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I’m not really sure how to deal with what I’m dealing with this weekend.Hopefully no one in my family will get angry with me for airing a bit of laundry. I promised my Mother I’d help her when the time came to put Grandma in a nursing home. And wouldn’t you know it , three days after me Ma returned to Florida from Toronto and I returned to Boston – Grandma is off the nursing home waiting list and we have to turn around and go straight back.

So I’m sitting near gate C34 at Logan waiting for JetBlue to scurry me off to Buffalo. I’ll then drive over the border to Toronto and we plan to basically ambush Grandma on Sunday night so she doesn’t have a lot of time to mull over what’s happening to her. She will never go quietly from her home until she is dead, and there will be bloodshed when she figures out that her time in her house of 30 years is up.

I don’t know if we have a strategy. I suppose my mother has contacted our social worker, and perhaps employees of the senior residence in question, and I won’t be expected to slap a straitjacket on the old girl. Are we “looking” at homes for future reference? Going to a bingo parlour (I have to learn to start using ‘u’s again), Attending a matinée of Cocoon? I don’t know what the gameplan is. There might not be one. I’ll be hanging out with JJV, Amy, Richie, Ryan Weaving and the rest of the gang Friday and Saturday before reporting for duty Sunday morning.

When she was lucid, I was very close with my Grandmother, and I take some degree of solace in knowing that 10 years ago, if she could have looked ahead through the reflection in a magic birdbath or something and seen what we’d become she’d have appreciated my family (Janet was absolutely terrific with Grandma at Christmas) trying to help maintain her safety and quality of life.

Unfortunately, the woman we’ll be dealing with Sunday is the most stubborn, vindictive, uncooperative creature you can imagine. It’s going to be something else.

I bought myself a little Christmas present this year. Namely a Canon all-in-one printer, fax, scanner, photo printer, copier monstrosity that is now sitting atop my shelves, daring me to find a reason to use it. I had to transfer my health insurance and was able to print the necessary forms out to sign. I also printed out my citizenship application and signed that. But now I fear I will run out of everyday uses for my new personal Deep Blue, and it will rapidly collect dust.

In order to fax anything, I will first have to get a land line, which isn’t happening anytime soon. I might as well get a cassette tape answering machine with a pre-recorded California Raisins greeting and a 500 baud modem while I’m at it. I don’t see a lot of potential for the scanner, either. I could go through my photo album and find a few ancient gems for a laugh, but I can’t keep up with posting the damn digital pics that are piling up. Anyone who really wants to see what I look like wearing diapers can frequent some of the local swingers clubs. So again, not very likely.

The copier will be good for building management duties, like duping leases, invoices and the like. And there’s always the chance I’ll have a guest over some day who wishes to photocopy their behind. But why couldn’t they just take a digital photo of their buttocks? Or scan them? Or take a photo of their buttocks and then scan that? And then maybe never be invited back.

I think the problem here is that I have too many methods at my disposal by which to accomplish the exact same thing – the transmission of a document. It’s frustratingly hard to choose. Perhaps I can webcam my tax return this year, take a freezeframe which I can then print onto photo paper, scan, and then fax to the IRS. Or I could get a pen and some stamps.

Last night Mike, Joanna, Janet and I wandered around to 3 different parties in the South End. We didn’t get back to Medford until nearly 6am, so all told I technically spent 10 hours doing the New Year’s thing. As I was the driver, it was obviously a bit challenging to remain amused the entire time. So I started making up Saddam Hussein jokes. As you do.

Q: What was Saddam Hussein’s favorite wine?
A: Earnest and Julio Gallo.

Q: What was Saddam Hussein’s favorite Three’s Company character?
A: Mr. Roper.

Q: What was Saddam Hussein’s favorite Chubby Checkers song?
A: Twisting the Night Away.

And my personal favorite:

Q: What was Saddam Hussein’s favorite INXS song?
A: New Sensation. (Say it fast).

I didn’t say they were funny. My mission was made even more urgent by the number of people who became thoroughly disgusted with my work – which obviously just encouraged me. I hope everyone got home safe, and here’s hoping for a doozy of a 2007.

Jimminy crickets I hate telephones. My new $300 Nextel has decided it doesn’t want to hold a charge today so if you call to wish me a Happy New Years, please leave a message – and same to you. It’s going to be a very good year.

When I was 33… it was a very good year. It was a very good year for Yonge Street girls who lived up the stairs. With all that perfumed hair. And I had a restraining order against me. When I was 33.

How did you spend your Friday night? I am coaching little Griffin through the latest PS2 game I rented for her from Gamefly. You have to do little dances with Barbie to collect gems to help a kitten rescue a princess. It’s not so terrible actually. I’ll try to explain.

When I worked in England, there was a German guy who came in every Thursday night and drank baby mixers of Canada Dry. Since non-drinkers in England stick out like sore thumbs, I once asked why he was so fond of the ginger ale. His answer went something like this: “The amount you can party or go crazy in one lifetime is like a candle wick. Some people burn through theirs quicker than others, and I am all done.” If I were to apply that analogy to my own life, the flame would have spread to the curtains and burnt down the entire house, ages ago.

I don’t think it’s unusual for maturity to be a sudden and conscious, black and white decision – and not necessarily a gradual progression. If I were married, had a mortgage or my own children I’d have mellowed out years ago, naturally. My personal development is synthetic and born of necessity. And I like it.

Hello all – I am off to Toronto for the better part of a week. Stay happy, stay safe and remember – the most important part of spending the Holidays with family and friends is that you don’t accidentally offend anyone while privately enjoying your long-standing traditions. I leave you with this (hat tip to Taz)…

“On the 2nd day of the Eurocentrically imposed midwinter festival, my Significant Other in a consenting adult, monogamous relationship gave to me:

TWELVE males reclaiming their inner warrior through ritual drumming,

ELEVEN pipers piping (plus the 8-member pit orchestra made up of members in good standing of the Musicians Equity Union as called for in their union contract even though they will not be asked to play a note),

TEN melanin deprived testosterone- poisoned scions of the patriarchal ruling class system leaping,

NINE persons engaged in rhythmic self-expression,

EIGHT economically disadvantaged female persons stealing milk-products from enslaved Bovine-Americans,

SEVEN endangered swans swimming on federally protected wetlands,

SIX enslaved Fowl-Americans producing stolen non-human animal products,

FIVE golden symbols of culturally sanctioned enforced domestic incarceration,

(NOTE: after members of the Animal Liberation Front threatened to throw red paint at my computer, the calling birds, French hens and partridge have been reintroduced to their native habitat. To avoid further Animal-American enslavement, the remaining gift package has been revised.)

FOUR hours of recorded whale songs

THREE deconstructionist poets

TWO Sierra Club calendars printed on recycled

processed tree carcasses

and…

ONE Spotted Owl activist chained to an old-growth pear tree.”

Merry Christmas. So there!

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Saturday night I was at a friend’s holiday party, and we were all having a terrific time. At some point towards the end of the evening, I went upstairs to use the 2nd bathroom and had a little trouble getting back down. That is to say – my friends found me in a large pool of blood at the bottom of one of the staircases, knocked the fuck out.

I mashed my face off of about 10 steps in total, and when I finally went to the hospital yesterday I became their guest for 11 hours. My nose is broken, gashed, and I have a 3 inch tear in my inside lower lip. Why am I telling you all this instead of being embarrassed and keeping it to myself? The answer is simple – I am going to look like Mitch Green for the next month, and am also going to get really tired of telling the story (and frightening children) again and again.

I have been in a far worse scrapes over the years but have never looked as bad as this. My face looks like a ripe plum, and this is going to be an awesome way to see all my extended family at Christmas. “SURE you fell down the stairs, Dave. What does the other guy look like?” Oh alcohol, my fickle friend. This might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back/nose. Resolution calling, anyone?