My Letter to Nicky

My Christmas card to you.

My Christmas card to you.

Dear Santa,

Sorry I haven’t written lately, but ever since my folks told me you were bullshit…well…I’ve felt a little stupid about keeping up any correspondence.  I know.  No excuse.  It’s not like it’s gonna kill me to write a letter and feel like an idiot later.  I should be used to it.

What with your 24/7 North Pole NSA surveillance capabilities, you probably witnessed me penning that lust letter to the four-eyed lynx intern at the acupuncture clinic back in ’95.  Seven pages of handwritten heart-pour.  To a chick I only answered questions to.  Questions like “How frequently do you urinate?” and “What is the consistency of your stool?”

But that didn’t stop me, eh?  From writing her. 

So why not write to my old pal, St. Nick?  Catch up on shit with a guy who doesn’t exist.  Maybe put in a wish list.

Can’t be any stupider than driving one-eyed, all the way down Agua Fria to her clinic, and delivering it personally.  Remember?  It was right after that disastrous week-end with Bubbles.  In Tuscon.  Drinking more than usual after that little visit.  Heart all hurt.  Ego-aching.  Embarrassed as fuck.

No wonder I freaked and went full-court press on the cat-eyed Jr. needle jockey.  I had to fall in love with someone else.  Right away.  And make sure she fell too.  Brought out the five-alarm charm that afternoon.

Shit-hammered on store brand vodka and Mickey’s Big Mouth.  Reeling and red-faced.  Crashing into the bamboo wind-chimes they had hanging up by the door.  My poison-reek cutting through the Mentholatum spa-smell.  The terrified and confused look on her face when I gave her the letter, slowly turning to pity when she sussed what it was all about.

Magic moment alright.

I also remember walking back to the car and realizing–with pristine divine precision and clarity–what a major fail I just perpetrated.  Fucking great.  Now I get it.  Twenty-two seconds after I finished doing it.  Not the twenty-two before.

It was always after, eh Nicko?  And then, like clockwork, you’re not too drunk to care.  All of a sudden.  It’s like the batshit buzz that got you in the jam, suddenly hightails, leaving you holding the sock. 

Yuuhgrhhh.  Every time I remember it, my guts twist.

Love to time-machine that one.  Hey, it was par for that whole year.  From what I recall.  Perfect candidate for lump of coal I was.

But I think I got some leather gloves, a camping ax, and a Hendrix box set.  Don’t know if that was a mix-up or mercy on your part.  But thanks anyway, dude.

Which brings me to why I’m writing.  As you probably know, I’ve been a little grouchy this holiday season.  Bitching and moaning about having to stand in long lines, find parking, gift wrap rhomboid-shaped gifts.  Post Office.  UPS.  The usual sleigh-bell blues.  And yeah I’ll admit, kind of sick of seeing your face all over the place.

Well, Friday I get hit with a stomach flu.  A real sidewinder.  All of a sudden I’ve got bigger problems than constantly losing the Scotch tape.

I go from bitching about small, irritating shit, to worrying if I’m gonna squirt out all my sacral fluid.  Major attitude shift, Nicky.  Capisce?

Lori’s gone to Europe, and neither of my cats have a driver’s license, so it’s toaster waffles and tap water for two days.  I’m laying in bed the whole time.  Bugsy and Louie holding vigil over their only food-giver.  The only one until January 4th, when the other one gets back.

I’m so very weak.  So very tired.  Can’t push the buttons on the remote.  Have to roll over on it in the bed.  Hope a good channel comes on.  But too sick to watch anyway.  Can only let whatever is on blend with my delirium.  World War 2 documentaries.  Gangsters: America’s Most Evil.  Full Throttle Saloon.  Lock-Up; Extended Stay.  Adult Swim.  Hour after hour.  Sleeping off big chunks, but awake enough for marathon series of fevered visions.

My mind wanted to show me things.  Pulled me out of my body.  “Check this shit out!”

British POW’s in Japanese camps.  Trying to build a bridge while dysentery wrings out their bowels.  A little brown boy lying on a banana leaf. Shivering with Dengue Fever.  A moth in a dead guy’s mouth.  Jungle rot.  Cholera.  Maggots in rice.

We visit a leper clinic in India.  A Russian prison infirmary.  African refugees eating sand.

Then I see paralyzed old people.  They’re in a skilled nursing facility–watching the shadows of twilight lengthen across the room.  Wondering if anyone will come see them.  Thirsty.  But unable to ask.  Sad.  But too dry to cry.  Trapped.  But unable to die.

Wheel of Fortune on.  No way to turn it off.

(I think that’s worse.  I’d rather have to build a bridge in diapers)

I’m telling you what, St. Boy, if I ever visit sick old people, I’m going to make sure to keep the mood light and laughy.  And bring them orange juice or whatever.  And make sure that the TV is on their channel.

I caught a glimpse of their hell, and it snapped me right out of the mopes.  This is a stomach flu.  I’m a recovered alcoholic.  This is nothing.  I got this.  I knew I was probably going to roll it up in 48.  But a lot of others are down for life.

Like some drunks I’ve known.  Lying there floored and helpless.  Alone.  Every time you make it to the toilet a small victory.

Sad sun coming through the window.

Not even cats to keep you company.

Death feeling like a real thing.

Sometimes being one.

So yeah, grateful for the pathogens that bring on hellish visions.  Grateful for my stomach flu.

And as far as any presents this year, don’t sweat it.  Being able to drive to the store.  Wash the sheets.  Hold down food.  Change the channel.  Big gifts.

And of course the cats.

Give my share to somebody who needs it.  There’s plenty out there, Nicky boy.  Believe me.

Anyway, give my best to the Missus.  Rudy.  The Elves.

Take some time off.  Belize.  Good banks.


21 responses to “My Letter to Nicky

  1. Some goon once said, “first!” Glad I’m not that guy. Glad I had something to read while the yulemallos warmed. I promise not to trip over any life support plugs in 14 & keep nose clean & tiny dog craze can go on little longer. Why Not? Free country. The Big City sAys “hi”—thanks Moj

    • First sometimes counts. I can think of a situation right now. Anyweeze, take that whore of a city of yours and make her wait for the bus in the rain.
      How’d you hold up this season? Did you crater this year? I did. Hit hard enough to think I banged-off the tranny. Scraping metal for blocks. Came reeeeeeeeel close to losing my shit this year. Held on by my cuticles. Just shows me I have more work to do. Not delivering for Fed-Ex work either. We’re talking chain gang shit.
      Lots and lots and lots of work left to do.
      Just because I can’t use the phone doesn’t mean you can’t.
      Johnny Work in Progress

      • This city can be trying for even the most jaded of souls. I have left her many times only to return w/tail tween legs. Anonymity comes w/turf. Tho, so there’s cover. We will have to co-ordinate meet w/or w/out old friends. Appreciate your honesty here.

  2. It is always good to cultivate the attitude of gratitude during this season, and I enjoy the way you cover a whole lot of the bases in this post. Merry Christmas Dude and don’t let yourself slack off like I am. Praying that you feel better+++

    • Saint Slacker, good to hear from you. I guess your Christmas is still coming. January 7th, no? I sometimes wish we’d go Gregorian over here. Just to mix things up. Like what Thursday Night Football used to do, before I got used to it. Anyway, you’re prayers are answered jr. I feel better, physically. Now I got all these other layers to sort through and tidy. The holiday blew threw here and scattered my shit all over the place. If you digeth?
      I tried to use all my spiritual tools this year, but that doesn’t help when you’re using a jackhammer to hang a picture.
      I’m wrestling with feeling I kind of failed. Tried and failed.
      Let things get to me more than I wanted them to.
      Oh well. Keep trying. Moving forward. Maintain walking fire.
      No but you go ahead of me.
      I’m scared.

      • Nope, we are New Calender folks, heretics to the old calender folks, yet being here in the good ole USA people get confused when you start doing stuff different, especially the bureaucrats and my church is trying to be more ecumenical, which of course carries its own load of drama inside and out. Don’t let that feeling of failure get to you, because if you are still breathing, you have another chance to fight and win. BTW walking on fire ain’t hard when ya learn there are certain rocks that ain’t as hot as the rest of the the path and won’t burn your feet. Peace and happiness to you and your’s+++

  3. St. Nick surely appreciates your correspondence. Merry Christmas. 

    From my Android phone on T-Mobile. The first nationwide 4G network.

    • Doesn’t hurt to check in proper with the old guy. Instead of just hitting “like” on one of his posts. It’s Christmas for God’s sake.
      Glad you checked in with me Larry. See you at Trader Joe’s.
      Back slap. Bear hug.

  4. Hope you’re feeling better after your ringpiece-o-rama. Remember, nothing makes the arse grow blonder (apart from anal bleaching).
    After our recent meningitis helliday, yeah, ten whole days full board, in hospilositos, I’m fully rested, and full of gratitude. Grateful to be sleeping in my own bed, not on a ward floor and that my daughter still has all her limbs and no signs of brain damage (she thrashed ME at scrabble again!).
    My bro is also out of the nuthouse and sober now for four weeks. My sis is also IN the nuthouse, where she needs to be for the time being.
    Happy holidays. x

    • Ya, I’m feeling much better. Thanky. Feel clean and lean. Now I’m not advocating that aspiring fitness enthusiasts should take stomach flu as an effective way to drop water weight, and get that Greek god-like muscle definition that wows the ladies and ten percent of the male population, but there have been case studies as well as anecdotal evidence (my favorite) that says if works wonders. There is a slight danger of becoming so transfixed by your image reflected in any passing pool of water that you fall in. And turn into a flower. And a psych term. However, stomach flu has been found to be safer than mail-order Clenbuterol from Italy. For those whose hearts may not be strong enough to maintain the 300-350 bpm pulse-rate, for longer than four hours. But I’ll let people make their own decisions.
      Pretty fucking magnanimous of me, I think.
      Hey, so good deal about the bairn still being able to brain you at the Scrab. Jesus, I’ll take a stomach flu while on Clenbuterol over what you must have gone through. If anybody’s offering that deal. Great about your bro leaving the laughing academy. I’m rooting for him. Again, very large of me. Ah, you know the intent is pure. I want everybody over in your shanty seaside kingdom to be happy and healthy. And just out of looking for a silver lining, I’m glad your sister is safely ensconced. Hope she starts feeling better soon.
      I guess there’s never a dull moment at Carnivore Manor. It’s just going to get livelier too, when you open that gypsy caravan camp in the moors behind the great house. I really wish you’d rethink that. You have so much on your plate already.
      And it is a huge fucking plate.
      Happy holidays, ya Rude-mon Boot-boy

      Narcissus Rex

    • Thank you, Nurse Judy. As I have discovered the nature of perspective to be quite malleable, I’ve found that it lends itself well to literary manipulation.
      Like a big ball of dough.
      Luv you right back.

  5. I got my Xmas gift here, kind sir. A new mega post here and some scribes on my corner of the world. A cosmic Gustaitis two-fer on tee, ready to grip and rip into the fairway. Clean lie for the birdie attempt, which goes up and down and into the cup. No rim lip dance. All Maxfli all the way.

    So which brings me to this post-turkey and stuffing induced tryptophan glamour shot and subequent correspondence with the reindeers’ Higher Power. It’s pure gold, methinks. Not myrrh or frankinsence…but gold, Jerry. It’s amazing how a twist and tweak of the perpspective muscle (located near the part of the brain that stores The Princess Bride quotes) changes the whole game. Nothing like watching or reading about the dying and destitute to shape up our first world problems. Charger cord for phone doesn’t reach the night stand? Boo hoo. Eat some scorpions for dinner and wash it down with some Chernobyl-scented cloud water and then talk to me. We may have a different conversation.

    But St. Nick – he knows this stuff. He plays coy with the whole naughty and nice thing. Uses it as a ploy to get kids to brush their teeth and not bash each other with the latest Ninjago weaponery. But he knows deep down where this all drags down to. He’s got the scoop, and that is he is down with who you are because if you don’t love yourself, someone has to. Either that or the Great Divine Energy. Or both. A tag-team of heart filling suplexes. Clothesline and buckle shot to the corazon. Hell, I am there with you on the cringing of that letter. I have a few of those kind of gems lying around somewhere in the vault. Had to open them once for someone, and they have lost much of their lustre, but they are there. Bring them out with the fruitcake once a year for shits and giggles. Or gut-churning reflection. But Nicky has your back. Always did. Always there when we weren’t there for ourselves. Someone had to carry the load. He’s got no problem – he’s got those weird animals doing the donkey work.

    I hope that the virus has high tailed it to visit some borderline lunatic in Tijuana. Take in some tacos to churn back out into projectile mulch for the begonias. Or that is slunked out of you to find rest within the plumbing system of your town. Live with the CHUDS and find companionship there. You have cats, so they are sort of companions until the Queen Bee comes back. Bzzzzzzzz.

    Get better, MG. The superhero world still needs you. You’re the only one with a Mega Rising Pheonix Cruiser license, so everyone’s been taking the 72B bus downtown in the meantime to combat evil. No room in those tights for exact change, so it’s been dismal down at the docks where evil does it’s thing.

    Santized hugs your way.


    • First off, what is this Ninjano weaponry that you speak of? Sounds efficient. It sounds like I need an arsenal of it. I’ll have ordinance shmooze the right pols and see if I can’t put in a low-ball bid that bites. Ninjano, you say? Weren’t they the ones that supplied the Congo? Sierra Leone? Rings a bell somewhere.
      No, I’m thinking of Novatrek. They did most of Africa.
      Dutch I think.
      I don’t trust the Dutch. I only deal with Canadians. What the Mormons were to Howard Hughes, the Canadians are to me. My go-to connect. My Canuck Connect. Always a square deal. No body gets greedy. Nobody steals too much from me. That settles it, I’ll have some Canadians look into it for me. See what you can find out, Pauly.
      Ninjano. I don’t know if that’s how you spell it.

      Well. That was a fun ride. Now here we are. Back at square one. Anyway, thanks for the great comment, as always. “A tag team of heart filling suplexes.” Rocks. Hard. You do know how to pick a good cosmic fruit. I have to give you that. Well, I guess I don’t have to. I could hold on to it. Put it somewhere in the garage. With all that other shit. I have to get in there. It’s out of control.
      What were we talking about? Seriously.
      Lets see. Fun ride. Square one. Great comment. Oh yeah. Yeah, when I see gems like that, I know you were humming. In the zone. The words are coming at you. You’re almost taking dictation. That’s a great feeling, no? Man, it sure is.
      So opposite of me now. At a complete and total loss as to what to write in reply. (I’m looking around the room now. Like I’m going to find it lying around) Ridiculous.
      It’s like I’m acting in a dinner play at the Community Theater.
      As I’m looking around though, I can tell you this much. The place is a lot neater when Lori is home. We got us a college dorm room feel to the place. Minus the ziggurat skyscrapers constructed out of beer cans.
      It’s a lot easier to let things go when it’s just me and the cats. I kind of like it. And kind of don’t. Not cleaning up is awesome. But I don’t like how messy things get. What to do? A dilemma right out of Hamlet. Tragic really.
      Hey, wasn’t he Dutch?
      Danish Dutch same thing. All I’m saying is when they’re around, people start dying. That’s all.
      What else? I had something else I was meaning to tell you. Oh. Two guys in the same amount of days asked me to help them. You know. With that thing of ours. Well, it’s been years. Not that there hasn’t been guys around mooching freebies. I’m talking about putting them through the drill. Capezio? Anyway, I was thinking about it the other day and kind of getting my feelings hurt, so I did the Oh Well Prayer. Few days later, bing-bah! Two guys. Help me. Help me.
      Now I don’t want to deal with their shit. Why me, God?
      Kidding. Of course.
      Nah, they’re great guys. Hope I can help. Feels good to be asked.
      Sadie Hawkins dance, all over again.
      You know. I know you know. I bet you get asked a lot. Smart fella like you.
      That’s all. On that front.
      I guess we’re still waiting on that thing with you still. Ah, that’ll be a cakewalk. You’re in the Zone. So it doesn’t matter which way it goes. It’ll be perfect. Heated toilet seat. Comfortable ride anywhere.
      The inverse is true too. Fall out of the zone, and you can find yourself cratering on a beach in the south of France.
      So stay in the zone. Autozone!
      Do they have that commercial in Canada? I sure hope so. Otherwise you won’t get my joke.
      And I’d have to drink myself to death.
      Please don’t make me drink myself to death, Pauly. That’s all I ask.
      And see about Ninjano. If they’re Dutch or not.

      Groucho-stepping my way off stage,

  6. I never know what to say in these comments sections. Just here to agitate for another installment of trudging and gut spilling. If you enjoy the theatre of the mind, might I recommend the curatorial stylings of Roy Of Hollywood. This is not a paid advertisement. This evening’s block of programming right up my alley and maybe your’s too! At least it’ll get me 24 hours closer to Hump Day.

    • Dude. I never know what to say in the comment section either. Most of the time, at least. So I very much appreciate the effort on your part. As for another installment of gut-spillage, I don’t know. I have been staring at a blank screen for a while now. Drumming my fingers, waiting on the muse with the hot news. So far nothing.
      It gets to the point where I feel a low-grade anxiety whenever I even think about writing. Mild anxiety mixed with dread. That’s what I get. When I think about writing. Which makes this little blog hobby all the more fun. Makes me really glad I’m doing it. Because if there’s one thing I want to voluntarily pursue more of, it’s anxiety mixed with dread. Blended just right.
      Yum yum.
      Fucking shit. I’ll get through this. Or not. I’m determined to publish something this week-end. No matter how it makes me feel. Mostly because I know that whatever torture writing is, for me, not writing is even worse.

      Embracing the creative spirit within and twisting it’s arm to cough up the goods,
      PS Roy is my boy! Check him out, Insk. Seems like you would dig his show.

      • Clock ticking? No pressure here. It’s just so darn hard to find quality entertainment these days. The muse is elusive. Can strike you without warning or hide in the shadows for great stretches. She can be coaxed, but never herded. I’ve sometimes heard her whisper. “Don’t fence me in”. Stubborn and mean sometimes, too. I know you’ll get some deep feedback from her soon. Hey, you realize how many Gdarn times I check this here bulletin board? Oh for Pete’s sake, just put me on the mailing list. Would ya!

      • Fuck that, dude. I’m going to keep you running up my stats. No wonder my numbers look so good lately. Anyway, I don’t know how to put you on my mailing list, but there should be a widget there for that. Last time I checked. Okay, time to drum fingers. Gotta bolt. Lets talk soon.

        Karl LaFong.

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