Holidaze

And so this was Christmas.

The thing that was the focus--overwhelming my son with toys--went off perfectly. Santa brought him a fishing pole (with a Shakespeare reel; not a bad little rig, actually) and a kite, though it was too cold to go outside and fly it. Too cold for me at least.

He got robots of a few varieties, superheroes, games, everything. Our living room was a glorious mess for two days, with his goodies scattered here and there. The baby can make a startlingly rapid approach to some forbidden toy when she wants to, and sometimes when THEBOY was tied up with a movie or another toy I'd go ahead and let her gum some toy of his she found.

Kelli got me one of the few things I really wanted: Faithful, by Stewart O'Nan and Stephen King. It's a chronicle of the 2004 Boston Red Sox season. It's good for sure, written for guys like me. It's funny how you can tell when a book wasn't edited by a sports fan though. All the minutiae aren't just meaningless hoo ha to some of us, and when there's an inconsistency you can tell the editor just didn't have the snap to notice it. But a good book, and OH DEAR GOD does it make me antsy for the upcoming baseball season. I'd recommend it to my baseball buddies, but they ALL hate the Red Sox (thus making them Yankee lovers, aka devil worshipers).

I got Kelli the Live Aid DVDs, and some sort of Duran Duran thing. She's happy.

Michael got me the soundtrack to Big Bad Love, based on the Larry Brown book. It's full of songs from great artists like RL Burnside, Asie Payton and Junior Kimbrough. I went out and ordered the DVD on Christmas day.

The holiday was fine overall, but I was in the grips of this foul mood I just could not shake. I really tried to fake my way through it. Started Christmas Eve. Not sure what was behind it. Okay, so I'm estranged from my mother. That makes this the least-stressful Christmas I've experienced in a really long time. Amanda tells me Mom went incommunicado over the holiday, taking/returning no phone calls, giving no indication of... anything. Location, health, whatever. Not the first time.

Dad's friend Mike Broadway died on Christmas Eve. Dad called me and put on a brave face, but I know it's rough on him. Mike was a good guy. He grilled me up one side and down the other about Juke http://www.nationalwriters.com/mbenefits/2000__contest_winners.htm (as do most of Dad's friends; I hope he hasn't run them ragged bragging on my shelved manuscript).

"You really think you can come up with an idea for a book no one's ever come up with before?" Sorry to say you'll never find out, Mike, and that I may never either.

Johnny Oates, who led the Texas Rangers to their only division titles ('96, '98, and '99) also died Christmas Eve. Oates was a classy guy, a man of good moral fiber who made a lasting mark with the Texas franchise. He lasted three years with a type of brain cancer that usually kills in six months. I don't envy him that.

And there's Larry Brown, of course, which still hurts. Pop open the Big Bad Love CD, and the booklet has an intro from Brown. Made me smile.

The baby is sick. Coughing a lot, snotty. Not awful, but she doesn't sleep worth a shit sometimes, and last night was typical. Cried from 3am to 5am. Now I walk in to greetings of "you sure look tired." Yes, yes...

Antibiotics don't touch what she's got, and the doc really thinks it's allergies, maybe even related to her formula. We've been through about five. Oy.

Anyway... I'm not depressed per se. I've shaken the lingering anger that haunted me over the holidays. Now I just feel tired and dazed.