Eviction Countdown: Day 14

The Duke and Duchess of Nowhere
The Duke and Duchess of Nowhere

The uncertainty of what is happening is a little trying. Yesterday some friends back east asked me to visit for the Kentucky Derby the first of May. I wanted to go and eight weeks notice is certainly enough time to make plans and a commitment. But since I don’t know at what stage of the process I’ll be, or even where I’ll be living, I had to say no.

The Entertainment Center
The Entertainment Center

I have the assurances of my attorney that things will probably move slowly so it might have worked. I didn’t feel like taking the chance, however, so I’m left here to wait and comfort myself with my “things.”

Like the Duke and Duchess of Nowhere, a rare example of 18th Century bas relief in plastique. By now the reader must think my apartment is filled with kitsch but I really do try to contain it. It only works as an accent to otherwise clean, simple lines.

The ancestral ducal couple preside over the entertainment area.

 

Next: Eviction Countdown Day 13, The World as I See It
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John’s Grill

At the Kremlin, 1985. I thought it would be great kitsch to have the photo on those tacky Walgreens xmas cards. The sad thing was some of my friends thought I was trying to be poignant.
The Kremlin during the Cold War, 1985. I thought it great kitsch to put this on tacky Walgreen’s prefab cards. Sadly, some of my friends thought I was trying to be poignant.

It’s hard to convey to those who didn’t live through the 1970’s what the counterculture was like and the residue it left behind. It wasn’t really as strident or militant as anti-liberal revisionists would have you believe today (damn that Hanoi Jane.)  There was just an overall rejection of middle class, nuclear family values and religious doctrine that had never been allowed to be questioned. Basically, we were blocking out the mainstream.

Life was subterranean and we made our own rules. Until it came to the holidays. We weren’t about to squander a day off and a chance to party.

Be it Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Valentines or Arbor Day, the resulting fetes were pretty much the same. Only the decor changed. Virgin births and body resurrections were left to others while we focused on bacchanals that were a hell of a lot of fun and completely devoid of meaning.

It was with this tongue in cheek attitude that Kathy and I began our annual Christmas date. In 1977 I had my first real private sector job and we planned to meet after work. That alone had many of my friends thinking it was a goof. Me? In corporate America?

Those friends also thought it kind of dumb that we were getting together for something so mundane as looking at decorations and shopping. Our generation didn’t do that. But really it was just an excuse to take a qualude and have a martini. We enjoyed that first date so much we repeated it the next few Christmases.

Our routine was to meet in front of Frank Moore’s on Union Square because we both loved his shoes (Kathy: his cuban heels; me: his vintage stilettos).  We’d drop the lude then ooo and aah at the department store windows. When it was time for drinks and dinner we mock-honored tradition by choosing that film noir institution, John’s Grill.

As our stomachs matured and lost their cast iron lining, we couldn’t take John’s cooking after those first few years. But that didn’t stop us from popping in for a cocktail before heading off to dinner somewhere else. Which we’ve done every year except one.

Kathy moved to Los Angeles and was not in town for our date in 1984. Her life there was nothing but trouble: with her relationship, with her job, with housing, with her general well-being. She had problems. After a year she moved back to San Francisco.

I tried to be conciliatory and supportive when she returned but I felt compelled to point out that misfortune might not have befallen her had she not skipped the annual date. Although still not one for immaculate conceptions, I’m not above an occasional  mystery curse.

Last night we had our annual drink at John’s and, for the first time ever, cameras were allowed on the date. There’s a possibility that one or both of us may not be living in San Francisco next Christmas but we’ve vowed not to let tradition die after only 37 years. Neither of us can afford another 1985.

Next: Life of the Egg Nog Party
Previous: Life at Christmastime on Jones Street
The complete saga, From the Beginning