The Queen City, NC-

I like Christmas. I like to see Christmas lights wrapped around houses. I like the cool air of winter. I like the good vibes people throw around, the smiles. It’s a childhood thing, I guess. A memory thing.

I don’t think of Christmas as a Christian celebration. Of course, we all know it is. It’s not a Native American celebration. Buddhists have better things to do. The Chinese don’t decorate evergreen trees when the 25th rolls around.

I’ve spent many Christmases in a steamy Chinese restaurant. Fried-rice. Beef and broccoli. Curry chicken. Heaven. Just one of those eternal perks of being Christian-free.

Ask a Discordianist.

Ask Iktomi who was stirring up the pot long before Jesus arrived and dumped it.

No, Christmas here in the States is a party. People clean themselves up, get dressed nicer than usual, eat like football players, and have drinks. We spend tons of cash, pass out gifts, and wish each other well.

We go to company parties, get drunk and talk shit about the boss while eating on his dime. We visit the ones we love. Sometimes we have to visit the ones we don’t love. That’s how it works when Santa’s in the air.

Christmas has the power to bring us together. Jesus or no Jesus. I like that.

Capitalism has snatched Christmas from Christianity. Earth-god eats sky-god. The buck, not the Word, has won. Both realizing a good deal when they see it, now these two camps are in cahoots scratching each other’s back.

A slick marriage. Dubious and creepy. Cops and robbers.

“I don’t like you, Walton, but I need you.”

Some will refer to this as karma. Ask your pagan friends who’ve been screaming thief for years.

***

So, Carla called me saying that she was having a Christmas party and that my “Mexican ass” better be there. I was just at Carla’s house a couple of months back for her birthday party. Lots of people and booze. Bottles of tasty wine. Wings and turkey sandwiches. Pot roaming around freely in fat Southern blunts.

She told me that right after I left the party a few girls got real drunk, dropped their pants, and started playing cards in their skivvies.

“Reno, it was asses, twats, and g-strings.”

“Tell me you’re lying.”

“I’m not, man. It was hot.”

“I love asses and g-strings.”

“You forgot twats.”

“Twats!”

I like Carla. Sweet. Big green eyes. Thin bird lips. A big North Carolina ass. A rock and roller if there ever was one.

***

I stepped into her house and was immediately greeted by her dog Sammy - a nervous little turd that likes to bite. At her birthday party he bit some dude. Nothing major, more bark than bite. But it was enough to get him locked up for the night.

That was until someone opened the bedroom door and Sammy came barreling out and started staring people down.

“There’s that little motherfucker!” the dude said. “Get him out of here, Carla, you bitch! He fucking bit me!”

I grabbed a beer and sat down. Sammy followed me, sizing me up. But I didn’t give him any energy. I acted like he wasn’t there. He was a ghost. He grew bored and split.

I kept an eye on Sammy. He looked bothered, his ears worried and flat. And right then some dude started taunting him. He was drunk and acting a fool for a couple of girls. Then Sammy had enough, charged him, and worked on his leg.

The dude jumped back and yelped.

“That’s what you get, asshole!” his partner said.

Sammy got locked up again.

Carla owns an infamous bong that she calls “Blue.” She’s had the thing for over twenty years and has had the lips of Joan Jett and members of R.E.M and the Replacements and an assortment of other stoners suck off of it.

Back in the day Carla used to work in the music business. Her rock and roll stories are great and stink of beer and smokes.

“Okay, who wants some of Blue?” Carla said raising the bong high, bugging her eyes.

“Blue!” someone yelled.

I’ve never been a fan of bongs. Not even in my stoniest days when pot was the center of my universe did I ever like bongs. They’re too druggie-looking for my taste. Too loud. I was a joint man. I prefer my hang-ups quiet.

I once worked with a girl named Jennifer. Jen was great. Funny person. Tons of personality. And she was a full-blown pothead. She came to work high everyday and I’d hassle her all the time.

“Look at you,” I’d say. “The stoniest of the stoners. Stony fucking Tony.”

“You’re just jealous, man. Just jealous,” she’d say, grinning, her eyes unfocused and shot to hell.

One day Jennifer invited me over to her apartment to get high. She’d just bought her boyfriend “a bong” and wanted me to check it out. So, I went over there, sat on her couch, and she brought out this humongous bong that was around five feet long.

It was purple with neon colors and had a menacing-looking skull at its base. It was ridiculous. Her face was flush in excitement.

“Dude, look at this fucker. Isn’t it the coolest thing you’ve ever seen? It’s awesome.”

“Yeah…that’s cool. Look at that.”

She insisted I try it. It was a two-man operation. One lights. The other sucks. She packed the bowl and fired it up and a galaxy-full of pot filled my lungs and pushed out my eyes. I gagged and choked and gagged some more and stumbled out of her apartment high as a kite.

***

So, Blue made its way around. Bags of pot magically appeared. Smoke filled the air. People started making whooping sounds. The party was on.

I worked on my beer, did a shot of whiskey with David, a local rapper, and watched the festivities. I have always been pro-pot. Out of all the dope that’s out there to fuck up your body (and mind) pot is the nicest.

Speed rots your brain and your teeth and turns you into a bug.

Cigarettes collapse your lungs and have the potential of burying you.

Alcohol, if you dedicate enough time to it, will eat you alive from the inside out. You become a ghost. A walking apparition with bad ugly dreams.

Pot will blacken your lungs but you get to keep your teeth and are able to enjoy a good song when it comes on the radio.

I tried angel dust when I was thirteen on a misty night in El Monte. I was with my cousin Johnny who by then was an accomplished druggie. I’d tried pot once or twice. I didn’t know what angel dust was, never even heard of it. But Johnny did. We took the bus to his buddy’s apartment.

We passed around this wet cigarette. I took a hit. It tasted like metal and smelled of gasoline.

“It’s a sherm, Reno,” Johnny said with a grin on his apple face, smoke crawling over his eyes and through his hair. “A sherm.”

We called Johnny’s older brother who was supposed to pick us up. He didn’t answer. We didn’t have any money for the bus.

“Gotta walk,” Johnny said.

“How far?”

“Around ten miles.”

All I remember is walking along some railroad tracks and mist falling over us. Then I looked up and we were two blocks from his apartment. It was like a dream. I lost time, my head was gone, humming on dust. Looking back it makes me cringe.

And a little sad.

I was a teenager high on PCP, a drug that is a pure soul-killer. And so was Johnny who was at the beginning stages of being a full-time street hustler that would turn his life into the things you only see in the movies.

Johnny is somewhere in L.A. I haven’t seen him in over fifteen years. That’s a long time, you know.

I miss him.

***

Before I left the party, I grabbed Carla’s hand and we grooved to “What A Fool Believes” by the Doobie Brothers. Beautiful tune. One of my all-time favorites. I twisted my hips and moved around Carla like a gypsy. People cheered.

It was Christmas. My favorite time of the year.

“Merry Christmas, pretty,” I told her.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 13th, 2008 at 6:59 am and is filed under Debauchery, Drugs, Holidays, Love, Pets & Animals. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.