SANTA MAY BE DEAD

Since I stayed up until the early morning hours Christmas Eve and abused myself in the spirit of the holiday season, I don't crawl off the floor until the early afternoon. I'm not too hungover since I didn't plunge myself into the unconsciousness last night. There were several young people at the gathering and it was pleasant to listen to their perspective on life. While the old folks busied themselves with family rumors and remembrances of past loved ones, the youth wanted to inebriate themselves, smoke cigarettes and speak of ideals.

To be honest, I don't know their major themes except Mexico has many more miles to trek and Trump is trash. While I grow less and less sure about myself as I age, they are firm in their beliefs. If it has to climb over their dead bodies, change will have to come. Like their adult counterparts, some things never change. They want to drink themselves into a stupor.

As benefits a Christmas morning, Santa has left a freezing wake on his journey to the south. It is rainy and gloomy. Thunder and lightning provide the frozen fireworks. There is an excellent Mexican greasy spoon less than a two blocks from my apartment. I don't think it is open and I don't want to venture into the inclement weather even though a hot of coffee seems worth the risk as well as a late breakfast.

I have no plans for today. I suppose as evening approaches, I'll drink a bottle of wine and eat a well-catered meal. I reflect on Brownsville and on all the chaos that exists for me here. My personal life has turned into a catastrophe as it seems to succumb to less and less meaning. Without sounding too melancholy, not one of my sons has called me although a few friends have been kind enough to forward their regards. How the mighty have fallen!

Franko Harris, the great Steeler running back infamous for the immaculate reception, suddenly dropped dead at 72. My old pugilistic buddy Joe Barguiarena suffered a permanent knockout last week. Whether they're national heroes or personal friends, they are dropping like flies. I'll be 74 in four days although I don't feel like I'm in danger of dying within the next few months although all these wide-spread viruses seem to be taking a toll on the best of all.

I fear that the state of our health is taking such a woeful toll on humanity that I wouldn't be surprised if someone informed me that Santa was dead.

MEXICO CITY CHRISTMAS

I will spend Christmas with my adopted family in Mexico City. They treat me like an uncle and I do my best to contribute to the festivities. It will be a traditional bacalao dinner although there will be pizza for the kids. 

As the oldest of eight, I celebrated Christmas with the youthful innocence of any child. My father was a white-collar salesman who brought home blue-collar wages. My mother had her hands full with a growing brood.

We passed through periods of poverty. We had so few family possessions that at one point there was a picnic table in the front room and mattresses in the bedrooms. Our situation was so dire that on an occasion all we had was a frozen package of pees in the freezer as we waited anxiously for my father to come home with food.

Despite our many challenges that we overcame through the years as we progressed economically, there was never a dearth of presents at Christmas and our stockings were will filled to capacity, apples and oranges the biggest items, but there would always be a tiny toy or two.

I don't have any idea the sacrifices my parents made to assure the holidays were a special time for us, but they never failed. And the turkey dinner, always my father's specialty, was second to one. I once called my mother to the front window and we spotted the outline of Santa Claus and his reindeer etched against the moon. When people find themselves depressed at Christmas, these memories are a double-edged sword that leave wounds that still bleed in one's heart.

Through three marriages, I took the lead in making sure my three boys and two step-children enjoyed Christmas as much as I had. Unlike my parents who stuck together through thick and thin, two of my three wives cheated on me, so there were festive seasons when I found myself alone and without the ecstasy of watching the kids open their presents. 

One wife and I were going to reconciliate for Christmas Eve, but when she told me that her latest lover had ejaculated twice on her stomach in the morning, I immediately lost the holiday spirit. In her demented and debauched mind, she thought she was being generous because she didn't want me eating her pussy full of his sperm.

Regardless of the less than merry Christmases that I missed, there were others that paralleled the joyful celebrations of my childhood. They remain with me, but I carry a bitterness that results from a combination of factors. 

When I think of ex-spouses who would rather open their legs to other men than sharing in the jolly moment their children were opening their presents, I try to overcome my pessimism by remembering the profound love my mom and dad experienced together as there was no tawdry temptation or cheap thrill that would ever threaten the beauty and and the bounty of the family.