davydog

December 23, 2008

Dearly Beloved Family & Friends,

’Tis the to be jolly! To the point of annoyance, it seems. At least that’s the impression one gets each year at about this time. Time-honored traditions like Mistletoe, “Twelve Days Of Christmas,” “Black Friday,” and A Charlie Brown Christmas Special compete with “up-to-date” teeth-grinders like Holiday Cacti, Coldplay’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” “Cyber Monday,” and The Robot Chicken Christmas Special.

Sofia and Jefferson Dance Crew Perform on
N. Mississippi Ave., September 11, 2008.

Thus, filled with the spirit of the season, I began writing my first “Newsy Christmas Letter That Nobody Will Read.” Although somewhat time-consuming, this perennial classic is cheaper than mailing everybody a fresh fruitcake, my first choice. Fortunately sloth, penury and the “sold out” placard on the Dollar Store’s baked goods shelf kept me from exercising the “fruit cake” option. Unfortunately one of these same traits (distracted laziness) also prevented me from finishing this letter on time, therefore I’ve renamed it the “Newsy Holiday Letter That Nobody Will Read.”

Possibly the greatest thing about these impersonal, addressed-to-no-one-in-particular, holiday letters is–like Poe’s “Purloined Letter”–they’re almost universally ignored. This blesses the writer with a freedom to scribble practically any darn stream-of-unconsciousness “thought” that comes to mind without the slightest worry of actually offending friends, relatives or family members. But to ensure I wouldn’t stray from the righteous path and scrawl a truly abysmal letter, I followed the helpful hints found on the “Christmas Letter Tips” website as best I could.

Sofia, Her Mom Deanna & Step-Dad Kirk, September 11, 2008.

Sofia Angelina, my darling teenage daughter, began her freshman youngwoman year at Lincoln High School this past fall. Sofia claims that Lincoln doesn’t have the same academic rigor Northwest Academy imposed upon her (where she was enrolled the previous two years). But she does enjoy the benefits of a larger student body where she might find new friends. Her report cards still come cluttered with far too many “A” grades, despite my occasional “fatherly advice” that, with a bit of effort, she can easily maintain a D minus average. She just needs to take a moment to properly arrange her priorities.

Sofia has also continued her dance lessons at the acclaimed performing arts & dance program at Jefferson High School, an after school program she joined while still in 8th grade. Until a month or so ago, I bragged to anyone who would listen that Sofia was a member of the world-famous Jefferson Dancers, until she pointedly informed me this was indeed not the case. Apparently the dance team Sofia belongs to is a sort of junior-league version of the Jefferson Dancers. We parents are so easily befuddled, no wonder our kids avoid us at all costs!

Sofia’s dad catches her loitering at Portland’s
downtown public library. April 4, 2008.

For me, as I’m sure it was with most folks, 2008 began in January. My hunch is that it’ll end sometime later this month. Although our federal government recently admitted that the U.S. economy has been in recession for about a year, the good news is that it hasn’t degenerated into Great Depression II: The Famine Follies. Apparently that will be delayed until 3rd quarter 2009, which some economic forecasters have already christened “The Summer From Hell.”

So maybe last summer was only “The Summer From Heck.” In my case, the “heck” part revealed its “ugly head” after my employer shoved an offer at me that I literally “couldn’t refuse”: a two month holiday without the vacation pay. After the required two months had elapsed–on September 1st–I announced my return to my desk. My erstwhile employer greeted my return announcement with a week-long silence before letting on that my payroll holiday had been extended indefinitely.

Holidays are great! I generally try and take advantage of as many as may come my way. Payroll holidays, however, come with particular side effects: thus on the 5th of this month I finally admitted to my apartment manager that I had no money to pay the rent. Being the “helpful sort,” I offered to do odd jobs in exchange for their “cooperation” in not forcing me to vacate my hovel down here in the Pearl District (Portland’s squalid “skid row”). “Sammy” (my apartment manager) forwarded my offer to the property manager, who, I am told, considered it for two–perhaps three–fractions of a second before totally rejecting it.

The next business day I found a 72-hour eviction notice taped to my door, with a duplicate addressed to me “AND ALL OTHERS” arriving in my mailbox one day afterward. As the saying goes “one door closes as another opens.” In practical language this means that when sheriff’s deputies “escort” someone out through the apartment’s front door, building security will open another. That door will lead to a spacious new living quarters: as wide as the horizons and as tall as the heavens.

Apparently the 72-hour eviction notification is just a prelude to “further actions” that kick in automatically when a “housing unit” tethered to Portland’s Housing Authority is involved in any sort of snafu. Building manager “Sammy” helpfully explained this meant my “move out” day would likely not come any sooner than Christmas Eve. Naturally the first thought that leapt to mind as she showed me the “tenant eviction ropes” were variations on two old Bing Crosby Christmas classics: “I’ll Be Homeless for Christmas” and “I’m Dreaming of a Tropical Christmas.”

Turns out you’re sent to court first. Sure enough, I found a “RESIDENTIAL EVICTION SUMMONS” scotch taped to my door a week or so later, announcing a court date scheduled for December 30th. The recent cold snap we’ve had here in Portland over the past three weeks has given me nagging doubts about the wisdom of moving into my spacious new living quarters in the great outdoors, so I’ve spent several moments planning an effective argument to present to the judge. The best idea I’ve come up with so far is to see if I can talk Sofia into appearing in court with me. According to this plan, after I give her the signal she would burst into tears and wail “I don’t wanna live on no freakin’ sidewalk! What kinda heartless hangin’ judge are you anyways!?!”

My hunch, however, is Sofia will likely balk at participating in such amateurish lawyering on grounds it could result in preemptive disbarment from any future role as a legal professional. It’s more likely she’ll instead adopt a “foot-dragging” posture similar to the one she invoked when I tried to convince her to teach her classmates an anti-drug song (“Don’t-cha Git High”). I wrote it for her in preparation for the Drug Abuse Resistance Education (D.A.R.E.) task force’s visit to her 5th grade class a number of years ago. As I recall, the main deal-breaker was her reluctance to warble that little ditty in the proper “voice”: that of an broken-down bum who’d spent at least two decades too many lurking about aimlessly on gritty street corners, habitually swigging from a bottle of “fortified wine” cloaked with a soiled brown paper bag he kept stashed in his stolen shopping cart.

While on the dole, I’ve spent countless fractions of a second painstakingly researching new career opportunities and ultimately settled on writing. My aim is to pen light-hearted, romantic comedies–breezy summertime “beach readers” of the genre pioneered by scribblers like Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Varlam Shalamov and Daniil Kharms. Given that I can barely read, much less write, this may strike some of you as the proverbial “fool’s errand,” particularly as the economy continues its relentless plunge into the abyss.

And while some dismiss a career in writing as the surest route to financial ruin, eclipsed only by an out-of-control “cocaine and call girls” habit, I’m a firm believer in refusing to allow life’s little challenges get in my way! Besides, as cultural historians Cheech and Chong once observed, things are tough all over. And I’ve never been terribly clever at making a buck anyway, so why start now? The working title of my current project is Deathly Spirits. Once published, I expect it to instantly leap straight to the tippy top of Oprah’s book list.

Here’s wishing you all a wonderful new year!

Love,

David Jonathan Myers
PO Box 4524
Portland, OR 97208-4524
(My new address.)