To my adorable friends: always sing without fear.
Happy Holidays and may you have a New Year that embraces you with all the good things you desire.
I preferred to think that the tree had not been touched by human hands. Instead, I wanted to imagine a type of botanical, seasonal transition: that the green blood had crystallized into silver, gold and scarlet. And when the joy could no longer be hidden, the blossoms appeared in delicate explosions. Their thin metallic skins would shine with a clear complexion - in colors that were pure and inspirational.
It would be impossible not to pluck this Christmas fruit from the tree that dared to bloom in the late autumn, with winter peering over the Advent horizon like a mischievous child.
They would be irresistible. They would have a scent like an expectant kitchen, full of spices that had traveled through history from the misunderstood continents, the lands of Western fear, of medieval confusion. They would taste like snow falling from the festive clouds: a profusion of crystals blowing through the white air in blissful geometry.
And inside of each one would lie a seed, a tiny window looking into the heart of the fruit. The pulp would be flavored with these sweet prisms - with the alluring light that turned the orchards of this holiday crop into a starry countryside.
And now this tree was heavy with their radiance. But I decided not to pick the glittering baubles from their branches. I chose a different harvest. I left the tree and its glittering yield behind, knowing that I would be enjoying its shining feast whenever I closed my eyes.
|
||||||
I didn't see you standing there. Do you mean you're waiting for me? You know you're rather a stranger in these parts - and I make it a point not to fraternize with outsiders.
You've been referred to me? By whom? Do I know this person by name? Oh. Yes - a co-worker. And you've been described as smooth, yet biting and delicious? I notice the cherries - what purpose do they serve? No, I'm not being cheeky, I just don't see them working successfully with a jigger of whiskey.
You know, I've never trusted whiskey. Something masculine about it. The last whiskey drink I had was a whiskey and soda I ordered when I was out on a date. It's an old story, Mr. Sour, and I don't think I need to go into detail.
What? My, you are talkative for a famous mixed drink whose sources date back to the 1870's. I agree - this is our Christmas party, and my intention is to get beautifully tanked before the appetizers are served. I'm not sure how you know this, but yes, it is time to celebrate - sloppily.
And...you like my skirt? Now you're making me nervous. I'm old, and I don't know how to deal with compliments anymore. But in that case, let me say that that is a pretty glass - squat but graceful: I wish I could manage that.
OK. My sobriety is boring me, and I'm sure it's boring everyone else at this table (I'm a jolly drunk, Mr. Sour, trust me ) Are you a sipping drink? I will approach you as such - I did so enjoy our conversation, and it would be tragic for it to dissipate quickly.
(pause)
SIR!
You deny your family name - you are sweet, sublime, and with each sip the maraschino cherries delight and tease my vision. You, sir, are an adorable drink, and you are very well met.
Waiter! Another!
![]() | |
| |
![]() |
|
"...but American girls are pretty and charming - little oases of pretty unreasonableness in a vast desert of practical common-sense."
- Oscar Wilde
The England of Victoria was scattered with the bones of their disappointment. They foundered on society's unforgiving landscape and were held fast, like sparrows caught on barbed wire. They swooned, jeweled wraiths, across a countryside of regret.
These were the daughters of America, bred from the new, raw, ricih. Vanderbilt. Morgan. Whitney. Jerome. Thjeir fathers were the barons and the bankers, dirty from railroads, mines and Wall Street. Their mothers were coarse and pushy - seeing their future in the calling cards accumulating in the salverby the door.
They had the money. But the family name needed something beyond wealth, it needed dignity, it needed respectability. So it was the responsibility of their dainty - if doomed - daughters to wash their fathers' hands and smooth their mothers' silhouettes and manners.
These nouveau riche had made their names. But they also needed titles. So they groomed their daughters, pressing them like flowers between the intolerant walls of behavior and decorum. They were being prepred for adventures across the sea, and England was ripe for plunder.
Waiting to be claimed by these "dollar princesses" were the impoverished sons of the peerage, languishing in ballrooms like dying wolves. English girls, steeped in tradition and hooded eyes, had no chance against the audacious competitors which invaded their country. There was a type of charm in their impudence and fresh faces. They flirted and teased with a rapier-like modesty. Like pirates they ransacked the aristocracy until their accents rang in every large house in the country.
But the Victorian aristocracy had been growing tired and decadent. The husbands who had married American money bore hidden depravities and resentments like coiled diseases. Their country houses were dank and moldy, chilling their golden brides. The romantic wistfulness, the daring hand on an ungloved arm, were all for show at the Mayfair parties.
So many times after the marriage, the heiress would fade away, her fine dresses never unpacked, her jewels clouded and tangled. When Consuelo Vanderbilt wed the Early of Marlborough, her tears made a diamante pattern across her wedding veil.
Maud Cunard sacraificed her bohemian mentality for a cold, bitter life in her husband's Northern lands.
Jennie Jerome's husband was a brilliant parlimentarian, and would die of syphilis.
Mary Leiter worshiped her parents' visits: "I love the chairs you sat on, and try to see you there, and my eyes fill with tears."
This was the Gilded Age, society's golden veneer, the false, desirable beauty. It only took a false word, the image of a young bride in a locked bedroom, to scrape the paint away - to reveal the terrible depths of a dark heart, its cruel, hidden realities.
![]() | |
| |
![]() |
.
Congressional candidate Lieutenant Colonel West speaking at the
American Freedom tour in Fort Lauderdale Florida at the Revolution
Nightclub.
For more information about the West for Congress campaign or to become involved please follow this link http://allenwestforcongress.com/.
I don't think I will ever enjoy Christmas as much as I did when I was a child. Back then, seemingly, all I needed to do was wear a silver - as silver as Christmas tinsel - visiting dress:
Or kneel by the tree and play with the fire engine which was undoubtedly meant for my brother:
...in order to know that the very summit of the year had been reached, the time of the bright exhale.
Christmas was the decorated, fragrant tree and a house that was remarkably changed. I had nothing to do with this - I would just watch my parents bring the holiday inside to dazzle us.
Now, during the course of the years, there have come worries, disappointments, petty ugliness and cynicism: the detritus of adulthood, of living on your own. These bruises have hurt the innocence that dared to look forward to a day because it was...happy.
But there is one good thing. Now, every Christmas it is up to me to decorate some lucky tree waiting with evergreen hope beside its brethren in some orchard/hardware parking lot. It is up to me to transform my apartment with shiny things and swathe it with all the radiance of the season. And then on The Day, I will invite my parents over so I can dazzle them.




Email
post (#2) by H. Hamilton – A report written by a concerned CA citizen
attending the Board of Inquiry for LtCol Jeffrey Chessani.
Major
Jeffrey Dinsmore was LtCol Chessani’s intelligence officer. He has
served as an active-duty Marine for over 23 years. In yesterday’s
testimony, he informed Board members of the complexity of the daylong
engagement in Haditha on November 19, 2005. He also informed the Board
his intelligence assessment before November 19, 2005 indicated Marines
were going to be attacked in Hadtiha that day. Follow-on intelligence
after November 19, 2005 confirmed to Major Dinsmore and LtCol Chessani
that the attack on November 19, 2005 was one they were expecting from
foreign fighters—namely Syrians.
Next
to testify, was Major Luke McConnell, company commander of the Marines
originally charged in the case. He explained to Board members that he
spoke to his Marines, as their commanding officer, during and after the
engagement. He personally fought in the engagement. He confirmed his
company was in a daylong battle with insurgents. He also went to where
the Marines entered homes to clear out insurgents. Major McConnell was
briefed by Lieutenant Kallop, the units platoon leader, that he ordered
the Marines to clear the homes of insurgents and unfortunately there
were civilians killed as collateral damage.
Email post by H. Hamilton – The report from a concerned CA citizen attending the Board of Inquiry for LtCol Jeffrey Chessani.