I was talking with a friend yesterday about the MTA strike in New York. I think it’s deplorable myself, and it sounds like New Yorkers feel about the same. At least the union got slapped with a $1 million a day fine. That won’t bring stranded folks home to their loved ones, but it might get the mafia cartel’s union’s attention. Maybe.
At any rate, my friend is going to New York for Christmas. Lord knows why. He was planning on shooting a documentary there, but the strike could put the kibosh on his plans. I’m not sure exactly what a kibosh is, or even what it means precisely. I just know that I love the word. When I hear it, I am reminded of a bratwurst placed on a grill, the meat just bursting open revealing its sausage-texture interior, spilling out the smells and scents of a good hose of spiced meat.
I like kibosh the way I like spy movies, especially ones that feature more actual spying and less figuring out how the radio controlled rocket car works.
I like kibosh like I enjoy watching the full, plump palm trees lining suburban streets just off of Sepulveda and Sawtelle, swaying in a breeze coming in from Santa Monica.
I like kibosh the way I savour every sound of a good Harry Connick Jr. album. Kibosh is knowing when the muted trumpets are going to flare, knowing when the piano will stop in perfect comic timing, and old Harry belts out “haunted by the devil/or ghosts and boogeymen.”
I like kibosh the way a perfect story comes together. It runs on its own word gasoline, makes 3,000 words to the gallon, and keeps that new story smell even beyond its first oil change.
I like kibosh like I enjoy a good latte. “Hi, I’ll take a medium kibosh, double shot, please, and a bagel. Onion.”
I like kibosh because it makes me yearn for the time when a man could speak in low tones to another man, saying, “You put the kibosh on my deal. Now I’m going to put the kibosh on you” and mean it.
I like kibosh because it’s like a made up word that no one wants to give up.
I like kibosh because I can make up my own reasons for liking it, and because I’m an English major, no one will think I’m crazy. Stupid, maybe. But not crazy.
So I still haven’t done most of my Christmas shopping. I’m proud of myself. It’s almost like I have a Get Out of Shopping Free card. Unfortunately, I think all that changes today. I’ve got to shop small and light this year, at least for the bulk of my loved ones, since I’m carrying the packages in my own duffel, like Santa, only less bulky, and instead of reindeer, I’m flying United.
But won’t the nephews be pleased? I got a couple of neat gifts for Samwise, including a butterfly garden dealie that I hope he’ll find interesting at his age. It’s actually meant for slightly older kids, but the reviews convinced me that it would be perfect for a precocious child like Samwise. And yes, that is his name, thank you very much.
Oliver is a little harder to shop for, since he’s…well, he’s still a baby. I don’t get the whole baby thing, for one because I’m not a parent, and for two, because something that small and helpless doesn’t seem possible, or efficient. I look at turtles who hatch and are on their own right away, and I think, Why not us? I suppose if it was like that, we wouldn’t have Christmas time, which sort of brings this thing around, like a Circle of Life thing. Christmas is so enjoyable because of family, because of kids. I’m betting my best Christmas wasn’t when I was a year old though…
Okay, off to the races. Gonna finish up some telecommuting work, then I’m headed out to some local boutiques. Gonna put the kibosh on my Christmas shopping once and for all.
See you tomorrow.