tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291232662827929830.post350569578133565241..comments2023-08-12T08:03:41.840-07:00Comments on Poetry Is For Assholes: A journal of the arts: Another touching Christmas memoryUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6291232662827929830.post-34114532605993406052008-12-20T07:58:00.000-08:002008-12-20T07:58:00.000-08:00I hated Christmas as a kid from 11AM on. Virtually...I hated Christmas as a kid from 11AM on. Virtually every year, we would have the relatives over for Christmas dinner, and from early afternoon the alcohol would flow freely as two by two they would arrive and commandeer the furniture. By 3PM the feuds might begin, and it was impossible to ignore the bickering from the kitchen as my parents kicked off the annual yuletide quarrel.<BR/><BR/>Jesus, I used to think. If it's such a hard act to pull off why don't they just cancel the ubiquitous family gathering ? Of course, I didn't fully understand that my mother and father really couldn't face the icy vacuum between them. It would have been even more apparent had we spent that time alone in nuclear isolation.<BR/><BR/>And, of course, all those other relatives were too astute to dream of hosting Christmas at their own place.<BR/><BR/>By 7PM every year it was like tripping out in a ward for the psychotic and criminally deranged.ibhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/08788986697776895039noreply@blogger.com