Happy New Year... or something

If I were to write my autobiography, which I promise you I won't, the first line would be 'Mom told me I came out middle finger first... this would become a recurring theme.'

It's time for the yearly semi-recall.


I was little. Yes, that actually happened.
Since I was quite little, I don't have a lot of recall.
On New Years Day, we'd pack into the family station wagon (remember them?) and head to South Philly to watch the Mummers. For those of you not familiar with the Mummers, they form groups, dress up in extremely silly costumes, get rip-roaring drunk, and play various instruments, while walking down a preset route. At some point they get judged on content, costumes, and degree of drunkenness.

I'm getting yelled at now.... apparently the alcohol has largely disappeared.
This is impressive, both because it's FREEZING out there, and because the participants got to see what they're wearing sober.

It might surprise you to hear that I really intensely don't like pageantry in general and this one in particular. I'd rather have Philly represented by Parking Wars. As we're readying ourselves for another round of Retail Therapy, I wouldn't have remembered this was happening except for someone, who is not me or Marshall, turning on the tv. Marshall is the smartest one of us: he doesn't watch tv.

So the station wagon.. it would head from one part of Philly to another, where we'd camp out and be forced to watch this spectacular. I kept being lectured that we were so lucky to have relatives who lived along the parade route. We'd crowd into their house, where they were kind enough to host whoever came for the spectacle. I was particularly enamored of the hot chocolate, especially after I came in from my single time outside with the drunken neighbors and Mummers, and freezing my ass off, as it's not polite to drink before first grade.

My Aunt Fuck was a wonderful woman, or so I hear. Yes, this is what most of the family called her. Apparently this was for the obvious reason, as this intelligent and somewhat hotly-tempered woman was rather fond of the f word. She was not great at moderating, which seems to run in the family, or at least I picked it up.

As I type, the Mummers are playing a very slowed down version of "Take on Me," with banjos, horns, drums, xylophones, and the guy who drew the short straw and has to carry the bass while he walks. My ears hurt.

As if Aunt Fuck weren't enough, she was married to a hot-tempered fella, so it would get LOUD upon occasion. To make things more interesting in the marriage, he had a name that was incredibly similar to a famous record producer and his phone number was listed in the white pages. Remember the white pages? He would get calls in the middle of the night from people wanting him to produce their records. Small wonder Aunt Fuck had that vocabulary.

I don't remember much, but I do remember being difficult (moreso) every year the folks wanted to take us. Now that I look back, this was a pretty successful strategy, as it eventually worked. Aunt and Uncle have left the building, and at my age, I regret not being closer to those who followed them. Perhaps it would be better if we aged in reverse.


From our house to yours, Happy New Year.
The theme for 2018 is We're Stronger Together. 
Don't argue against, be for.