4. — OUT IN THE MOUNTAINS — NOVEMBER 1997

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BY PICKLES

Yet another year breathes its
last and again the festive season
is upon us. It's time to spruce up
the garlands, trim your bush, and
give those Christmas balls a much
needed lick and a promise.

I for one will leave the
obligatory annual retrospectives
to those more enamored. God rest
you clear Diana, but give me the
Sturm and Drang of Mary
Hartman over the Smarm and
drek over Mary Hart any day. Oh
my, I fear I've just dated myself!
Well, it's definitely not the first
occasion and at least I'm always
around.

Personally however, the
waning year has been somewhat
of an emotional roller coaster. The
joy of new found friends and ex-
perience tempered by fond and
final farewells to a few most near
and dear‘ Alas, tomorrow is prom-
ised to no one. Or to quote Saint
Janis of Joplin, ”Honey,... Get it
while you can!"

If life truly begins at forty,
at thirty-nine (again?), I was
crowning. My ”Guy-ological
Clock" was over wound, the
works shot, a face in serious need
of repainting, a pendulum to
whom momentum was but
memory, and boy were my hands
tired! Not even the promise of a
few new jewels could’ ring my
chimes. ‘

Would a convent take a Jew-
ish girl? ‘ ...Was there a shepherd
for this lost lamb? In order to
make mind off the sheep, I
counted them and fell into a fright-
ful dream, all about June and the
Orpheum circuit, (SORRY, wrong
dream.) Ah yes, I remember it
well; there was I, installed high
upon a swivel stick, a rotational
vinyl throne to which I possessed
a life-lease. The very air as thick
with authority as with nicotine.

Resplendent Braids of Com-
mendation, awarded myself by
myself for Continuous Courage
Under Fire, luminously lay atop a

 

voices from the

dirty dacron dickey. Their glory
redoubled in an emblem, my
”Coat of Harms”, a Scarlett O-
Hara Letter sutured to the breast
of a fatigued, once navy, and long
since unbuttonable blazer.

Buoyant above my cheesy
chins, jello jowls, and numerous
nugahyde necks, swirling like cot-
ton candy, a luxuriant lavender
rinse. The coup de grace, the
Crown of State. My yachting cap,
fixed rakishly, crusty from years of
cruising and stained with pancake
of both varieties.

From this pickled pedestal,
my marinated Majesty convened
courts, jumbled judgments,
slurred sentences, found ALL in
contempt, ordered them hung
well and demanded their head!! I,
a wax-work wastrel, a SWINE be-
fore PEARLS!

[Ed. Note: I am confident
that I both intend and give no of-
fense to any persons of the afore-
mentioned fraternity as all expe-
rience has shown that persons of
the aforementioned fraternity are
NEVER aware they hold member-
ship in it.]

When I awoke from this
awful portent,  Wonder of Won-
ders, Miracle of Miracles, ”...It was
Christmas day! I hadn't missed it,
the Spirits did it all in one night,
RECLAMATION!" For you see in
spite of it all the fog and frenzy,
we found one another, and just in
the Saint Nick of time. Two quests
ending and beginning in a twin-
kling. Lord knows he's no the
first, but I shall do all I can to en-
sure he'll be the last

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa
Claus! And Papa's got a brand
new bag. Bill and I met at a Men's
Health Project rap group held in
the dungeon of the library in our
capital city. Funny, my parents
also met in the library, but not in
the dungeon. Why do I love him?
”Because he's...I don't know. Be-
cause he's JUST MY BILL (cur-
tain).

Admittedly the transition
from solitaire to half a pair is never

o1= ETHAN GREEN

 

 
 

mountains

sans a few pot holes and bumps
in the road. But after all the Grem-
lins, Bugs, Rabbits, and Ramblers,
this is one smooth ride. And as
long as I keep my ascot safely
away from the wheel wells, Moi
should avoid doing "DUNCAN"
donuts... What a break! (So it's a
hate crime...)

So this holiday season is
much more merry and bright than
many preceding, and to whom am
I indebted? To all that is right and
good of which no small measure
are you, the many across the broad
spectrum of our community
whose tireless efforts create nu-
merous opportunities for political
and legal advancement, educa-
tion, entertainment, and my per-
sonal favorite, social intercourse.
Every chance to connect is impor-
tant, be it state-wide confab or
neighborhood potluck . (Ed. note:
Please, enough with the curried
lentil salad already, you know
who you are!)

In the coming year let's all
pledge to continue and expand the
good work. It really DOES pay!

So this Joyous Seasonnfrom
the BOTH of us, HAPPY HOLI-
DAYS, many thanks, GOD bless,
and remember to make the Yule-
tide GAY!!!

—Pickles Reese is a comic, writer,
and Artiste from Hyde Park, VT.
See Calendar for his upcoming
area appearance. '

   

 
       

'HAPP;1%:H0l.IDAYtS

by Eric Orner

 
  

  

6‘Asr ASPEr$ioNS on *9'oure9YIoT¢her'5 TurKe§f.

  

 

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