The Xmas season began with the annual block party. That was frantic enough, but a week later Carolyn, our neighbor across the way, phoned and invited us to a "mulled wine and cheeser" at her place. Now, cast your minds back: Carolyn is the real estate agent/Viagra whore who lives with Mr. K, spawn of Satan, across the street from us. As you will recall, when K’s wife was called back to hell to take up a job as chief torturer in the sixth circle, K struck an unholy deal with Carolyn: she gets his house in return for taking care of him until the end of his demonic days. Now, NO ONE beside the Ks and Carolyn has ever been in that house before. I’m not exaggerating. There’s a lady on our street who has lived here for over 60 years; she has never been in the K house or heard of anyone entering the house. So we had to go.
The house is about 70 years old and has never been updated. It’s in good shape, but frozen in the time. The only change has been the addition of Carolyn’s furniture, much of it dark, oriental, and spooky. Looks like it was stolen from a Bangkok S&M palace. We were the youngest people at the party by a good 25 years. The food (fondue, meatballs), was also a good quarter of a century out of date. So essentially it was us, surrounded by seniors in various states of decrepitude, poking at food that came from those recipes they used to present on the Kraft TV commercials ("Unexpected guests? Mix two lbs. of processed cheese with a cup of suet, sprinkle with nuts and Corn Flakes, and serve on white bread that has been soaked in catsup...").
Some of these old timers were truly bizarre. One old boy, who looked like a Monty-Python caricature of a retired British field marshal, got all excited when Carolyn put on a jazz CD. He hobbled over to those of us standing by the stereo and bellowed, "We used to call them Negroes! That was the scientific term! Negroes!" He then closed his eyes and mimed playing piano until he fell over.
The king of the proceedings was, of course, Mr. Lance K, 91-years young, enthroned in the middle of the room and looking dapper in his rolled down sweatsocks. The man radiates so much pure evil that almost no one spoke to him and very few even looked at him for fear of him throwing a hex. He didn’t seem to mind. Now again, apropos of nothing, he would bellow out some non sequitur at the crowd. My favorite was, "They don’t do plastering like this any more!" At one point he pointed at a painting on the wall–it looked like one of Hitler’s early works; a childishly distorted, malignant landscape–and shouted, "That house was built in 1908!" Fine Lance. Thank you. God bless. When someone did gather up the nerve to approach His Darkness, he tried to force his face into some semblance of what we humans call a "smile." On him, it looked like crustacean folding itself into attack position.
We left before he could choose a victim for the human sacrifice.
A day or two later, we packed the kids off on the big vacation to Disneyland. Now, any trip to California means one thing: lots of driving. The driving comes in two varieties. First, there is the white-knuckle frenzy of screaming along a six-lane highway in the middle of the night surrounded by millions of other cars (who are all these people? where are they going?) all being operated by crack-addled lunatics who happen to be packing heat. Second, there is sitting perfectly still in traffic for hours at a stretch while your life ticks away. Which is better? I haven’t been able to decide.
Finally made it to Anaheim, a vast industrial park with a theme park in the middle of it, and checked into the fashionable Howard Johnson hotel. It was interesting sharing a hotel room with the kids. First of all, they had to share a bed. Great. Sorta like putting a cobra and mongoose in a sack and hoping they’ll get along. And, I’ve got to admit, being in the same room with the kids kinda cramped the parents’s style. I mean, when a married couple gets into a hotel room for the night, only one thing is supposed to happen, right? Watching porno movies on the tube. We had to lock the kids in the bathroom for over two hours.
As for Disneyland itself, what can I say? It’s the surreal home of hyper-obese Americans, utterly confused but grinning Japanese, and every screaming child in the world. Our children didn’t have time to scream. They were too busy trying to figure out ways to make their parents throw up. Two consecutive rides on Space Mountain? Almost did it. Splash Mountain? Thunder Mountain? Any other ride with a fucking mountain in it? We got them back, however, by taking them on the ultimate ride, the Indiana Jones Adventure. The best three-and-a-half minutes of my life, including my honeymoon. Karen and I were frantic to go on it again but the kids, ashen-faced and trembling, demurred. Wimps.
Then it was down to San Diego. San Diego receives 9 inches of rain a year. They all fell while we were there. This did not stop us, however, from enjoying historic Old Town. This is the old Spanish part of the city which now serves as a clip-joint for out-of-town Americans. In the 18th and 19th centuries it served as a clip-joint for out-of-town Mexicans. We spent many hours walking around, trying to find a bathroom for the kids.
The next day we went to the famous San Diego zoo. We saw the panda bears and learned that they take a dump 48 times a day. They are, apparently, prodigious readers. We also saw a meerkat throwing up. It was remarkable nonchalant about the affair.
Then it was back to L.A. to camp out at the Graham’s empty domicile in the Pacific Pallisades. Many thanks to Graham for his true Lavabrethren generosity in opening his doors to us; we tried to share the love by inviting in some homeless psychiatric patients and crack whores.
It was, by this time, getting rather chilly by California standards. A nice oil-drum fire in Graham’s front room quickly warmed things up. Perhaps the favorite thing about the days at Graham’s house for the kids was being able to go into the backyard and actually pick a ripe orange off a tree. So they carefully picked ALL the oranges and pegged them at the neighbor’s garage.
While taking the kids for a walk in the neighborhood one day I practically bumped into (I’m not making this up) Anthony Hopkins. He was looking pretty snazzy. I should be seeing a lot more of him in the future, now that I owe him $20.
And then it was time to come home to freezing temperatures and one of the freak snowstorms that Vancouver gets every couple of winters. This year it fell on the night before Xmas eve. Now, understand, for us Lithuanians, Xmas eve is the big event of the year. And it is defined by one principle: gluttony. The hosts of Xmas eve have to serve 12 meatless dishes at a feast that can take several hours to consume. At the end of the night you’re glad that Christ the Savior was born because you feel like you’re going to die. So, we had planned to have Karen’s folks, her sister and brother-in-law and, because he was alone for Xmas, Mick, the Fray drummer, for the pig-out. I made the traditional Brobdignagian servings of food and then Mick phoned. Can’t come. He’s got a new girlfriend and he’s going to her place. Only a drummer would turn down a Lithuanian dinner for some skirt. Then it began to snow some more and the in-laws called to say they couldn’t get out of their driveway. So, Xmas eve, food for a Roman legion spread out on the table, and it’s me, K, and the kids who, of course, are too excited by the prospect of presents to eat. If I freeze this stuff, we shouldn’t have to cook again until Easter.
Anyway, top of the season to all of you on the Lavanet. Rock the New Year.
Jingle.
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