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thought i was a donut, ya tried to glaze me


it was christmas eve, babe, in the drunk tank.......

Christmas isn't nearly as fun as it used to be, back when Santa was still real, but I still like the way I feel when Christmas Eve comes around. I like hearing "O Holy Night" in church and seeing houses lit up.

This is the first year in a long time, though, that no one's having a Christmas Eve party, which was a "beach crew" tradition for years. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, the beach people met most weekdays and every weekend, without fail, at that same spot on 123rd. The adults would stay closer to the shore and all the kids would hang out at the hot sand, playing Uno and wiffleball and talking, making stops at the semi-circle of parents for drinks and for pit-stops between trips to the water. As the kids got older, the attendence at the spot got smaller, but we still had Christmas Eve. We used this night as an excuse to hang out in the winter, to get a look at ourselves pail and fatter but still drunk and ready to talk for hours. Last year we met at the Galvins, and while the mood was exceptionally sadder due to the circumstances, it still felt good to be around people who've known me my entire life. I don't have a big family, and the ones I have I hardly ever see (or sometimes, like to see) so these families act as my extended family--my crazy "aunts" and "cousins." They've become more than just people to share a cooler with, or lend a towel to when you've stayed at the beach too long and used up all of yours. Just like real families, we always tell the same stories--the time Mr. Kuffner's sock went on fire at my family's 4th of July party & "Fireman Fran" saved his life, or that Labor Day Storm when the sky turned black and we all seriously thought we were gonna die. Someone always gets too drunk and does something stupid, but it just gives us another story to add to the pot.

I get it--people drift. I didn't think middle-aged people could grow apart, but they do--them be the breaks, I guess.

I'm still gonna party like it's Thanksgiving Eve, though, by returning to The Place That Stole My Jacket, better known as the Rock Lobster (I wrote about that somewhere else, but Ill post it here soon). I'll still be with family and friends and plenty of those kids from the hot sand, but it still wont be the same, unless someone's mom or dad comes out, too, and makes an ass of themselves. Man, that'll be my only Christmas wish.

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I wonder if my writing has even improved?