Montag: December 21 2008 Wherein I Heal My Inner Fezziwig

December 19 My nephews seemed to have taken off for warmer climes. When I returned to the old Blogstead, I found the fire out, the dishes piled unwashed in the sink, and the beds unmade. The front door was unlocked. The remnants of a meal were on the dining room table, like The Rodents' Buffet. I opened the refrigerator and it looked like French Guiana: the tropical part, a lush spread of tropical forest floor tendrils strung between titbits. The thought struck me, "Dreamcatcher!", as if they were Jason Lee, Damian Lewis, and Tim Olyphant: Beaver, Jonesy, and Pete, and they had fled from an alien presence, but they had left paper scraps strewn about with copies of ticket purchases and e-ticket info indicating that Brazil was their target. They were staying at the Pousada O Casarao. They were soaking up the sun. Since I had just trod through 11" of snow, I collapsed in a heap in a chair and uttered a benignant curse and a malignant blessing. Then I cleaned the place up. December 20 The Met put on Thais today, so my daughter and I went around to see it. Renee Fleming, whom I call Peggy Fleming, and Thomas Hampsen were the leads, and it was wonderful. Placido Domingo seemed to be hanging around the seamy edges of the proscenium curtain, muttering commentary in a form of English that needed sub-titles much more than did the French libretto of Massenet's opera. After 3 1/2 hours were subsumed under the heading "Dolce Far Niente", it was time to get to the Christmas party being held at my local auto mechanic's. My mechanic hails from Iraq. The food was Middle-Eastern and was "latheeth jiddan !" There is something about free food. I think it is: No pay and no tip makes the best seasoning! I shall have to work it out in Latin, and say it frequently. Anyway, the food was piled higher than Ali Baba's treasure...the stuff he confiscated from the 40 thieves, you know. And speaking of Ali Baba, what book of the season does his name appear in? Anyone? Anyone? Buehler? Sorry. The 1000 and 1 Nights is not a book of the season. A Christmassy book is what I require. O.K. It is A Christmas Carol; you know, the Ebeneezer Scrooge one. I am certain you recall the 3 spirits, although you may call them ghosts. You may even recall old Marley and his chains, Tiny Tim, and a bit of porridge, but you probably do not recall Ali Baba in such a snowy and Anglo setting. Flashback: Scrooge as boy away at school and left there for the Xmastide holidays, looks dreamily through a frost laden window and dreams of the characters about whom he has read: Ali Baba and other rascals. There. Now, just the merest mention of Scrooge whets my memory for things past. And my situation at a Christmas party where at least 1/2 the people are Muslim and the rest are Christian leads that whetted memory to walk the paths of not just the memorable, but the Memorious Fantastic! The stage is set for memory of the Christmas parties I gave for employees from the far past. Indeed! Fezziwig throws a party in the 21st century! Old Fezziwig ( one of my alter egos, if I have not mentioned this before), red in face and jowl, sitting at a tall desk - a scrivener's desk - and wearing a Welsh wig! I - as Fezziwig - look at the clock, which stands at almost 7:00. I adjust my capacious waistcoat - and I still have a waistcoat, although it is no longer capacious; capacity seems to have gone out of style! - and call out, "Yo, there, Muhammed! Ali! Paolo! Put up the shutters, and let us prepare for the party!" I walked to the middle of the garage and began to move hoists and tools. "Clear away, lads! Make room for the dancing!" Muhammed looked at me questioningly. "The Imam says that there should be no dancing, Mr. Fezziwig." I don't miss a beat. "The Imam is correct; there should be no dancing on the holy days! But today is not Christmas. And there is always dancing before Christmas. Swing to it, Muhammed!' Muhammed smiled a smile as broad as broad could be, wider than the Street called Broad, as he hustled equipment to the wall. I forget a lot. About this time, Natalie McMaster, or some other volupt fiddler, would break into "Sir Roger de Coverley", and we would bow, cork-screw, and thread-the-needle to a fare-thee-well. I think my Inner Fezziwig is one of my more likeable aspects.