Marie & I slept for a while, but once it really kicked in, I wanted to get up and write this. Bryan Norcross and Channel 4 miraculously stayed on the air, radio and TV both. The National Hurricane Center was hit by a gust of wind at 164 mph, and their radar unit was wiped out completely.

6:40 AM: We should be getting the worst of it in the next couple of hours. Custer is terrified, mewing and panting. (It is starting to get hot and stuffy.) The odd thin is that we discovered that she is afraid of the dark. While the light is on she is scared but okay. When I turn it off, though, she immediately starts to cry.

I made an error earlier. I convinced Custer to come into the bedroom with us, which would have been okay save for one thing: the room faces the entranceway, and has a wall of unprotected windows. I don’t want to risk her staying in that room and sitting on the wondowsill, so I took out her litter box, bowl, and water, and put them in the hall right outside the door. She seems to be doing better now, though.

6:55 AM: The sun is theoretically coming up. It is getting a little lighter outside, and has the gray-violet look of a severe storm. The winds come and go.

Brian is still going. The reports are interesting — rumors of disasters, reporters trapped in cars, talking on cellular phones. Now they say we might get off relatively easy. We shall see.

7:18 AM: Went outside with my father. His carambola tree was wiped out by the neighbors’ black olive, which was overgrown and lost its top. On this street there are a few dead trees strewn about, but it doesn’t look too bad. Then again, it isn’t over yet.

Hurricane Andrew at landfall

The notes abruptly end. Of course the storm turned south, leaving Plantation and Fort Lauderdale relatively unharmed while devastating southern Dade County. Our apartment suffered a bit of water damage due to a leaky roof, but was otherwise unscathed.  I can’t say the same for many other friends.

This is probably why I never continued. In my life I observe the events around me, both to keep myself fully in the moment and then to lock down details in case it should prove a good topic for an essay. Sometimes, though, it doesn’t work out that way, because it just wasn’t that interesting, or I can’t find a handle on the story, or, sometimes, because my observations seem so small, so petty, in the enormity of the total event.

Nineteen years later I remember the building fear all too well. But I also remember the relief when we were spared the brunt of the storm, and the tremendous guilt I felt over that relief when the extent of the impact became known. Since Andrew I have taken storms seriously, very seriously. Right now my pantry has a good stock of canned tuna and saltines, and I know my evacuation plans and routes by heart.

I also spent a lot of time with my ex-employer’s emergency operations center, working on business continuity plans and disaster preparedness. Sure, a lot of that focus was on helping the company survive a disaster, but even when management’s focus was elsewhere, I devoted my energy to doing what I could to provide systems and services to help the afflicted employees and their families, when a storm struck. It was the right thing to do, of course, but it also helped me atone in a small way for my relief at avoiding Andrew’s wrath.

Share/Bookmark

Miami is not my favorite place in the world.

This should not come as a surprise to long-time readers of Hidden City, and cannot possibly be surprising to those who know me personally. My tendency to sweat any time the temperature rises above 70° F is legendary, as are my complaints about it. At one time I even considered using the tagline, “Bitching about the Miami heat for over forty years,” but realized that people might get the idea I care about basketball.

A reasonable person might ask why I haven’t moved away, if I hate it so much. In fact, a good number of reasonable people — and a few unreasonable people — have done just that. The answer, though, is a bit complicated.

(I doubt that comes as a surprise to anyone, either.)

Carbondale, Illinois, 1960

I was born in Paducah, Kentucky. My parents were living in Carbondale, Illinois, at the time. (These things happen.) Sometimes I wonder if this discontinuity between birthplace and first home — coupled with the frequent trips back and forth between the two to visit my grandparents — is the root cause of my lack of passion regarding place. Most other people feel a strong tie to their country of origin, their city of birth, or even where they have chosen to live; I never have. Oh sure, when people ask I tell them I’m from Kentucky, that my family’s heritage is Irish (mostly), but I’ve never lived in the former, and never been to the latter. As far as where I’ve chosen to live, well, so far I haven’t.

For the first few years of my life we moved around various towns in the Southern Illinois area, eventually ending up back in Carbondale, where we owned our first home. It was a brand new place in a new subdivision, with a bay window in the living room for my mother to decorate, and empty lot behind clearly intended to get young boys filthy. Once there we settled in. I made real friends, began to understand the world around me, and at age ten I even fell in love. This was the universe’s cue have my father transferred to Florida.

In August of 1970 we moved into an older home in the older community of Plantation. There was no bay window for my mother, only turquoise cabinets and terrazzo floors. And while there was plenty of sand and dirt for us to play in, there were also fire ants and sand spurs to keep us from having too much fun. My father was good at his job, though, and eventually we were able to make a good home of the place, even if my mother never did get over the loss of her bay window.

Excepting my brief stint away at college, I lived in that house until I’d left my teenage years behind. When I moved into my own place — a one room efficiency near Fort Lauderdale Airport — I stayed there for years, even through having two roommates. Friends would ask me why I didn’t move into a larger place, but it just didn’t matter enough for me to make the effort.

Plantation, 1972

Eventually the building was sold, and I was forced to move. There followed a rather chaotic period of sudden relocations, tragic circumstances, and even a (thankfully brief) period of homelessness. When the dust settled I’d moved through more South Florida communities — Miramar, Hollywood, Hallandale — before landing with my eventual wife in Plantation again. I stayed in that apartment for many years, until my separation forced another move, this one taking me out of Broward County and into the wilds of Miami.

I’ve lived in this small house in a slice of unincorporated Miami-Dade County for more than a decade, the longest I’ve ever lived in a single place. I’ve lived here through my divorce, hurricanes, burglaries, deaths, and being laid off from the longest term job I’ve ever had. You would think that if I was going to form an attachment to a place, it would be this one.

I haven’t.

In truth, the only place so far to which I’ve developed a strong sense of place is the Internet. Since childhood I’ve lived largely in my mind: reading stories, telling tales, puzzling out people and the world (and myself) from the relative safety of my skull. I’m attached to my stuff, sure — often too attached, if I’m to be honest — but the most important items I own, the tools I use to live in the world, are all inside me. The Internet gave me a place to store those tools and memories, a place to form friendships which won’t end due to an unexpected move, a world to explore: a place to live.

Today, it’s as close to a home as I have found.

Miami-Dade County, 2003

So again, if the things most important to me are intangible, and I don’t have any particular attachment to the area, why do I stay? Why keep whining about the blistering summer sun? Why stay in a region dominated by politicians who aren’t just corrupt, but are arrogantly corrupt? Why stay in a place which — while improving culturally — has little to offer my admittedly esoteric taste? Why stay in a place where the state’s leadership is committed to besting Arizona for the title of “Batshit Craziest Legislators in America”? Why stay in the worst urban job market in the nation, when the state’s prospects continue to trend downward?

I’d have to be stupid to stay.

There are good reasons. I know my way around South Florida, both geographically and culturally. People I love and care about are here, including my father and brother and sister in law. My cats are here and my stuff is here. My history is here. And yes: Moving is insanely difficult, and expensive, and a lot of work, and more than a little bit scary, even at this age. Especially at this age.

I’d have to be stupid to leave.

This is a dilemma.

These last two years I’ve had a lot of time to think, perhaps too much time. Over and over I’ve been counseled to get out of Florida for professional reasons; over and over I’ve stayed put, certain that things would work themselves out in the end. Eventually it became obvious — even to me — that the reasons to stay were becoming outweighed by the reasons to go. In the end I came to wonder: Have I become too old and lazy and frightened to save myself?

“Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it,” or so the saying goes. Well, at the end of August, nearly forty-one years to the day after I moved here, I’m going to stop bitching about the Florida weather.

I’m going to start bitching about the weather in Washington, DC.

Share/Bookmark

If you are a regular reader of Hidden City you already know that comic books — or graphic novels, if you prefer — are a form, not a genre. I can no more tell you all about comics in one essay than I could tell you everything you need to know about novels in two thousand words. Nonetheless, should you still harbor the belief that good stories and serious themes only work with words alone, read on.

Batman 80-Page Giant, 1966

I remember my first comic quite clearly. My parents had left me with a babysitter for the first time, so they could go hear Ike and Tina Turner perform somewhere in southern Illinois. When they came home they gave me a Batman comic, a ridiculous 80-page monstrosity prominently featuring the Caped Crusader in a rainbow striped costume. They probably bought it because the classic camp TV show was just starting to air. The gadgets, the mad villains, the friendship between the heroes — it all combined into a world where the impossible was merely improbable, evil was overcome, and where brains were as important as brawn. I read that book until it disintegrated.

Swamp Thing #1, art by Berni Wrightson

Still, I didn’t make the immediate leap into comics fandom. My next exposure came during our regular trips to my hometown to visit the rest of my relatives. During our stay we’d often go to a used book store downtown which featured boxes and boxes of beat up old comics. You would get a paper grocery bag and fill it, walking out with a summer’s worth of reading for less than a dollar. That’s how I first learned of an entire universe of four-color adventures, from Superman to Ghostly Tales, Magnus: Robot Fighter to Nick Fury: Agent of Shield. And while Marvel characters like Spider-Man and the Fantastic Four fascinated me, I was frustrated by the serial nature of their stories. Getting my comics used meant I’d end up with part two of a three-part story, and never find the other issues. Other comic books contained one or two complete stories, so they earned my loyalty.

Heavy Metal illustration by Moebius

Those bags of comics carried me through the our family’s move to Florida in 1970, in part because I didn’t really know where else to get them. I wasn’t the kind of kid who rode his bike all over town, buying grape Nehi and swiping comics off of drugstore spinners. The first I heard of those once ubiquitous newsstand racks was when I got sick. My father had taken me to the doctor, and afterward we stopped at the pharmacy to get my medication. While we waited I roamed the store, bored, until something purple and green caught my eye, some kind of swamp creature. Being new to Florida and generally alienated from society, as precocious pre-teens tend to be, I felt a certain kinship with this poor scientist-turned-monster. I started hunting down new issues on a regular basis, picking up a few others along the way. Still, it didn’t last. They were too hard to find.

The Dark Knight Returns, Frank Miller

After I left college I was exposed to the underground comics scene, primarily through a few friends who wanted to be the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers when they grew up (if they grew up). When the animated film Heavy Metal hit the theaters I went out of my way to look for issues of the comic. My mind was blown. These weren’t monsters or superheroes or TV characters — these characters were naked. In space. Having sex. Speaking French. Sometimes all at the same time! (Like jazz, comics have always been better respected in Japan and Europe than in the nation which created the form.)  The stories were smarter, the art wildly different, and raw imagination dripped from each page. I was an immediate fan, but still not a collector.

Black Orchid, art by Dave McKean

When I learned that there was a new Swamp Thing comic series I found a local shop and picked up a copy, striking a friendship with the owner. Through conversations with him, and with the other customers, I learned more than I could have guessed about the form. At first I promised myself I wasn’t going to get sucked into it, that I’d keep my collection to just a few titles. That didn’t last. Soon comics had become a hobby, and a few years later the hobby became a job when I took over management of the shop. That job, incidentally, introduced me to my wife, who worked for the same chain of stores.

Maus, by Art Spiegelman

The ’80s were a tumultuous period in comics. America finally started to catch up with the rest of the world, expanding the stories told beyond superpowers and into much more accessible realms. Desktop publishing and the advent of cheap black and white printing led to an explosion of new publishers, while the wholly unexpected breakthrough success of the independently-produced Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comic sucked financial speculators into the naive and insular comics world. Meanwhile a new British invasion was underway, spearheaded by a mad writer named Alan Moore, who had begun the process of deconstructing the adolescent power fantasies of spandex-clad heroes, twisting them into more realistic — if thoroughly unpleasant — forms. This trend toward “grim and gritty” heroes saw the publication of its two best-known and best-written examples, Alan Moore and Dave Gibbon’s Watchmen, and Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, standing above a host of crude and brutal trash. By the decade’s end the explosion had imploded, nearly taking the entire industry with it.

Omaha the Cat Dancer #2, art by Reed Waller

Still, the genie was out of the bottle, and the public finally discovered the diversity in the form. A handful of my favorites from the era include Reed Waller and Kate Worley’s remarkably moving and sexually explicit character drama Omaha the Cat Dancer, Gilbert and Jamie Hernandez’s groundbreaking punk/scifi/magic realist Love and Rockets, Arn Saba’s innocent and joyous musical comedy Neil the Horse, Larry Marder’s inexplicable Beanworld comics, and Will Eisner’s memoirs of life in ’30s New York’s immigrant communities, starting with proto-graphic novel, A Contract With God. There are so many more I could name, without even leaving the 20th Century. The superheroes still ruled the publishers, though, and even the journalists reporting on comics indulged in cheap “Bam! Pow! Comics for adults!” headlines.

A Contract With God, art by Will Eisner

I separated from comics (and my wife) around the turn of the millennium. Moving to Miami put me out of range of my usual shop, and I had a difficult time finding a local shop that stocked the less mainstream titles I loved. Comics had become more expensive, too, and new budgetary restrictions ate into my discretionary spending, anyway. I went to movies and read books, but I missed the unique combination of words and pictures which can — in the hands of gifted storytellers — make the form so moving and immersive.

By the time my situation had stabilized the form had made sufficient inroads into the intelligentsia that a hierarchy of “acceptable” creators had emerged. Reading Batman was still declassé, but Art Spiegelman’s holocaust memoir Maus was required reading. There’s no better sign of a new form’s acceptance into the rarified atmosphere of Art than the emergence of taste-makers to divide work into the divergent ghettos of literature and entertainment. Creators like Alison Bechtel, Chris Ware, Marjane Satrapi, and Daniel Clowes are welcomed among the smart set, while other, equally brilliant writers such as Grant Morrison, Warren Ellis, and Neil Gaiman are mere entertainers.

Watchmen #1, art by Dave Gibbons

On the opposite end of the spectrum, the film industry has discovered comics, too. The two major publishers, Marvel and DC, are owned by Disney and Warner Brothers, respectively. The interest is primarily centered around the use of effects laden superhero slugfests as summer tentpole movies, moving the parent companies to see their publishing arms as testing grounds for new ideas. Compared to the cost of a blockbuster, keeping a stable of writers, artists, and editors on the payroll is a rounding error. These publishers are able to produce interesting and innovative books almost as side projects, even if the bulk of the amazing work comes from the independents.

Tales of the Beanworld, by Larry Marder

Fortunately, it’s easier than ever to make up your own mind. Graphic novels are stocked in libraries and most bookstores, and trade paperbacks collect stories originally serialized. Comics have begun the migration to the digital realm, too, with the availability of applications for smartphones and computers. The market has also matured enough to support beautiful (and expensive) collector’s editions, often produced at larger sizes to better showcase the art. And while the number of specialty comics stores has fallen dramatically during the recession, they are still around; south Florida has a number of excellent stores.

Speaking of these excellent local stores, tomorrow is Free Comic Book Day. This is an international event held the first Saturday in May every year to promote comics and comic shops. Many local stores participate, giving away samplers from a variety of genres and publishers. If you are interested in learning more about the form, find a store near you and stop in. I’ll be spending the day with some friends driving to a variety of shops in a kind of comic book pub crawl.

From Scott McCloud's Understanding Comics

If you are interested in learning more about the comics form, and what makes it so different from either words or pictures alone, get a copy of Scott McCloud’s truly amazing Understanding Comics. A comics creator himself, McCloud digs into the historical, sociological, and neurological factors behind the illusions that make comics work, and does it while making the entire book a comic itself. (It’s funny, too!)

I have tremendous respect for and appreciation of the beautiful, engrossing, thoughtful, and sophisticated work being produced in comics today, and have shelf after shelf of evidence to prove it. Works like Alan Moore’s From Hell and Gilbert Hernandez’s Palomar are treasures I re-read on a regular basis. Still, I must confess a continuing love of superheroes. Sure, many of the plots are shallow and stupid, and continued stories are the rule now from almost all publishers, making it rough to find a place to start. But there remains something intrinsically appealing about a four-color world of right and wrong, good and evil, even if the lines sometimes blur. Perhaps it’s a part of me who never really grew up, and hasn’t yet given up on the ideals he learned from a wealthy playboy who decided to right wrongs by dressing up as a bat.

Which reminds me: I can’t remember exactly why Batman was wearing  that rainbow costume back in 1966. It’s time to dig out that comic and solve that mystery.

[NB: Some links are affiliate links. All images are under copyright of their owners, and not me.]

Share/Bookmark

It is National Poetry Month here in the US, celebrated locally with the wondrous O, Miami festival. In honor* of this I’ve prepared a poem of my own. (*Seriously, the honor is intended, even if the effort doesn’t do much honor to the cause.)

Calliope's Wake
---------------

We begin as
       poets

  fearless supplicants to
      the muse
  baring our souls to all
  (mockers be damned)

       through the spring of our

           endless

       youth.

In summer the World says

     Enough.

     Be serious.

We resist:

     Indignation!
     Protestation!
     Denunciation!

  soon

         Capitulation.

Rapids of language

     dammed

     we learn to fear
     Calliope's fiery embrace.

Shamed by our surrender

     we shun art

     too busy

        (dying)

     to revel

        (living)

     becoming

             dismissive
             mocking.

Yet still

          Calliope

                     sings.

Share/Bookmark