Inappropriate Holiday Thoughts

Christmas lights have gone up on a couple of houses nearby. Across the street, a string of unblinking red bulbs surrounds a window. They remind me of the red bulbs that marked the emergency exits of old, early 20th century hotels and apartment houses in Los Angeles. These lights could sometimes be seen from street or alley windows that gave onto fire escapes. I don't think that Christmas lights are meant to call to mind such places as those, with their grime-streaked windowpanes, wood mullions and sash and frames flaking layer after layer of paint, maybe some brown tatters of sheers which once made an attempt at bringing the place a bit of respectability, but, aged to little more than dust, serve only to emphasize its decay, and all dimly bloodied by the red light. I wish I hadn't noticed those lights. Now I will likely dream of spalled brick walls, narrow corridors, creaking floors, random sounds bespeaking failure and despair, and the smell of dry rot and stale bedding, whisky and smoke, and worn, cracked linoleum lately mopped with diluted Lysol. Jingle bells, holy night, fa-la-la-la-la- not to mention ho, ho, ho.

Brief Appearance

There was spaghetti again. It happens from time to time. Too often, for me, but it's easy to make, so I endure it out of sloth and impatience. I'd have liked some nice baked eggplant to go with it, but thought of it too late. Maybe next time.

Saturday night, and everything is quiet. I suppose everyone else in the neighborhood is off to the seven-plex, or the bowling alley, or the dull restaurants or the tatty bars. The more adventurous may be disporting themselves in the metropolitan fleshpots of Chico, and a lucky few may have made their way to San Francisco for a weekend of holiday shopping and STDs. I am here with Sluggo, wandering the virtual world. There's just a bit of self-pity involved in those thoughts.

The afternoon was interesting. Lovely swaths of cirrus clouds, as pleasant as any to be seen in spring, shared the sky with a long line of dark, brooding nimbus which dominated the west. Thus far, the latter have not decided to drop anything on me, but they could. I take solace in the fact that the air, though cold, would have to fall another ten degrees before anything that might be dropped on me could be frozen. Yes, I'm grateful for small favors, and much prefer the self-disposing rain to the cumulative and persistent snow.

Now, unread stuff to catch up on. On which to catch up. Whatever.