ho hum merry christmas says i through spiteful tugs at the whiskey bottle. this isn't really happening, mind you, but i liked the phrase spiteful tug so the rest had to follow.

to mexico tomorrow adios amigos though i am ill prepared at what to expect but i expect to be floored. lady man boys on parade i say.

its a mild brute to ride, a bronco without any yee-har tearing down the dotted lines.

a million daydreams to everyone,

, and bruce, why not give Rand another go?

its confirmed, beyond a doubt - Rabbit, veal and pork with white wine is the most divine sausage. To paraphrase, its "like sucking on the phallus of a god". I took liberties with that mind you. 

And at Goodwill, several gems of a find. Cassette tapes, finally, to go with my ancient car stereo. At 99cents a pop, we found Sonic Youth, The Cure, Ella Fitzgerald and some classic Baroque. Pacabel on the highway at 90. Who can protest?

Two new books on the bookshelf, 2nd hand, the first one being Tom Wolfe's Bonfire of the Vanities, which read in unison with the Fountainhead has made the winter reading chronologically manhattenesque with a sharp eye on society. It also spares me having to watch Tom Hanks and Melanie Griffith because the lazy side of me would probably reach for the more passive form of consumption. Throw in Mad Men and its the rise of the bourgeoisie and their petty icarus games.

And finally, Pride and Prejudice, a dogeared yellowing book underlined to death by its previous owner which makes it a treat. Reading it would also entail reading into the thoughts of whoever read it before me. It has a history, which i think is appealingly quaint, and that makes me smile. 

Could the airport be the happiest place on earth?

A stream of people- couples in love, parents in waiting, families hoping - continuous, seperated for prolonged periods - long enough to numb the bad memories and sepia tint the good ones. A thousand hugs and hellos and how are yous at any given moment, the collective goodwill before they go into the cars and up comes in the air like the aircon blast the anonymity after all the old stories and rehearsed schticks get played out.

And on the beach, the most beautiful boy. elfin like, skin a powder white but not without scratches and imperfections. The deadlocked hair in a peacock's display of blue, red and pink tendrils. His eyes, glass-like, almost transparent with a hair's pin iris that pierces through. A moments perfection as he played the sitar, slouched against the white cracked paint of the sidewalks of Venice Beach.

Kiss the air and make a wish - Seahorses on patrol, alert to your needs.

It's a thick fog, almost as if one were looking through a delicate lace curtain draped over the city. An almost tangible shroud - the perfect backdrop to Adore on cassette and cold midnight air blowing in through the open car window. Here is now is Home.