I'm Dreaming Of A...

...whole plate full of red delicious apples with Smucker's Natural Peanut Butter with Honey.

What?
You thought I was going to say White Christmas?
Those are hardly realistic expectations - thinking that my subconscious should obey the commercialized, sugar sweet sentiments peddled by a bygone era's crooners on "Holiday" LPs that only serve to sacredize the consumerism of a capitalist, "Christian" culture.

- I mean, if you want to be strictly accurate about it, I'm dreaming about slapping people who deserve it and then being punished for doing what I felt that I had been instructed to do. (No mystery there, Scott.)



But back to apples.

On Thanksgiving we went around in a circle and listed the first thing we wanted to eat when we got home. I said a whole jar of Smucker's Natural PB w/ H, and a nice soft pint of Eddy's Sugarfree Mint Chocochip icecream. And some Oreos.
But then we went out for pizza at the pizza and beer place (called O' Scuglizzo? I even LOOKED this time! Damn it! Why can't we remember?) and I decided that, embarrassing as it is, what I want is a double cheese pizza from Zeppe's, with a dozen garlic wings and a 2 liter of Diet Coke. (I know - I'm not even missing NY pizza, I'm missing OHIO pizza...)
And then at lunch I had a red apple with a little of Robert's peanut butter, and I thought - the day when I can sit down and have as much peanut butter as I want will be a happy one. I am going to buy 3 jars. Not because I want to eat that much - I don't even want more then a few spoonfuls - I just want to line them up and look at them while I eat so that I don't feel like I have to ration it out.

What point do we take from all of this?
I don't actually miss food from home.
(The food here is fantastic and fresh, and prepared hot for us twice a day.)
I miss home.


Let's face it, I checked out.
I mean, I tried really hard. You have to give me that - I was motivated for 3 for most of this whole damn semester - but I'm burnt out. I got nothing. And I just don't care.
Too bad about that whole having 3 more weeks thing... That sucks.

And no booze to drink away the remaining hours... I raise my glass (of water) to Good Life Decisions! (Although, I've already decided that I will drink the last weekend, and at this point, I'm looking at bottles of beer in the gelateria and thinking - if I can make it a month, that's something...)



I'll be home for Christmas, You can plan on me. Please have snow and mistletoe, And presents 'neath the tree...
(and Smucker's Natural PB w/ Honey)

I Feel It In My Fingers...

There comes a day, a day we eagerly await each and every fall, when suddenly, the world looks a bit - merrier. It's a day of joviality, a day of liberation, a day when siblings unite, perhaps for the first time, in a common purpose... To annoy the fuck out of anyone in hearing distance with as many kitschy Christmas jingles as they can remember.
We call this day First-Official-Christmas-Song Day.
Oh, and how we love it.

That's right, folks, dust off the old family vinyls of Bing and Burl, break out the egg nog, and mix liberally with a nice medium bodied rum - you're gonna need it.

My first memory of First-Official-Christmas-Song Day comes from a few years ago, back in the days when my brother and I still argued about the front seat of the family car. We were driving back from Wooster, chock full of turkey and newly minted family memories. I had my legs propped on the dashboard, warming my toes against the heater while my mother filled the car with gas. From somewhere in the back seat, I heard a squeak. I readied myself to drop the seat back into a quick recline, catching whoever was sitting behind me in a vice-like grip between the floor and the maroon upholstery of the back seat when something in the noise made me pause.
"Is it time?" my little brother asked again.

Is It Time. The words sent a chorus of silver bells ringing through my thoughts.
Yes. I thought. It is Time...

By the time my mother got back into the car, we were a 6 or 7 swimming swans into the 12 days of Christmas, and arguing about what came next. This was a recurring problem. Past 7, things get murky. One more leaping lord or dancing lady didn't seem to make all that much difference. Fortunately, this argument was easily resolved by consulting The Source. The Source was a decorative candle stashed somewhere amongst the faux pine wreaths and the plastic holly in our attic on which was inscribed, in miniature, cylindrical perfection, 12 tiny tableaux which depict the various gifts referred to in the song. The candle was always the first decoration to be put out, along with the cotton advent calendar we used to hang on the hallway wall before we lost most of the stuffed tree ornaments.
Hot damn we loved that song...

And then of course there were those hilarious grammar school classics - All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth... I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus... The Chipmunk Song...
Grandma Got Run-over By A Reindeer...
and the ever popular, altered versions of Jingle Bells and Rudolph I'm sure we all still laugh at every time we hear them.
I was always partial to Elvis, so Blue Christmas was in my repertoire practically before I could crawl.
- Jingle Bell Rock was such a stunning piece of musicality that I considered it above the Black Friday to Christmas restrictions placed on other such holiday hits.


And now?
Ah heck, I still can't get enough of 'em!
My holiday play list (which lays dormant for roughly 230 (emotionally) frozen days a year) is 5 hours long and soaks up 285.6 MB on my hard-drive.
I have five versions of White Christmas. (another perennial favorite from the days when a green Christmas seemed just as likely to be a sign of impending apocalypse) And four different Jingle Bells. I don't even LIKE Jingle Bells. Although, to be fair, who does?

This is my absolute favorite way to study for finals or write soul-killing term papers. Curled up in my bed with a candy cane and a couple hours of aural pleasure on my iTunes I can almost forget about years that stress and lack of sleep are slowly taking off my life.

Awww, Christmas...


Given that its the season of giving, I will post here, absolutely free, my top 12 list (all available now on iTunes for your consumptive pleasure):


All I Want For Christmas Is You - Olivia Olson
The Chipmunk Song - The Chipmonks
Silver Bells - Bing Crosby
Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas - Rockapella
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer - the Temptations
Blue Christmas - Elvis Presley
Santa Baby - Eartha Kit
The Christmas Song - Mel Torme
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! - Ella Fitzgerald
This Christmas - Donny Hathaway
Donna & Blitzen - Badly Drawn Boy
Please Come Home For Christmas - The Eagles


So please -
frost the sugar cookies,
bust out the grog,
and have yourself a very, merry, Christmas season.

Turkey Day

I am thankful for
the people I love

Month Old Candy Corn

There's nothing like turning 21 on October 31st in a country that doesn't celebrate either 21 or Halloween.
Luckily, some people still remember.
Not-so-luckily, the Italian Postal Service is out to get me.

I got the first one of my Birthday care packages today. More then a month after it was mailed.
I've already eaten 90 percent of the sweets contained therein.
I mean - the candy corn wasn't stale at all.
The cookie was a little stale. (just a little)
And the Halloween candy was perfectly fine, as one might expect.

I say, the sugar rush was exactly what I needed to kick it up for these last 10 hours of the week.
(that's clowning until 6, Cabaret until 7:30, dinner until 8:30, and Gianni's Tarentella class until 11ish)
- especially since I stopped putting honey in my tea. It actually made it too good. I was done with the glass before I'd even gotten back to the table. It was also the largest contributer to the 5 or 6 cup a day situation that, I think, was really dragging me down.
I hurt everywhere.
Clowning, is painful.
Physically and emotionally.

We played a "game" last night with plastic water bottles.
Here's how you play:

You (as your clown) stand on the far side of the room, between the wall and a long, thick rope that's stretched across the room about 5 feet in. The others stand at the other end of the room. You, Start. Doing what, you ask? Doing anything and everything you can think of, and several things you can not. If you are funny, they might laugh. if you are not, they start to advance. When they get to the rope, they stop again. Now, here's where it get fun. If you are still not doing anything interesting, they count. They count to 3. They give you a last chance. Do you know what they give you if you, by some miracle, manage to save your self before they hit 3? You get another 3. To do something completely different, but always to the same purpose. Eventually, you cannot do anything else. Then, they cross the rope. With their water bottles (you knew they had to come in somewhere) and Kill you. I'm not joking. If this were the bottle game, and you were telling me this story, I would be walking towards you. With a water bottle upraised.
Oh by the way,
You then repeat the game.
I had to go 5 or 6 times, because, here's something we found out about me,
I can't be funny under pressure.
The closer they got, the less funny I became.

Do you know what I finally did to get myself out of the loop?
I sang.
Cats.

...I think they just got fed up and let me go.


My clown, by the way, is a boozy floozy named Spritz (that's short for Spritzer), with an Eastern European accent of questionable origin, an over-sized trench coat, and a pair of lime green heels that are two sizes too large. She suffers (is that really the word?) from a constant state of inebriation. Ironic, really, given my current state of sobriety. Or perhaps not. The clown comes from inside you - it's the part of you emerges behind the world's smallest mask... (think about it. it'll hit you.)

Take Me The Way I Am

You can eat grapes off the vine,
but NOT olives off the tree.

You can speak english to Micchela
but Italian only with the clowns.

You can get out at 12:30,
but you can't go to lunch until 1.

You can scheme all you want,
but you can't dance the Manfrina without changing partners.

And no matter how you prepare yourself,
you can never guess which direction will be left when next you look.

Pronto?

I Met An Old Man

There's a man who's out every morning with his dog.
(The dog, I later learned, goes by Cici)
One day he stopped me. - I'll bring you a book, he said.
True to his word, the next day he handed me a slim volume of Italian verse called Volo Libero.

The bio on the back describes the author as a man born in Arezzo in 1935, who moved back in his later years to focus on writing.

I suspect,
That I met the author.

(I am supposed to meet him again today at 6pm, so that he can give me another book.)



Zoe came up on Friday. She made it through the train strike (which, apparently is common here), and we walked through the rising storm into town, where we purchased some ridiculous sum in groceries at Eurospar.
It's what we do.


Mostly we relaxed, since I always have the best beds. We also took a long walk through the countryside and discussed the books we're going to write. My projects include A History of Tears, and a Dictionary of words to disambiguate "Love".
I'll let you know when they're ready for publication.

Until then -
Have a pear.
(God they're good)

Darjeeling Green

I am full of eggplant parmesan and honeyed tea.
It's a delicious combination.



I don't understand this public outcry over my temporary sobriety.
- Yo Peeps
I know my witty write-ups of the local liquor have become your lifeblood,
but here's news if you've never met me:
I have a problem with Moderation.
- Just, as a concept. As an abstract. Fuck! As applicable in ANY aspect of my life.-
(and by problem, I mean, I'm physically incapable of being moderate)

So this idea I have to take care of my body -
you know, Sleep more, Eat balanced meals, Not work myself until I'm totally exhausted every day -
This is a good idea. A Good Life Decision.
(a GLD if you will. - Which you will.)


SO -
For the moment. My "glasses" will contain tea.
I'm up to like, at least 3 (if not 5) a day.
(what did I JUST say about moderation?)



Class with our new Commedia teacher - Marcello - is trucking along. He looks like a little Italian Teddy bear, and speaks entirely in l'Italiano. I am working through Capitano and masked-Columbina. So much fun! My group this afternoon will present our version of Twelfth Night with 3 Commedia characters called Fort Night. We are up to 7 hours a day of classes, but the challenge of trying to put up skits which are both technically correct in the mask work and commedia work, and not just comprehensible, but funny in 2 languages, is an interesting one. And Friday I will learn to dance the Tarantella with Gianni. (Oooooh. I can't even wait! Gianni! *sigh*)

Now,
I got my camera finally. So I will start posting some pics. I took a whole bunch while I went for my morning run yesterday. Keep checking in to SEE what I've been talking about all this time.

The Big Two-One!

I'm not drinking again until I come home.



please. let. die.