Thursday, December 13, 2007

Chinese on Christmas

December in San Francisco and the palm trees are all a bright shade of green. Its sweater season but the sun looks the same as it did in August. What's the word when the line between the sexes is blurred, when theirs no distinguishing characteristics?
Androgynous. It's the same with the weather. T-shirt on thanksgiving, jacket on the 4th of July. The fog casually thrown over the cities shoulders like an old grey petty coat only to be shrugged off in a smile and a wink when the sun comes gushing forth from golden gate park.
The only discern able difference between summer and winter is the changing of the candy display at Walgreens, candy corns to foil wrapped chocolate Christmas trees to candy hearts to pastel peeps, sunrise - sunset.
The twelfth month means that once again the only thing that was lit for Hanukkah was me. That I'll be taking Nicole to my grandmothers house in the east bay on Christmas eve ready to celebrate with my traif side of the family and spending Christmas day in a empty city walking down grant street flanked by strange looking quiet buildings like long winter spruces on a cool winters day. Pretending it doesn't mean anything. That I'm not affected by what I don't have. Only gaining smouldering smirks from the things I do, Tsing Taos and green onion pancakes at House of Nan King, the plush pleather seats at the Century theater, sneaking sips of Irish coffee from a smuggled thermos and a city soley reserved for strolling with my baby arm and arm, recreating album art like a freewheeling Bob Dylan of debauchery and all things incorrigible.
Chinese food for Christmas and coals in my stocking. Making room for New Years, feeling like Hamlet but not fearing for Fortenbras instead only waiting for King George.