Christmas Mourning

I recently wrote about listening to Christmas songs way earlier than I should, including the new holiday CD by KT Tunstall. There are only six songs on it, most of which are covers--and most of which deal, on one level or another, with loneliness at this most festive time of year. (Are you trying to tell us something, KT? If so...call me.)

Two of the songs Tunstall covers have become standards of holiday less-than-cheer: "2,000 Miles," originally by The Pretenders and "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)," made famous by Darlene Love on the Christmas album to beat all Christmas albums, A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector, and from numerous appearances on "The Late Show with David Letterman."

Chrissy Hynes's vocals on "2,000 Miles" perfectly and simply express the longing of a woman separated from her someone by great distance; just the simple phrase "I miss you" carries great emotional weight. Love, on the other hand, gets substantial aid from Spector's "Wall of Sound" production. Not that she needs it, though: Her voice is strong enough to pluck every emotional heartstring, so that by the time she dials it back to say, "You should be here with me," you're already in tears. (Or at least I am--the rest of you are heartless bastards.)

There are plenty of other Christmas songs Tunstall could have mined for seasonal sadness, though others have already covered that turf more than adequately.

Dido's "Christmas Day" is also about a woman lonely and forlorn on what's usually such a celebratory occasion. In her case, though, the guy she's pining for is a dude she met one time--he rose up on horseback, fed her some pretty lines ("Your eyes are green, like summer grass") and then rode off again, promising to return for her on the title occasion. You'd think somebody would yell at him, "Hey, dumbass. Dido is pretty freakin' hot. Ride back to her. RIDE. BACK. NOW!" But no, he continues on his merry way...and she never sees him again. We never know why--maybe he was killed in a war or had a wife or is feeding pretty lines to other freakin' hot singers. But poor Dido is left verklempt for the rest of her days, singing her sad, sad song.

I've always thought "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" had more than a little bit of melancholy laced through its lyrics, even though most singers try to pass it off as a sincere and glowing wish for holiday cheer. Not Diana Krall. Her version crystallizes the melancholy, making it clear that the person extending the wish has no real belief that either she or the someone she's singing to will have anything remotely approximating "a merry little Christmas."

Of course, that singer and her someone probably have homes in which to wrestle with their seasonal demons, while the subject of "Pretty Paper" is out in the street, begging amongst the throng of holiday shoppers. It's best known as a Roy Orbison tune, but I prefer the version by the song's author, Willie Nelson; his more ragged, less operatic voice makes the story told that much more heartbreaking.

Heartbreak, in its various, less-than-wonderous forms, is probably preferable to contusions or busted bones, but you can find them in holiday melodies as well, like the Ramones' "Merry Christmas (I Don't Wanna Fight Tonight)," where the singer pleads with his love to put aside their combat for the sake of the occasion. Their bruises are more emotional that physical, but that's not the case in the Kinks' "Father Christmas," where some punks beat the crap out of a street-corner Santa and take all the money he's collected. Merry frickin' Christmas, indeed.

At least Kris Kringle didn't die, unlike Prince's ladylove in "Another Lonely Christmas," who not only dies, but drowns on Christmas Eve. Geez, Prince. There's enough drinking around the holidays already--don't make me drag out the vodka and tonic.

So, is that what Christmas music is all about? Longing and loss? Mourning and misery?

Of course not. There are plenty of uplifting, cheerful holiday classics. Those aren't necessarily the ones that make me happiest, though. More on those tomorrow.

The Thanksgiving Cat

The feline in my brother's arms was small--probably only weeks past the point where she would still be considered "a kitten"--with shiny black fur flecked with beige and gold (what some people call "a tortie") and large yellow-green (green-yellow?) eyes that were, at this particular moment, darting in all directions, trying to soak up unfamiliar surroundings without panic and/or fear being absorbed as well.

He'd found her in Mom's backyard, running for her little life from very loud, very animated, very pissed-off squirrels. (Think that's funny? Consider: When you've seen or heard a squirrel perched on a fence or a telephone pole yelling its fuzzy head off, did you run up to it and offer a hug? No, you more than likely steered clear of the little rodent until it calmed down a bit. Now imagine that the angry/upset squirrel is actually charging you. You'd probably back away from it, at least. Now imagine that you're roughly the same size as the charging, pissed-off squirrel. Not so funny now, is it?)

Once he's rescued her from the fury of the nut gatherers, my brother carried her inside, where her reaction to the presence of Mom's cats was almost as extreme as her reaction to the squirrels had been--it appeared that she hated other cats, or at least hated seeing so many other cats in one place at one time. So he brought her upstairs to his apartment (which had been mine for about a decade before I moved into the original La Casa del Terror) and kept her there. He also gave her a name: Peanut. (Because she was attacked by squirrels. Get it?) Now, he was showing her to me--with a purpose in mind.

It had been over a year since I'd had Lottie put to sleep. In that time, Ms. Christopher and I had more or less adjusted to harsh reality: her sister was gone, and we were on our own. I knew, though, even as we were becoming accustomed to being alone with each other, that I wanted to add another cat at some point, if only to have company for Christopher on those days when I got stuck at work until whenever. And my brother wasn't enthused about the prospect of Mom bringing in another stray, no matter how pretty that stray might be.

So, for all intents and purposes, I was conducting an interview with this cat.

My brother explained her idiosyncrasies to me--not only her apparent aversion to other cats (a possible complicating factor for bringing her into a home with a kitty already in it), but her hatred of toes (she attacked them constantly, whether they were covered or not, which may have lead to her being thrown out by Mom's next-door neighbors for being "too mean") and her love of chasing pieces of paper (crumple up a receipt from Walgreens, toss it across the room and watch her bat it around for hours, sometimes even bringing it back for a game of "fetch"), though she also enjoyed catnip-filled mice, little puffy balls and shoestrings as much as the next feline.

After he'd told me everything he felt he needed to, he handed the little calico to me and I lifted her to my shoulder, where she propped her tiny black paws, her claws digging through the fabric of my shirt and into my skin ever so slightly--not for defensive purposes, though she probably was at least a little scared to be held in the arms of a stranger, but to keep from falling, though I had no intention of dropping her. I stroked her smooth, soft fur and scratched her chin. She began purring hard enough to rattle my fillings out.

I wanted to take her home right then and there--if this had indeed been an interview, she'd have been hired on the spot.

Of course, it wasn't that simple; nothing ever is. She needed to be spayed, and Mom volunteered to pay for this (a point which I didn't argue). Mom also had her front claws removed--I'm not the biggest fan of declawing (Ms. Christopher still has all of hers), but given her toe-attacking tendencies and love of "sharpening" against the furniture, it's just as well that Mom went there.

The cat would need at least a couple of weeks (maybe more) to properly recuperate from the operations in the relative privacy and comfort of my brother's apartment, then I could take her home--most likely on Thanksgiving Day, when I would have the whole four-day weekend to watch how she interacted with Christopher and to keep her from wrecking the joint.

I wound up picking her up the day after Thanksgiving, though I did make a point to spend time with her the night before. I brought the large orange crate that we used for toting cats in (with a clean blue towel tucked into it for comfort), and my brother brought the little calico down. Once again, her eyes were wide and darting, but this time when I took her she was not purring, but shaking--panic and fear had set in and taken a firm hold.

As I put the kitty in the crate, Mom came out. "Bye, Peanut," she said, obviously sad and seemingly fighting back tears, "Sorry you can't stay." Maybe Mom had set her heart on keeping the cat, or thought I would back out of the deal for whatever reason. She didn't try to talk me out of it, though, as I walked out the door, headed for the nearest major street and flagged a cab.

Once in the cab, I did my best to keep her calm, reaching through the holes in the crate to stroke her forehead or rub her chin. For the most part, that worked--she only cried out a few times on the long ride home, and each time I was able to quiet her down again. I also started calling her by her new name: Olivia.

It wasn't that I had anything against the name Peanut...okay, I had plenty against it. I thought it was a stupid name, and I've always liked the name Olivia; if I'd ever had a daughter, that would have been her name. Instead, it went to a small, thin and, at this particular moment, frightened little cat.

I hauled her up the three flights of stairs to La Casa del Terror, set the crate down on the kitchen floor and popped the door open. Olivia slowly came out, low to the linoleum floor, carefully inspecting her new surroundings with what appeared to be interest rather than dread.

Then Olivia came face to face with Ms. Christopher, who had come out from her resting place in the living room to see what was going on in the kitchen--and found a trespasser on her turf. It was not, as you'd imagine, love at first sight. There was a great deal of hissing from both cats, and Olivia retreated to the safety of the crate, where she settled on the blue towel and did not move again until Christopher left the room.

The same scenario played itself out from time to time over the next few days: Cats meet; cats hiss (sometimes even exchanging blows); cats separate. Lather, rinse, repeat. You might expect that Christopher, being more than twice the size of Olivia and still having front claws, would win the majority of these bouts. And you would be wrong--Olivia, being younger, faster and more aggressive, soundly thumped the older, more passive fluffball each and every time, then retreated to her crate in the kitchen until I finally closed the door and put it away.

Some of Olivia's personal quirks faded with time. Her obsession with attacking feet went away, although there were mornings when she would reach under the bathroom door like some '50s sci-fi monster to try and take a toe or two. She still doesn't get along with Ms. Christopher, though--they rarely are found in the same room and only sit on the same piece of furniture if they've called a truce because I'm sick or sad. Even then, they don't sit together; they'll bookend me on the couch or sit at opposite ends of the bed. When feeding time comes, though, they each attend their own bowl and don't even notice the other's existence.

Olivia is no longer a small, scared kitten, though. She's filled out a bit--not fat necessarily, but not skinny anymore, either--and walks around La Casa del Terror like she owns the joint. At the Halloween Movie Bash, she's the cat who comes out and works the room, rubbing up against the legs of guests and perching on the arms or back of the couch while Ms. Christopher hides under the couch until she gets hungry or needs to use the litter pan.

Olivia likes to cry loudly for my attention, whether it's first thing in the morning when it's time for me to get up and put a tin of Friskies down, or in the evening when I get home and she gets vocal before I even put my key in the front door. When friends drop me off after an evening out, they can usually hear her calling me from the living room window.

She's also become quite the cuddle kitty, often curling up next to me while I watch TV in the evening--much to Christopher's chagrin. The old fuzzball still gets attention all her own, though; since Olivia isn't really a lap cat, Christopher can claim that territory, even if she's still a good deal more than a lapful. Christopher would get that attention anyway. She's 14, and even though her appetite is hearty and she gets around just fine, jumping on and off my tall bed with relative ease, I know that she'll be joining Lottie at the Rainbow Bridge sooner rather than later, so I pet her and hold her close whenever I get a chance--much to Olivia's chagrin.

The younger cat gets more than her share of attention, though, and rarely has reason to complain (though she often does so anyway). Whenever I crumble up a piece of paper or cellophane wrapping, her eyes widen--with eager anticipation, rather than fear or panic--and when I toss the paper down the hall, ricocheting it off the walls, Olivia races after it, muscles flexing, coat shining, clawless front paws batting the freshly minted plaything back and forth until either she loses it under some piece of furniture that she can't reach under or, more likely, she pins it down, picks it up in her mouth and trots back to me with her prize, smiling with pride all the way.

Three Short Poems

These days, poetry comes out of me in bursts--I can go months without writing a line, then churn out three complete poems in a week, which is what happened with the following. The first, written on a Sunday morning, describes a particularly unhygenic practice that I wouldn't recommend to anyone. The second, written the same day, was inspired after an October afternoon some 20 degrees above normal. (Don't worry--there's no such thing as global warming. Nope.) The third was inspired by one of my MySpace friends, who sent out a bulletin entitled "I'm Bored." To entertain her, I wrote the following in about an hour. She said that no one had ever written a poem for her before; I was honored to be the first.

Anyway...here they are. Enjoy.

ONE
Some nights I
crawl off to
bed without
brushing my
teeth or
tongue because
some mornings I
like the taste
of decay in
my mouth when
day breaks and
stays broken.

TWO
It's odd to
walk out into
autumn air
seasoned with
heat, the scents
of drying grass
and cracked
asphalt spark
together with
the tapping of
maple and sumac
leaves wheeling
north to the hum
of air conditioners
for a cocktail
great to swirl
in your glass
but best left
unswallowed.

THREE
Some may well
prefer the surprise
of sunrise, with its

shades and hues
and promises whispered
close and moist to

reddened ears
in the blush of
fresh daylight,

but I'd gladly
pass on such
common delights

for the uncommon
warmth of one of
Nikki's smiles or

her sly eyebrows
arching mischief
only at me.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

When it comes to holidays, I am, in many ways, a traditionalist. I love celebrating Halloween and Christmas, but only in their actual seasons. It disturbs me to see skulls and Jack O'Lanterns in stores on Labor Day; it disturbs me even more to see clerks at Walgreens yanking down the witches and skeletons in favor of elves and reindeer before Halloween has even had a chance to pass.

Yes. I know. I've bitched about this before. And it gets worse every years, to be sure. But now, we have a more recent--and even more disturbing--manifestation of the holiday-ahead-of-its-time: The radio stations that switch to an all-Christmas music format before the trick-or-treat candies have been fully consumed and even most sensible people have not yet bought their Thanksgiving turkeys.

Richard Roeper--whom many people have said I resemble (no, really) and whom more than a few friends have suggested isn't as good a writer as I am (even though he gets the bigs bucks and has millions of readers while I have, like, five)Ñrecently wrote a column on this very subject, openly wondering who the hell listens to Christmas music on the radio in the first week of November. Somebody must be, since the ratings for the stations involved invariably go up after the switch and come down again after they resume "regular" programming.

He has a point. I don't know anyone, sane or otherwise, who listens to Christmas music on the radio this early, yet you can hear the accursed stations playing in stores and cafes all over the city and probably all over the country, assuming there are similarly addled program directors in other major cities as well.

Yet I must confess--and I take no pride in the confession--that I've already started to listen to my holiday CDs at home.

It wasn't a conscious decision. I didn't wake up on the first day of November, run my fingers through my shaggy hair and say to my reflection, "You know, I really can't wait until December for my seasonal depression to kick in, so let's start spinning those Christmas tunes now!" Nor was it any one thing that brought this on so early. Maybe it was, instead, a collection of small things.

Maybe it was because I sometimes buy Christmas-related items throughout the course of any given year, whether it's an ornament that catches my eye in July or a special present for a special friend purchased in October. Or maybe because, back in August, I ran into a coworker at Northalsted Market Days who happens to be a member of the Windy City Gay Chorus and who happened to be selling Christmas CDs from the booth he was manning. Or maybe because I saw CDs while shopping at Target and a couple just happened to fly into my basket like ninja throwing stars.

Or maybe I just bloody well felt like it.

Whatever the reason (or accumulation of reasons), empty CD cases now litter my desk while KT Tunstall does the Pretenders' "2,000 Miles" proud--though she blasphemously fumbles a cover of Darlene Love's "Merry Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)"--and Clarise, the little doe from Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer croons "There's Always Tomorrow," a song that never fails to make me cry, no matter what time of year I hear it.

So what does this mean, listening to the sounds of the holiday season well before the first proper snow has fallen, before the pumpkin lights and faux spider webs have been pulled down, before any of the Salvation Army Santas have taken up their stations on street corners and in front of drug stores? I have no idea. I don't think it means that I'm going to do this every year. I think it's an abberation--some need in me to have the Christmas spirit wafting through the air weeks before it naturally should.

Whatever the case, I'm not going to question it this year. Next year? Maybe. The year after? Definitely.

But right now? Right now, you'll have to excuse me. I have more than a few seasonal decorations and movies to dig out and get ready--but nothing goes up until the day after Thanksgiving. I haven't completely lost my mind.

Not yet, anyway. Give me a few minutes.

November

The following poem isn't really about the month of its title, though that's when the dream (or, more accurately, nightmare) it's based on took place. It's one of those poems that's never quite "finished"--it's been rewritten numerous times over the years, including (looks at wristwatch) about five minutes ago. This wasn't the first time I'd dreamed about the walking dead; it wasn't the last. This wasn't the first time I'd died in my dreams, either; it wasn't the last. (I've read that the capacity to die in one's dreams is a sign of genius. If that's the case, I'd much rather be a moron, thanks.) Enjoy.

Long to be a
manchild with a
head on his

shoulders, with a
serious mind for
serious things

deepened to frenzy
by nights ridden
along creeping

stream water and
gnarled boughs
backlit by

quarter-moonlight
briefly. The air
is frequent

and moved. Leaves
hooved into the
moist without


noting the scent
of gore in the
mud, of dead

fingers dancing,
holding near on
such formal flesh.

Quickies

No, not that kind of quickie. Get your minds out of the gutter for just a moment. As most of you know, my job is keeping me insanely busy and likely will through Thanksgiving, if not Christmas. That being said, I'd still like to sneak in updates where I can. So here are a few short ones, most of which go back to essays past:

My Artistic Friends
Superbadfriend used to be a co-worker and is still one of my best friends. She's also one of the most creative people I know, working with encaustics (paint made from pigments, beeswax and resin) and found objects. And now? She has a website. Go there and check out her amazing work. If you see something you might want to hang in your own home (like the miniature pieces I'm honored to have hanging in mine), shoot her an email and ask about prices. And even if you don't want to buy anything right now, just shoot her an email anyway--she's one of the sweetest, most friendly, most supportive people you'll ever talk to.

This Sporting Life
Cubs fans: You don't need Alex Rodriguez--you already have enough overpriced players who can't hit in the playoffs. White Sox fans: Aaron Rowand is a free agent--hope the team signs him and regains some of that spark back that they had when they won the World Series. Blackhawks fans: Getting home games on TV is a great place to start--hope they put something on the ice worth watching. Bulls fans: You don't need Kobe Bryant--he won't win you any more championships by himself than he won in LA by himself. Bears fans: With no running game, defenders who can't tackle and a former Pro Bowler with an arthritic back and a pissy attitude (hey, it's the media's fault your back hurts, Mr. Urlacher), the quality of your starting quarterback is suddenly the least of your concerns--happy now?

The Daley Grind
So nice of you, Mr. Mayor, to set aside your obsession with the 2016 Olympics (which a lot of Chicagoans don't want anyway since it'll make us more of a terrorist threat and create bigger traffic headaches than we already have) and your record tax increase proposal (so enormous that quite a few of us, myself included, might have to move out of the city in the near future because we won't be able to afford to live here anymore) in order to focus, if only for a minute or two, on the budget crisis at the CTA. Good to know you can pay attention to the near future--as in literally days from now--instead of going glassy-eyed like an addled 5-year-old who starts dreaming about Christmas Day in April.

Speaking of the CTA...
All those lovely, laminated signs you have taped up at bus stops and those equally eye-catching ones on the trains where paid advertisements usually are found must have cost some serious coinÑcoin you keep telling everybody and anybody with ears on their heads you don't have. I know the CTA needs a permanent funding solutions, I don't want any of my bus or train routes getting axed, and I do want our Governor and Speaker of the House to stop their dick-wagging contest because they're both coming off like short, short men. But printing and distributing all those signs and flyers makes it look like you've got money to spare or that the agency isn't particularly well managed or both--not the best impression when you've got your hand out.

The Rainbow Bridge
Sometimes, pet names qualify as truth in advertising.

Example: Stubby, a gray calico who was small, short and missing at least three joints off her tail. Her nickname, Squally, fit as well: for something so small, she sure was loud. She lived a long and mostly placid life with Mom, but even long and placid lives have an end. She'd been sick for some time--can't remember whether it was her kidneys or her thyroid--and when scheduling dinner recently, Mom told me Stubby' s time was nearly at hand; she was barely eating and had lost a lot of weight (and she never weighed much to begin with).

So the next time I came over, I sought Stubby out. She was in a cardboard box in the dining room, small and frail in the darkness. I reached in and stroked her head; she rubbed against my hand and purred loudly. As I walked away, she rose unsteadily, vaulted from the box to the dining room table (as much as a cat on her deathbed can actually "vault") and staggered unsteadily after me. I picked her up (she weighed next to nothing), carried her to the living room and set her in my lap, where she stayed for the remainder of the evening, alternately purring at being petted and staring off into the distance at something the rest of us couldn't see.

One Last Thing
Halloween is my favorite holiday. Has been since I was a kid. Always loved decorating my apartment for the occasion, watching movies with my friends, the whole deal. (Okay, not so much the dressing up part--once you spend an evening in a Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp costume, you're pretty much scarred for life.) So tonight, I'll be in front of the TV in La Casa del Terror, tasty treats at hand, remote in hand, and monsters traversing my scream...er, screen. Have a happy and safe Halloween, one and all.

Three and Out

This year, baseball season in Chicago didn't end at the beginning of October, like it does most every year. It actually went on for another week. But it probably should have gone on for at least one week more.

The Cubs won their division, going to the playoffs for the first time since 2003, when they just barely missed going to their first World Series since 1945.

Unfortunately, they didn't stay in the playoffs for very long this year, swept in the first round by the Arizona Diamondbacks. The starting pitching wasn't particularly good, save for Carlos Zambrano's solid performance in Game 1.

Manager Lou Piniella, who had helped take this team from worst to first in one year, has been roundly criticized for taking Zambrano out of the game in favor of reliever Carlos Marmol, who prompty gave up the home run that proved to be the game winner. However, this is what Piniella had done all yearÑget the starter to pitch six innings and use Marmol in the seventh, Bob Howry in the eighth and Ryan Dempster to close--and Marmol had a terrific year, so it wasn't so much a bad move as a good move that backfired.

Then again, if Piniella really pulled Zambrano in an attempt to keep him fresh for Game 4--a game that now will never come--then he deserved to have the move backfire.

Ted Lilly was smacked around in the second game, and Lilly in turn smacked his mitt (or, rather, slammed it to the ground) after giving up a home run. Rich Hill couldn't hold Arizona in check in the third game, and that was that.

Far worse than the pitching, though, was the hitting. The Cubs three leading home run hitters--Alfonso Soriano, Derrek Lee and Aramis Ramirez--not only didn't have a single home run among them in the series, but didn't have a run batted in among them, either. Worst of all was Ramirez, who didn't even manage a single hit in twelve at-bats.

The Cubs' situational hitting was atrocious as well, leaving runner after runner stranded on base. When, after Diamondbacks pitcher Livan Hernandez walked the bases loaded, the usually reliable Mark DeRosa, on a 3-1 count, swung at a pitch just above his ankles and weakly hit into an inning-ending double play, you could see the crowd at Wrigley Field visibly deflate, embrace their fate and start looking ahead to next yearÑthe 100th anniversary of the team's last World Series championship.

The White Sox, on the other hand, have won a World Series within living memory--two years ago, in fact--but finished this season with a lowly 70-92 record due to poor middle relief pitching, lousy run production and erratic managing by Ozzie Guillen, who seemed to spend as much time spewing forth profanity-laces tirades to the media as he did calling out his poorly performing players.

Many times, after such a lost season, the manager is the first to get tossed out the door. That's not how they roll on the South Side, though. Owner Jerry Reinsdorf and general manager Ken Williams renewed Guillen's contract for another five years. Why they did so when Guillen had one year remaining on his existing contract is a bit of a mystery. Maybe they have confidence in Gullien's ability to turn things around, presumably with some fresh faces brought in via free agency and trades. Maybe they blame the players more than they blame Guillen and his coaching staff. Or maybe they just wanted to piss of Sun-Times sports columnist (and notorious Reinsdorf/Guillen-hater) Jay Mariotti.

If the latter is the case, maybe they didn't realize that they were guaranteeing Mariotti, who likes to write about the same topics over and over again without having anything fresh to say about them, another five years' worth of material, and guaranteeing those unfortunate enough to read his column five years' worth of stale, uninspired vitriol.

Thanks, guys. Thanks a bunch.

Whatever the case, it's an odd move to make for a team in need of fresh air. Perhaps that will come along with those new players, especially if they're middle relievers capable of coming in, shutting down the opposition's offense and getting the game to All-Star closer Bobby Jenks, or hitters capable of getting hits when runners are in scoring position.

Guess we'll just have to wait until spring training to fine out.

In the meantime...um...how 'bout them Bears?