There's something about Christmas that can lend itself to a sort of emotion I've always found it hard to describe (but for which I have a secret, inexplicable fondness): a bittersweet, kind of sad, nostalgic, blue sort of "we're all in this together" thing that partially stems from mild loneliness and partially from a sense of non-conformity (O! the righteousness of "We're not going to be taken in by THEM!" Scrooge-sympathizers).
You can get the idea of this if you think, of, say, colorful (but certainly not tragically addicted) drunks in a bar on Christmas Eve, enjoying some the special thrown-togetherness of accidental camaraderie. Maybe you sleep with someone you shouldn't have, but you'd both been heading that way all fall and didn't it feel good to get it out of your system. And it's Christmas, when the bars put up Christmas lights and maybe there's eggnog in the better bars, but there's at least whisky or martinis in the others; Christmas, when the weather is cold and people come in, red- nosed, to shake off the chill, taking their coats off to get warm by the fire (if you're at one of the places that serves eggnog) and by the jukebox (if you're not). They take off their gloves and push back their hoods, and they buy each other drinks, and commiserate, and get too drunk and tell their stories.
And if it's a sappy Hollywood holiday movie, there's the moment in the middle of this romantic scene, with soft, old jazz in the background, when the ex-wife calls and wants him back, or he walks in the door and she runs into his arms. The moment when someone walks in and says "She's going to pull through" or "I'm sorry" or maybe even an "I love you."
Why I find Christmas romantic, I'm not 100% sure. I suppose one reason might be that once you get older, all of childhood seems more romantic than it was when you were living it (the essence of nostalgia), and that's especially true of Christmas: the wonder, the excitement, the thrill of it all - presents AND good cheer. Sweets to eat AND people being especially kind of each other. I never had children, so my Christmas didn't transform into the raucous, wild frenzy I've seen when small kids are around - it's amazing how shrill they can be, and of course, also how adorable. Anyway, I'm not saying I am a Christmas barfly or anything, but I've definitely tended more towards the blues in a bar Christmas rather than the shinning kids scrubbed for Christmas morning mass.
When I was a child, raised Catholic, we *did* go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and that was very romantic: I got to stay up late, I usually had a new outfit (oh, how freakishly well I remember some of my Christmas outfits, even with my famously poor memory of childhood) that, more likely than not, my mother had sewed for me; it was often snowy and Christmas-y upon returning home, all starlight and icicles and things that feel better than anything when you're a kid.
So much expectation, from the presents ("What did I get?") to the weather ("will it snow?") to the very story of Christ, which is, after all, about his *beginning* - when it's all ahead of him. It's all possibility and expectation, and those are two foundational elements in romance. Easter is not romantic; epiphany, while fascinating, is not romantic, nor is lent. But the story of the virgin birth - the unexpected grumpily obligatory journey (over exotic lands!), Mary pregnant, and then the forced stay in the stable. It's practically a romantic comedy, very "It Happened One Night" - this mismatched couple on the road: "Do you remember? You were pregnant and we had to sleep in that old barn?" I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here; I am pointing out how this archetypal story has found its way into our mass psyche, because it's important: it runs deep, no matter what your personal spiritual beliefs.
After all, Christmas coincides with the winter solstice, and used to be a pagan holiday. Let's face it: you certainly need *something* to get you through these long, cold nights, when the garden looks like it's dead, and summer is a long way off. I grew up back east, and remember snow (which, by the way, I crave these days); snow, while fun for a while, but ultimately depressing and hard. Christmas, with its gold and tinsel and tales of heartwarming good cheer, really can give one something to look forward to/remember.
Which brings me back to the idea of a blue Christmas, which surprisingly has a sort of appeal. I remember my ex-husband once told me a story - whether it was a dream, something he had heard or read, or a fantasy, I don't know; a story is a story, I guess - about this woman, this young woman who lived in a big city, walk up studio, not much money, living a little on the edge, drinking too much, probably drinking too much on Christmas Eve as she cooks dinner, and there's no money to decorate, but she manages to somehow get a tree. No decorations, however. She thinks to use her earrings - nothing fancy, maybe some costume jewelry, and something Grandma passed down to her, a few items from old boyfriends or birthdays. And the tree looks beautiful.
But my ex was a tragic romantic. I myself prefer to be a light-hearted romantic, but at the time I was tragically attracted to the tragically romantic, not realizing how, ultimately, depressed and depressing they are. I know better now, but I remember him telling me this story with a sort of pushy suggestion, as if he wanted me to be poor (which I was) and think of something as sad and creative and urban and make-do-it-to-ness as hanging jewelry on a tree. But I didn't. I never had a very easy time pleasing him, and he was very demanding.
I started to get a feeling of a blue Christmas when I was an older kid, I think. Midnight mass turned less innocent when I got a huge crush on a guy in my youth group and saw him at church. He was right at the top end of the youth group, age wise, and I was technically not yet a teen - the relationship was very confused and tortured already, and then he unexpectedly graduated high school and went off to college. I wasn't even in high school yet and my boyfriend was going off to college - it was tragic. But he came home for Christmas, and upon seeing him at midnight mass, I was thrown into a bevy of mixed emotions, none of which had to do with the story of Christ. I was in pain, broken-hearted righteous confused pain. Christmas was a time for crying.
When I got older, I discovered crying in one's drink. I don't drink much - some wine - but when I was in my early 20's, I was enthusiastic as youngsters can be at that age for drinking. Bars - I remember seeing a professor friend of mine, E, in a bar in my hometown downtown one Christmas Eve when my ex walked in - for the first time - with someone else. Oh, that moment, that moment when one first runs into one's ex in public. I ran outside to my friend E, and buried my face in his jacket - it was cold that night. He'd come at my call - I told him I'd run into the ex - and he was instant sympathy and comfort. He told me how awesome I was and how nasty my ex was and certainly how nasty the woman with my ex was.
Then there was the pinnacle of those blue Christmas moments: melancholy but nothing actually wrong or unpleasant. Back in the mid- to late 90's, especially in the Bay Area, swing dancing was at its peak of popularity, and I was into it - I did the lindy, especially. I dressed up in vintage dresses - I had a supplier who got them from Germany where the hausfraus were curvy and short and more my size - and did my hair and makeup. I didn't go insane over it - I saw women who were like extras in a period piece - but I did it well.
There was a place called Spencer's, which was *the* best swing club anywhere. It was a secret space - an old green room for the band when they had live music - in the back of the DNA Lounge (an 80's club). You had to know how to get back there, and to say the secret word or hand the secret card to the dressed-to-the-nines doorman (until they knew you by sight and nodded you coolly in). You had to be dressed right - there was a dress code. Too sloppy and they rejected you (so I heard - never happened to me, of course). This was a classy establishment.
Spencer was a swing DJ, and he ran this place on Saturday nights only. It was underground and so late night - anytime before midnight was dead, and it really picked up once the bands finished their final sets and people finished late dinners. There were nights when it was so packed you could barely find a place to stand, much less sit, much less DANCE (oh, the dance floor was small) but most nights you could catch a seat at one of those low tables with old-time cocktail lamps casting soft light on the draped tabletops. The whole place was hung with draperies, possibly old curtains from theaters - in harsh light, I'm sure it may have looked a bit run-down or low-rent, but Spencer was great with lighting - always Christmas lights behind the makeshift yet mirrored bar - and so, as with the Dickens Faire, it's easy to suspend one's disbelief a little and enjoy the theater of life.
And I remember this one Christmas time visit to Spencer's - it was probably Christmas Eve Eve: not quite the actual holiday where you were expected to be somewhere specific, but close enough so that if you *were* at Spencer's, you probably did not have other plans - in an either cool or pathetic way (or a bit of both, actually). I may have gone alone, expecting to meet up spontaneously with the regulars, my swing friends, my regular dance partners; I did that frequently, and it worked well - I always had someone to sit with. And as we know, running into someone is super romantic, inherently; running into fellow regulars is a reason to go on.
So I was at Spencer's this Saturday night, and it was very slow. A few couples spaced apart, huddled close at the low tables, speaking in hushed tones. Spencer was in a pensive, wistful mood, playing slow blues and gentle jazz. The floor was almost empty. A guy was probably sitting alone at the little four or five person bar - I don't remember, but all of Spencer's was theatre/token-sized; maybe it was a guy, drinking a martini and chatting with Spencer, both of them in sharp suits and fedoras.
Side note: it's funny - I can't remember every detail, but when I googled for this, all I found was an archive of the DNA Lounge Calendar that mentions "Swinging with Spencer" every Saturday night in the lounge from 1997 - 1999. That sounds right. I remember I was so bummed when Spencer's closed - it was the end for me. I stopped swing dancing. Anyway...
So it was a slow Christmas Eve Eve let's say, and I was looking for company. My favorite regular partner, E, was there; I liked him a lot because he was funny and a good conversationalist as well as a terrific dance partner. Also - and this was just sheer bonus - he was also a big guy: not fat, but just super largely built, like a linebacker, only he was incredibly graceful due to his dancing skills. He handled his bulk far better than most men handled their silly normal sized bodies.
I think I have mentioned, I'm no stick figure, and although I am light on my feet, swing is harder than waltz to maintain separate balance and weight. With the lindy, you have to give yourself over to your leader, and as I carry my bulk well, partners were often miscalculating with me...or, more frequently an issue, would transmit to me (through our connected body parts, hand, arm, whatever) every bump and stumble. Normal partners get jostled and the partner gets knocked off too, because the connection has to be so tight - relaxed tension is the ideal. But with E, his bulk just absorbed it. He was intrinsically protective of his lady when he danced, and he also had the best moves. He was a clear and invitational leader (as opposed to a dictatorial one: sometimes the guys throw you around - no fun), and also, as I mentioned, had a great light yet intelligent personality.
Then the song "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" came on - maybe the Frank (Sinatra) version? I'd never listened to it before, really - had heard it a thousand times, but never really connected with it. This night, in the peculiar silence of a slow night pre-holiday at the club, I heard the words for the first time:
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light
From now on our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more.
Through the years we all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle though somehow
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
And there I really was, as in golden days of yore, and maybe E was singing this, and maybe I was too - we were known to do that sometimes - and this song just *imprinted* Christmas upon me. The bluest but most pleasant Christmas - ultimately nostalgic and ultimately romantic. The soft music, the scattered couples, the upside down blue lit Christmas tree, my great dress, E - and that line "we'll have to muddle though somehow." I was just caught. I had a perfect moment. I had a perfect *Christmas* moment - and nothing is more perfect than a perfect Christmas moment.
So, I love that song. I think of that moment - or rather, I feel it - every Christmas, and especially when I head that song. Oddly, the main line - the climax, the whole point, the line that captures the very essence of the mood ("We'll have to muddle though somehow") was changed, by Sinatra (he asked songwriter Hugh Martin to revise it to something less depressing), to "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough," which is NOT the same at all. It's no good. You lose the sad hopefulness. You lose the hopeful sadness. You lose the dream that one dreams against all odds. Hanging a shining star - it's too bright, too clean, too upbeat. But the muddle through *somehow* - that takes heart. That takes courage. Earlier today, I just watched Judy Garland sing the original version (from "Meet Me in St. Louis"), and when she hits that "somehow," it's soul-wrenching and beautiful, and it's poignant whether things are going well for you or things are not. It's got a universality that gives humanity hope - that's what is in that "muddle through somehow."
I still love the song, but when someone sings the (in my mind) *correct* version of it, it's like the best bonus of all. With every new version - and believe me, everyone does a version - I listen to, I wait for that one line. Will they know to muddle through? And when they do, I am taken right back to Spencer's, dancing past midnight on a Saturday night with my great partner E, with that upside down blue tree as our only light, and I am so happy I am sad, and so sad I am happy, and that is my very favorite feeling in the world.
And you know why? I mean, why is a blue Christmas appealing, a little bit? Because making do is easier than being actually full of joy. We can all press on - keep calm and carry on - keep a stiff upper lip - display grace under pressure. Circumstances that keep us down keep us safe. And let's face it - the bar is set high during Christmas. A holiday that is supposed to be magical? That's a little hard to pull off. The pressure. I think of those lines from the Spalding Gray monologue, referencing the Balinese, I think, or some other carefree islanders: "They knew how to have a good time being born, a good time growing up...a good time falling and staying in love...a good time growing old and dying. They even knew how to have a good time on New Year's Eve." Incredible.
It's true - the more special a moment is supposed to be, the less likely it actually will be, it seems. Taking one's vows. The first moment one has sex. The moment they call your name after the sentence that begins "And the winner is...." Asking one to marry one. Whatever. Christmas is supposed to be *so* great, it can seem a lot more appealing to bow gracefully out, forget the whole thing and hang out with the other barflies, slow dancing under a blue tree.
So, no matter what you're doing this Christmas - be you surrounded by family at your ranch house in the snow or tipsy at the neighborhood dive or anywhere in between, may you and yours find whatever comfort and joy you can. In other words, have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
You can get the idea of this if you think, of, say, colorful (but certainly not tragically addicted) drunks in a bar on Christmas Eve, enjoying some the special thrown-togetherness of accidental camaraderie. Maybe you sleep with someone you shouldn't have, but you'd both been heading that way all fall and didn't it feel good to get it out of your system. And it's Christmas, when the bars put up Christmas lights and maybe there's eggnog in the better bars, but there's at least whisky or martinis in the others; Christmas, when the weather is cold and people come in, red- nosed, to shake off the chill, taking their coats off to get warm by the fire (if you're at one of the places that serves eggnog) and by the jukebox (if you're not). They take off their gloves and push back their hoods, and they buy each other drinks, and commiserate, and get too drunk and tell their stories.
And if it's a sappy Hollywood holiday movie, there's the moment in the middle of this romantic scene, with soft, old jazz in the background, when the ex-wife calls and wants him back, or he walks in the door and she runs into his arms. The moment when someone walks in and says "She's going to pull through" or "I'm sorry" or maybe even an "I love you."
Why I find Christmas romantic, I'm not 100% sure. I suppose one reason might be that once you get older, all of childhood seems more romantic than it was when you were living it (the essence of nostalgia), and that's especially true of Christmas: the wonder, the excitement, the thrill of it all - presents AND good cheer. Sweets to eat AND people being especially kind of each other. I never had children, so my Christmas didn't transform into the raucous, wild frenzy I've seen when small kids are around - it's amazing how shrill they can be, and of course, also how adorable. Anyway, I'm not saying I am a Christmas barfly or anything, but I've definitely tended more towards the blues in a bar Christmas rather than the shinning kids scrubbed for Christmas morning mass.
When I was a child, raised Catholic, we *did* go to midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and that was very romantic: I got to stay up late, I usually had a new outfit (oh, how freakishly well I remember some of my Christmas outfits, even with my famously poor memory of childhood) that, more likely than not, my mother had sewed for me; it was often snowy and Christmas-y upon returning home, all starlight and icicles and things that feel better than anything when you're a kid.
So much expectation, from the presents ("What did I get?") to the weather ("will it snow?") to the very story of Christ, which is, after all, about his *beginning* - when it's all ahead of him. It's all possibility and expectation, and those are two foundational elements in romance. Easter is not romantic; epiphany, while fascinating, is not romantic, nor is lent. But the story of the virgin birth - the unexpected grumpily obligatory journey (over exotic lands!), Mary pregnant, and then the forced stay in the stable. It's practically a romantic comedy, very "It Happened One Night" - this mismatched couple on the road: "Do you remember? You were pregnant and we had to sleep in that old barn?" I'm not trying to be sacrilegious here; I am pointing out how this archetypal story has found its way into our mass psyche, because it's important: it runs deep, no matter what your personal spiritual beliefs.
After all, Christmas coincides with the winter solstice, and used to be a pagan holiday. Let's face it: you certainly need *something* to get you through these long, cold nights, when the garden looks like it's dead, and summer is a long way off. I grew up back east, and remember snow (which, by the way, I crave these days); snow, while fun for a while, but ultimately depressing and hard. Christmas, with its gold and tinsel and tales of heartwarming good cheer, really can give one something to look forward to/remember.
Which brings me back to the idea of a blue Christmas, which surprisingly has a sort of appeal. I remember my ex-husband once told me a story - whether it was a dream, something he had heard or read, or a fantasy, I don't know; a story is a story, I guess - about this woman, this young woman who lived in a big city, walk up studio, not much money, living a little on the edge, drinking too much, probably drinking too much on Christmas Eve as she cooks dinner, and there's no money to decorate, but she manages to somehow get a tree. No decorations, however. She thinks to use her earrings - nothing fancy, maybe some costume jewelry, and something Grandma passed down to her, a few items from old boyfriends or birthdays. And the tree looks beautiful.
But my ex was a tragic romantic. I myself prefer to be a light-hearted romantic, but at the time I was tragically attracted to the tragically romantic, not realizing how, ultimately, depressed and depressing they are. I know better now, but I remember him telling me this story with a sort of pushy suggestion, as if he wanted me to be poor (which I was) and think of something as sad and creative and urban and make-do-it-to-ness as hanging jewelry on a tree. But I didn't. I never had a very easy time pleasing him, and he was very demanding.
I started to get a feeling of a blue Christmas when I was an older kid, I think. Midnight mass turned less innocent when I got a huge crush on a guy in my youth group and saw him at church. He was right at the top end of the youth group, age wise, and I was technically not yet a teen - the relationship was very confused and tortured already, and then he unexpectedly graduated high school and went off to college. I wasn't even in high school yet and my boyfriend was going off to college - it was tragic. But he came home for Christmas, and upon seeing him at midnight mass, I was thrown into a bevy of mixed emotions, none of which had to do with the story of Christ. I was in pain, broken-hearted righteous confused pain. Christmas was a time for crying.
When I got older, I discovered crying in one's drink. I don't drink much - some wine - but when I was in my early 20's, I was enthusiastic as youngsters can be at that age for drinking. Bars - I remember seeing a professor friend of mine, E, in a bar in my hometown downtown one Christmas Eve when my ex walked in - for the first time - with someone else. Oh, that moment, that moment when one first runs into one's ex in public. I ran outside to my friend E, and buried my face in his jacket - it was cold that night. He'd come at my call - I told him I'd run into the ex - and he was instant sympathy and comfort. He told me how awesome I was and how nasty my ex was and certainly how nasty the woman with my ex was.
Then there was the pinnacle of those blue Christmas moments: melancholy but nothing actually wrong or unpleasant. Back in the mid- to late 90's, especially in the Bay Area, swing dancing was at its peak of popularity, and I was into it - I did the lindy, especially. I dressed up in vintage dresses - I had a supplier who got them from Germany where the hausfraus were curvy and short and more my size - and did my hair and makeup. I didn't go insane over it - I saw women who were like extras in a period piece - but I did it well.
There was a place called Spencer's, which was *the* best swing club anywhere. It was a secret space - an old green room for the band when they had live music - in the back of the DNA Lounge (an 80's club). You had to know how to get back there, and to say the secret word or hand the secret card to the dressed-to-the-nines doorman (until they knew you by sight and nodded you coolly in). You had to be dressed right - there was a dress code. Too sloppy and they rejected you (so I heard - never happened to me, of course). This was a classy establishment.
Spencer was a swing DJ, and he ran this place on Saturday nights only. It was underground and so late night - anytime before midnight was dead, and it really picked up once the bands finished their final sets and people finished late dinners. There were nights when it was so packed you could barely find a place to stand, much less sit, much less DANCE (oh, the dance floor was small) but most nights you could catch a seat at one of those low tables with old-time cocktail lamps casting soft light on the draped tabletops. The whole place was hung with draperies, possibly old curtains from theaters - in harsh light, I'm sure it may have looked a bit run-down or low-rent, but Spencer was great with lighting - always Christmas lights behind the makeshift yet mirrored bar - and so, as with the Dickens Faire, it's easy to suspend one's disbelief a little and enjoy the theater of life.
And I remember this one Christmas time visit to Spencer's - it was probably Christmas Eve Eve: not quite the actual holiday where you were expected to be somewhere specific, but close enough so that if you *were* at Spencer's, you probably did not have other plans - in an either cool or pathetic way (or a bit of both, actually). I may have gone alone, expecting to meet up spontaneously with the regulars, my swing friends, my regular dance partners; I did that frequently, and it worked well - I always had someone to sit with. And as we know, running into someone is super romantic, inherently; running into fellow regulars is a reason to go on.
So I was at Spencer's this Saturday night, and it was very slow. A few couples spaced apart, huddled close at the low tables, speaking in hushed tones. Spencer was in a pensive, wistful mood, playing slow blues and gentle jazz. The floor was almost empty. A guy was probably sitting alone at the little four or five person bar - I don't remember, but all of Spencer's was theatre/token-sized; maybe it was a guy, drinking a martini and chatting with Spencer, both of them in sharp suits and fedoras.
Side note: it's funny - I can't remember every detail, but when I googled for this, all I found was an archive of the DNA Lounge Calendar that mentions "Swinging with Spencer" every Saturday night in the lounge from 1997 - 1999. That sounds right. I remember I was so bummed when Spencer's closed - it was the end for me. I stopped swing dancing. Anyway...
So it was a slow Christmas Eve Eve let's say, and I was looking for company. My favorite regular partner, E, was there; I liked him a lot because he was funny and a good conversationalist as well as a terrific dance partner. Also - and this was just sheer bonus - he was also a big guy: not fat, but just super largely built, like a linebacker, only he was incredibly graceful due to his dancing skills. He handled his bulk far better than most men handled their silly normal sized bodies.
I think I have mentioned, I'm no stick figure, and although I am light on my feet, swing is harder than waltz to maintain separate balance and weight. With the lindy, you have to give yourself over to your leader, and as I carry my bulk well, partners were often miscalculating with me...or, more frequently an issue, would transmit to me (through our connected body parts, hand, arm, whatever) every bump and stumble. Normal partners get jostled and the partner gets knocked off too, because the connection has to be so tight - relaxed tension is the ideal. But with E, his bulk just absorbed it. He was intrinsically protective of his lady when he danced, and he also had the best moves. He was a clear and invitational leader (as opposed to a dictatorial one: sometimes the guys throw you around - no fun), and also, as I mentioned, had a great light yet intelligent personality.
This evening, E was there, and we went out on the otherwise empty floor. Spencer had reduced the usable footage of the already tiny dance floor by hanging a Christmas tree upside down from the low ceiling; it was decorated with a bunch of tiny blue lights and nothing else. There was something so perfect about it, and I don't know why.
Then the song "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas" came on - maybe the Frank (Sinatra) version? I'd never listened to it before, really - had heard it a thousand times, but never really connected with it. This night, in the peculiar silence of a slow night pre-holiday at the club, I heard the words for the first time:
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light
From now on our troubles will be out of sight
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the Yule-tide gay,
From now on our troubles will be miles away.
Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore.
Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more.
Through the years we all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle though somehow
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
And there I really was, as in golden days of yore, and maybe E was singing this, and maybe I was too - we were known to do that sometimes - and this song just *imprinted* Christmas upon me. The bluest but most pleasant Christmas - ultimately nostalgic and ultimately romantic. The soft music, the scattered couples, the upside down blue lit Christmas tree, my great dress, E - and that line "we'll have to muddle though somehow." I was just caught. I had a perfect moment. I had a perfect *Christmas* moment - and nothing is more perfect than a perfect Christmas moment.
So, I love that song. I think of that moment - or rather, I feel it - every Christmas, and especially when I head that song. Oddly, the main line - the climax, the whole point, the line that captures the very essence of the mood ("We'll have to muddle though somehow") was changed, by Sinatra (he asked songwriter Hugh Martin to revise it to something less depressing), to "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough," which is NOT the same at all. It's no good. You lose the sad hopefulness. You lose the hopeful sadness. You lose the dream that one dreams against all odds. Hanging a shining star - it's too bright, too clean, too upbeat. But the muddle through *somehow* - that takes heart. That takes courage. Earlier today, I just watched Judy Garland sing the original version (from "Meet Me in St. Louis"), and when she hits that "somehow," it's soul-wrenching and beautiful, and it's poignant whether things are going well for you or things are not. It's got a universality that gives humanity hope - that's what is in that "muddle through somehow."
I still love the song, but when someone sings the (in my mind) *correct* version of it, it's like the best bonus of all. With every new version - and believe me, everyone does a version - I listen to, I wait for that one line. Will they know to muddle through? And when they do, I am taken right back to Spencer's, dancing past midnight on a Saturday night with my great partner E, with that upside down blue tree as our only light, and I am so happy I am sad, and so sad I am happy, and that is my very favorite feeling in the world.
And you know why? I mean, why is a blue Christmas appealing, a little bit? Because making do is easier than being actually full of joy. We can all press on - keep calm and carry on - keep a stiff upper lip - display grace under pressure. Circumstances that keep us down keep us safe. And let's face it - the bar is set high during Christmas. A holiday that is supposed to be magical? That's a little hard to pull off. The pressure. I think of those lines from the Spalding Gray monologue, referencing the Balinese, I think, or some other carefree islanders: "They knew how to have a good time being born, a good time growing up...a good time falling and staying in love...a good time growing old and dying. They even knew how to have a good time on New Year's Eve." Incredible.
It's true - the more special a moment is supposed to be, the less likely it actually will be, it seems. Taking one's vows. The first moment one has sex. The moment they call your name after the sentence that begins "And the winner is...." Asking one to marry one. Whatever. Christmas is supposed to be *so* great, it can seem a lot more appealing to bow gracefully out, forget the whole thing and hang out with the other barflies, slow dancing under a blue tree.
So, no matter what you're doing this Christmas - be you surrounded by family at your ranch house in the snow or tipsy at the neighborhood dive or anywhere in between, may you and yours find whatever comfort and joy you can. In other words, have yourself a merry little Christmas now.
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