It's Christmas day 2013. It's early afternoon. The chaos of the morning present opening has come and gone. It's quiet upstairs in the den. The room looks Santa Clause threw up. Toys scattered everywhere. Adult presents stacked in neat piles waiting to be bagged and taken home where the recipient can share with his or her spouse how utterly awful the sports shirt is as well as the Bar B Q apron that says "Kiss the cook." In the far corner of the room is a guitar sitting in it's stand waiting to be played. The vertical blinds block the sun light on a California 80 degree Christmas day. The edge of light going through the blinds out line the edge of the guitar, one small bit of beauty unlikely to be noticed. Christmas dinner is cooking, as many men as woman are working in the kitchen, a welcome change from memories of a sexist Christmas of the distant past.
An endless list of basketball games fill the day as a crowd on sports fanatics of both sexes sit on over stuffed chairs on their over stuffed butts, the required can of beer in hand. This being southern California, most of the beer is from Mexico with a lime squeezed into it, grossly over paid hyperthyroid jocks run up and down the court while fat ex-jocks babble on and on over nothing in particular. I think of a dear man, long dead who was my editor, my friend, and the best goddam editor who ever lived. He always told me that when it cam to journalism, "Those who can, do. Those who can't do sports, and those who can't do sports do sports on television.
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