what the French call "les incompetentes"

Living it up in the Urbana this weekend with my beloved family. It's ten-thirty on Christmas Eve, we've survived our annual Chinese restaurant dinner and church service, and now are feasting on our videotape of "Home Alone" and Bushmill's Irish whiskey. Well, just dad and myself for the whiskey, as men do.

The holiday season has been marked by great joy. We had a couple wonderful parties with the Wicker Park/Jaguar axis, and a few lovely nights of the old school. And no, no, I didn't get arrested for battery and possession, but when an offhand joke turns into a story, it's got to go somewhere ---- can I be begrudged an affection for "interactive fiction", as Valiant and I dubbed it, or my preferred euphemism, "a holiday fable"?

Some highlights, in no particular order:
* Luman searching furiously, in vain, for the hidden bottle of Maker's that Derek had wisely stashed. At 3am.
*Kim Lodolce texting me the now-infamous line "how can you text message with your hands cuffed?" thinking that I was in police custody. Because I had told her I was in police custody.
*KoHoll interviewing Luman's old girlfriend for a job and reporting that she was "hot".
*Brown Mistress song. Amen.
*Women who are so honest that they're not.
*Love Actually. C'mon, it's a good movie.
*The new(er) Ryan Adams record. Because three records in seven months is just the right amount.
*Jessica Horn forgiving me. Maybe?

Merry Christmas. I love you.

it's a hard way to fall

First off, most of my body is covered in bruises from two rather odd occurences. One, the cop and I had a twenty-minute fistfight/wrestling match in our kitchen on Saturday. It was all in good friendly fun, especially the part where we were punching each other's ribs and kidneys furiously. But still, ouch.
Two, on Saturday evening Luman and I had some snow/party fun with the Jaguars, involving running and sliding on slippery sidewalks, which led to various amounts of falling on hard concrete. But again, much fun. Bruises, like hangovers, are just wry little postcards to remind one of the fun one had the night previous.

Christmas time is fast approaching, and, ma and pa, if you are reading, my laptop is still in a coma. Thus, I have not been able to read or revise the annual Christmas letter. Frustrating that the world may be deprived of my literary touch for another year. Frustrating, or merciful.

Our political guest for the week, Cary (a young lady), says that I talk about romance "just like a girl."
Fuck you, Cary. I blame Dawson's Creek. Apologies for the language, and thanks for reading this rather neurotic post, loved ones.

rotten Apples

Apologies for the expletive, but my beloved Powerbook laptop has fallen ill and won't breathe on its own. So while it's waiting to be taken to the Apple store, I'll have pretty much no knowledge of politics or contemporary culture. Your jokes will fly over my head. I can check my email in the mornings and night, but that's about all.
Once again, technology has mastered its master. Ouch.

the Brown Mistress sings "Aaah-aaaaaah"

We celebrated Prince Valiant's 24th birthday with a quiet evening of drinks and conversation at the jaguar house and then at Danny's. Lodolce senior and I responsibly chaperoned the kids, making sure they didn't sit too close or hold hands too much.

Work started on "writing" what will be, likely, the most important song of the century so far, a tribute to the Brown Mistress. Details are murky, but we're ready to reveal that the bridge involves Kim singing an airy aria as others clap. It's like Joni Mitchell meets Van Morrison meets Schubert.

So, if you have any lyrical contributions, please post them in the comments, or send an email to myself or Kristin. Then again, she was pretty well tossed and may have no memory of this song idea whatsoever.

Happy birthday Nate Luman.

Those damn kids and their rock n roll lifestyles.


Kristin prays that her sister and Nate stop making out in public. God declined her request.

From the window ledge of that 59th story

This evening I'm housesitting at the Four Seasons, hanging out with my sad-eyed lady of the lowlands, Maia, who doesn't bark and likes to sleep on my feet.
From up here I can see pretty much the entire city, all lit up like a birthday cake. If I was going to asssassinate someone, it would be from one of these windows. With a strong scope of course, because everyone looks like a midget ant.

We're watching (yeah, WE) The Upside of Anger with Joan Allen and Kevin Costner. The plot is pretty thin, bu it doesn't matter at all because there's more chemistry between Kevin and Joan than a Christmas party at the Dupont plant (what?)
Not too be weird, but Joan Allen is a bona fide fox. And Kevin Costner is a handsome man. And they're both hiliariously good in this movie. Oscar-good.
Mom and dad, you guys would love this movie.