“I don’t really want to take pictures this year.”
“Oh, come on.
“No, really, I can’t.”
“You didn’t want to put up the decorations and the tree, but you did.”
“Sure. What was that you said? ‘Decorate or die?’”
“That’s an exaggeration. I just said, ‘You don’t do anything else for me.”
“I offered to start cooking again.”
“I would like to live out the new year, thank you. Be good, Wow, the tree looks great.”
“It’s the smallest we’ve ever had.”
“It’s looks adorable.”
“I don’t want ‘adorable.’ I want impressive, massive. Overpowering.”
“Fine, after I take your picture, we’ll sign you up on Grinder. Now, stand by the tree.”
“I am bigger than that the tree!”
“It doesn’t seem right.”
“Neither does Donald Trump, but people still take his picture.”
“Is there a filter on that lens?”
“The linoleum store was closed.”
“I haven’t shaved. I have a bit of a scruff.”
“They’ll love it on Grinder. You can call yourself Daddy Wow.”
“Thank. You. Very. Much.”
“Now, just go over by the tree. That’s right. You look great.”
“I look like shit.”
“Whatever you say. Just shut up.”
“I might look better by the window.”
“What—having a face lift between the tree and window? Come back, come back. We’ll do you by the window.”
“Stop, B.! Are you insane? Not that angle. Have we not discussed my neck?”
“Every fucking day, Wow.”
“Well, raise the camera. More. More.”
“I can’t raise it anymore. I won’t be able to see through the lens.”
“Pretend you’re a paparazzi. That’s how they do it. They raise the camera and hope for the best.”
“I’m not a paparazzi and film is expensive.”
“Okay—shoot. No, No! My head was raised. You got my neck.”
“It’s attached to your body. Shall we cut it off? The idea is now very tempting.”
“Look, this is very simple. Think of me as Elizabeth Taylor during the John Warner years. The higher the camera the better she looked.”
“So, let me get this straight. You want me to imagine you as a forty-ish, overweight, female movie star?”
“B., the operative words are ‘forty-ish and ‘movie-star.’ Now, get the ladder.”
And that, dear friends, was how it went before B. managed to get me to pose for our annual posting here. It’s been for reasons not major, but persistent, a depressing year. I wasn’t feeling the spirit—at all. I deliberately waited till the very last minute and did choose a tree not taller than five-seven. I wasn’t up to struggling with a big, recalcitrant fir.
But, in the larger scheme of things—sometimes I get my head out of my ass and remember that—my issues are not terribly incapacitating. My health is good. My job persists. B. remains fond of me. And a lot of my mood has been affected by something I really can’t change—the inevitable election of Ted Cruz or Donald Trump as president.
BUT—I won’t get into it now. What I want to say is that I think of all you quite often. Sometimes when I’m most depressed. I want to post, but I think—please, I KNOW some of my Mr. Wow friends are going through shit that really matters. Don’t dump your clinical blues on them right now. Maybe I should, but I feel guilty doing it.
So, my darlings—I hope your holidays were healthy (most of all) Happy (as much as individual circumstances permit) And I wish everything good for you.
With true affection, I remain a great big pain in the ass,
My New Year’s resolution is to write to you more!
P.S. Of course, B. couldn’t avoid my neck, and despite all the photoshop applications on my computer, I decided to present it un-retouched. After all, I am 63 years-old next week. I have to stop expecting to summon up my ancient boyishness. It is what it is. (Although I took some selfies last week, avoided the neck and looked surprisingly fresh. Ah, but I also made sure I was facing the full, mid-afternoon sunlight–”fill light” it’s called. Nature’s erasure.)
However, since he offered it. I’m checking out Grinder. Daddy Wow. Why not?
P.S.S. (Or is it P.P.S?) The photo of the photo of me and B. is from back when we both—had dark hair. You do the math. It’s waiting for a frame.