Friday, December 26, 2008

Xmas for the Masses


Resolved: 2009 is the year I will teach Boots not to use the urinal.


Know how you’re always hearing how crows are the equivalent of little flying monkeys? I once saw a crow hotwire a Porsche Boxster in broad daylight. Those crows gathered in the cottonwood may well be plotting the takeover of DreamWorksSKG. I once witnessed a crow observing the moving shadows of leaves on the sidewalk and cawing to himself, How quantum mechanical. No shit. A crow would kick a monkey’s ass if, like, they both had 30 seconds to weigh in on Hannity & Colmes.


Hang on. I want to be precise about this. A crow would kick a monkey’s ass like Harrison Ford kicked Donny Deutsch’s ass when H.F. was a guest on The Big Idea. It was awesome to watch H.F. push back with force when D.D. asked about his relationship with Calista Flockhart. It was like, if you’re Letterman you can ask me about Calista Flockhart, if you’re Conan O’Brien you can ask me about Calista Flockhart, but not someone so low on the food chain like you, pal. I know cowering when I see it, and D.D. totally cowered. No crow would cower, ever. Nothing against D.D., btw.


The word moron was defined in 1910 by the American Association for the Study of the Feeble-minded (which changed its name, in the Hotel Statler in Boston, in 1933, to the American Association on Mental Deficiency; no shit) as the term for an adult with a mental age between 8 and 12. Boots had two parents who were to you and me as crows are to monkeys. When Boots was 8 (chronologically), his parents wrapped their Porsche Cayenne around the trunk of a live oak at the corner of Perdition and Gehenna. Boots, orphaned, unofficially became my ward. I am raising a ward, basically. Friends and family see me as the caretaker of Boots, but I think of myself as something more like Boots’ inner power coach.


We party it up, ‘cause Boots can party, I mean we’ll kick back with some witches-cauldron bud that a crow would not turn its nose up at, and some cheap but posh screwtop and get hammered while I take advantage of the fact that women actually come on to Boots (because he’s a dead ringer for Michael Cera). Then Boots will begin to look a little green around the gills1 and I’ll help him stagger over to the Wendy’s to upchuck in the restroom. It’s at this point that Boots needs a little guidance.


My gift to Boots for the holidays is to let him ride the waves at the Coliseum. Yes, this is the imbecile’s one delicious joy in life. We go to the Coliseum just when a Lakers game is letting out and walk upstream (paddle out) against the human traffic heading back to their cars. Then we turn around and let ourselves be carried along with the flow. Boots glows with joy and delight. Truthfully, when I was fifteen I did some ‘shrooms in the vicinity of the Coliseum and purely by chance discovered this little thrill which is now recreation ecstasy as far as Boots is concerned. (Incidentally, The American Association etc. defined “imbecile” basically as having the intelligence of an elm. Boots has way more smarts than any elm. I would take umbrage at anyone who implied that an elm and Boots were comparable in terms of smarts.)


This New Year’s Eve year we’ll do our usual thing of making the rounds of all our cousins and getting wasted. Somewhere along the way Boots will tap me on the shoulder. I’ll find him a Burger King and it will once again be, like, not the urinal, Boots. Welcome to 2009, the year of training Boots to barf into the appropriate receptacle.

1I cherish this phrase because something my mother used to say all the time. But you hardly ever hear it anymore; a perfect example of a moribund idiom.

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