On the 24th of November 2011 Americans will gather to celebrate National Christmas Kick-off Day.  This solemn event is a prelude to the financial and food based debauchery soon to come: a month long orgy of cookies, chocolates, layaway, credit card debt, cakes, Winter inspired/justified sloth, and greed disguised as seasonal obligation. 

Everything about National Christmas Kick-off Day is symbolically linked to the holiday ahead.  The meager or notoriously absent decorations around Kick-off serve to exaggerate the level of gaudiness soon to come.  After all, who can claim to be in the spirit of Giftmas without a bi-colored spot light shining off of the roof burning a reindeer silhouette into the sky?  Or a front lawn choked with inflatable snowmen?  And don't forget the stuffed bobbles kept indoors, elves and other animals grinning like lobotomized children.  "It's the most wonderful time of the year..."

Then of course there's the feast, and feast implies more than just a meal.  A meal is merely the consumption of food, so it might pass in silence, while a feast suggests the presence of others with whom one is required to converse, perhaps even festively.  As such, Kick-off Day is a chance to air grievances for which forgiveness can be bribed come Giftmas.  Gorging, wine free flowing, soon the whole family is willing to be too honest.  God forbid this might result at a time after the reception of presents.  Newly beloved things might have to be returned.  Better to get it all out ahead of time with plenty of days in-between to let the rage cool; with the horror of Kick-off Day fights still looming in mind, family members are more likely to hold their tongues if not their wine. 

Plus, National Christmas Kick-off Day is a time to warm up the, now, obligatory contrarian impulse.  For instance, it's time to claim Kick-off used to be its own stand alone holiday, a fact anyone born after 1983 scoffs at. 

Yes, Kick-off Day has not always been well regarded, but its link to Giftmas is an incontrovertible fact.  Why else does the Macy's National Christmas Kick-off Day Parade feature a float dedicated to Santa?  (Which brings to mind the classic Giftmas film A Miracle on 34th Street --  the movie begins during the aforementioned parade.)  Cynics might argue that it's a shallow ploy to induce people to think about shopping for presents, and that the connecting of the two holidays somehow has to do with the idea that if people are thinking of Giftmas during potentially good times with family they might be inspired to purchase more to prove their love come Xmas.  However, what other reason could there be for this occasion?

According to those who must show off their first semester of college history, "Thanksgiving" is a holiday linked to 1621 when a group of religious fanatics gave thanks for surviving in a strange new world.  They apparently broke bread with the Wampanoag tribe who had helped the so-called Pilgrims learn to catch eel, grow corn, and even given them food from their own stores.  (Good thing God sent the Natives or else the Pilgrims might have died.)  It sounds nice, like a classic affirmation of the American ideal:  a group of immigrants comes to an unfamiliar land where the indigenous population welcomes them with open arms, gladly helps them adapt to their new environment, and the two groups eventually come together as friends.  It happens every day in the USA.  Just ask a Mexican. 

Perhaps this is why people point to this one occasion when selling the idea of "Thanksgiving."  After all, occasions for giving thanks occurred in the Americas long before anyone arrived at Plymouth.  Spanish colonists going back to the 16th century routinely held thanksgivings.  The Virginia Commonwealth celebrated thanksgiving in 1607; and the Berkley Plantation in Virginia is considered by some to be the location of the first "official" Thanksgiving, held December 4th 1619.  The Wampanoag even held festivals that could be called thanksgiving celebrations, which some have dismissed as harvest festivals (though what's the difference?). 

So why would America choose one point in time to define a tradition rather than keeping the concept broad and thereby applicable to the notion of giving thanks instead of an event? 

Now is the chance to bring up the genocidal rape filled land grab which will transmogrify by Xmas into how Christianity supplanted older traditions, amalgamating various customs into the celebration of a demigod's birth -- what we know as Christmas.  A... blah, blah, blah designed solely to exhibit one's wealth of grim historical knowledge, all the while ignoring the most salient point: history is malleable.    

America is made of myths.  And though some may die off their legacy somehow persists.  Most people think Betsy Ross invented the American Flag.  Never mind her grandson's excellent job of selling the idea.  Or that Paul Revere alone warned the colonies... while the memory of men like Israel Bissel, who rode over 300 miles to Revere's 15, vanishes.  Hell, Columbus apparently sailed to prove the Earth is round... despite the fact Hellenic philosophers had already concluded the Earth to be spherical, the globe then being invented in 150 BCE by Crates of Mallus, and further perfected into the Erdapfel by Martin Behaim in 1492.  So it shouldn't shock anyone that a myth inspires our sense of a season.

What people tend to forget is that what something is now is not what it will always be.  In the past there may have been a standalone holiday known as Thanksgiving, Turkey Day, Greedy European Asshole's Celebrating the Rape of the Land Day -- the nomenclature all depends on who you ask.  The point is that perspective reshapes reality, and for the time being we now live in the era of National Christmas Kick-off Day.  The day is what you make it.

Part 1:  Fragments 

Arrival.  Cheers.  Pre-game cannonball.  The sound of drums.  Cold steel takes to the ice.  Debbie Wayne in her jersey (size: circus tent), sporting Bobby Hull, pouring.  Shots.  Bar coaches: commanders who will never lead a team but know all.  Debates.  Hell Fire.  The jukebox is one of us.  Cab.  Home... what about the game?

Part 2:  November 8th... Hockey Night... Blackhawks vs. Blues.

My Pops started the tradition.  During certain games, especially against the Red Wings, he and his buddies would go down to the Village.  There they wore the ceremonial garb:  Hawks' jerseys with the names of beloved players stitched to the back, and jackets bearing the team insignia, once worn during epic victories and now alive with the spirit of past conquests.  The mystical importance of their apparel understood without explanation -- to question is to blaspheme; they gathered in the local tavern to voodoo a victory by simply bearing witness to the onslaught on ice.  And even in defeat they still held faith in their magic.

My buddies and I inherited a lot of that tradition, though, as we grew up, we made it our own. 

#

I stop by Sid's on my way to the Village.  The game doesn't start for an hour, but we like to get into position.  He's got his red Amonte jersey on which is a good and bad sign.  That jersey has not let us down, however, wearing it speaks volumes about Sid's appraisal of the situation; we need the strong magic tonight. 

At the tavern it's great to see Debbie behind the bar.  When games go wrong she can spit fouler than a Nola whore, but she's really a sweetheart.  We come in to cheers from some of the Regulars, while she yells, "You pussy drying motherfuckers are late!" then insists, by the wave of her hand, we come over and stretch across the bar to give her a hug.  She pours us two shots of rye, asks the usual catch up questions ("How you been?" , "How's your lady?" , "How's work?"), and then gets to interrogating Sid about his opinion of the game.  He's the only one she trusts when it comes to such divinations and vice versa.  Eavesdropping on their deliberations, I begin to understand the necessity of the red Amonte jersey.  But prophecy is not guarantee, so I maintain hope.

Afterwards, noticing the rest of our pack has arrived, hockey night can begin.

Our first ritual is the cannonball.  Debbie pulls a box wine out from under the bar.  She immediately eviscerates it with a knife, carving the box open to remove its inner pouch.  Then, while the stereo plays J. Swayzee's classic 'Here Come the Hawks,' everyone wearing a jersey lines the bar.  Walking from one end to the other, she pours/squeezes the pouch, gushing box wine into open mouths.  Our one goal is to finish the entire bag-o-wine before the song ends.  We have never failed.  But this isn't enough to win games.

The jukebox is shutdown as the game starts up.  We hammer the bar like a communal drum.  Irregulars, unfamiliar with our traditions, quickly pay their tabs and leave.  They can sense madness is brewing.  Soon the place will be full of screaming fans guzzling epic quantities as they strive to reach a state of shamanistic delirium.  We'll pour ourselves through the veil into another reality where our cries can travel through the TV screen and influence the outcome of the game.  Now, at the start of the match, is the only chance to leave safely.  Anyone who remains must either join the conflagration or be sacrificed in it.  And those swiftly ducking out the back know they don't have the nerves for what is coming. 

Beers go down faster the more nervous the crowd becomes.  The mounting tension gets punctured by shots now and again.  Most of the Regulars don't even need to say a thing.  They just point to a glass, a bottle, a shot glass, and Debbie knows what to pour.  For the next twenty minutes she rarely gets a second to stop, but she knows how to work the room and keep an eye on the game. 

When the Blues score their first goal, putting the Hawks behind, we all do a shot, Debbie included.  For now there are mutterings along the lines of, "It's only one.  We can make it back," which is true but no comfort.  Sid looks grim -- The proof of his prophecy a glaring number one.  He swallows his drink hard and stares at the screen.  With the right kind of eyes a person can almost make out Sid's will pouring into the TV.

By the end of the period, with St. Louis's goal still unanswered, the crowd begins to argue about what needs to be done.  Sid and I go out for a few cigarettes before the next period.  However, this is also a tactic.  Sid can't stomach some of the bar coaches.  Men who make declarations like, "What they really need to do is score a goal."  Of course!  This whole time the team forgot it's not who holds the puck longest, but who scores the most points.  Brilliant.  Get on the big red phone Debbie keeps under the bar and call head coach Joel Quenneville.  He needs to know to score more goals.  Or my favorite, the nonsensical arguments that involve the manipulation of time.  Dan Pritchet, after a few huffs of glue, is typically the culprit here.  He comes back from the bathroom with a smile stuck to his face and argues that the team needs, "to get like Stan Mikita back in there with like Chris Celios, ya know?  Pilote, Savard; We put those guys on the ice, and they can't be stopped."  Indeed, and as long as we're manipulating time lets go back to before the goal was scored and have the Hawks in position to prevent it.  Such are the cries of defeated wills who wish for some deus ex machina to carry the team to victory.  Sid prefers reality, regardless of how grim it might get, and I agree.

So we finish our smokes and head back inside.  There are two whole periods left. 

The old guard doesn't come out much anymore.  They all have their reasons:  pancreatitis, emphysema, cirrhosis, cancer, suicide, or just plain moved away (like Aldous Loudon who moved to Arizona to save his last lung, the left having been removed after his wife stabbed him in the chest inadvertently leading to the discovery of his lung cancer, but I digress).  They still witness the games, often on the radio, preferring the comfort of their home to the raucous tavern.  However, from time to time, they venture out, usually when the old witch doctors are needed most.  And after the second period, I wished at least one would show up.  Solidly behind at two to nothing, defeats feels inevitable.  Although, as Sid likes to say, "You haven't failed till you've given up."

Near the start of the third period Sid orders a round of Hell Fire for the bar.  John Dowd shakes his head, "Dude, I'm not drinking that shit."  Sid stabs a finger at him, "You will, and you'll like it.  The games not over."  Dowd counters, "Might as well be."  To which Debbie hollers, "Then you can get the fuck out ya limp dick ovarian cyst."  Before Dowd can ask how a cyst can have a dick the murmur of the crowd forces him to accept his fate. 

Hell Fire is a local concoction brewed in Toby Jackson's basement.  Only the Village carries the stuff, and if the cops ever cared about humanity they would arrest Toby and beat him with socks full of batteries for ever creating the wretched brew.  Hell Fire burns all the way down to the stomach where it roils in the belly for several minutes; and it's known to cause hallucinations, induce disorientation, cure strep throat, and create out of body experiences, which may or may not be instances of temporary death.  But it's a key to another level of consciousness -- that plain where our will can manipulate reality.  Some might wonder, Why not drink it from the start?  Because it's not to be taken lightly.  Hell Fire is only for emergency situations.  Like stopping people from getting married. 

Debbie gets the jug from a cooler.  Hell Fire has to be kept cold.  Storing it at room temperature carries the possibility it might combust.  Toby named it.  One weekend, years ago, he brought over a plastic milk jug filled with red liquid.  He took the first experimental mouthful, and his first words became the potion's name.  Although our buddy Pete still contends Toby might have been trying to say, "Help.  Fire!" the current title stuck.  And it's the same jug Debbie pulled out of the cooler.  Hell Fire scrawled across with a marker, the jug's very presence is ominous. 

It's time to get real by going out of our minds.  With twenty minutes to go the game is still salvageable.  At the very least no one wants to see the shame of shames:  a shutout.  So we take our shots in hand and as a collective shout, "Go Hawks!" then drink the nectar of demonic gods.  Only Toby takes his without grimacing.  Most of the screaming that follows seems like roaring for the team, but regardless of their origin, the battle cries are back.  Debbie cranks the stereo and 'Here Comes the Hawks' blasts.  The whole room cheers.  Danny Pritchet openly takes a huff of glue and no one cares.  The battle rages on, and even when St. Louis scores yet another goal John Dowd hollers, "That's some bullshit, and I'll tell you why!"  But no one cares what he has to say, so he's ignored.  Jody Beacham starts to smoke in the bar, and Debbie doesn't stop her.  Jody's current boyfriend lets her ash in his hand, so he can use a bit of water to make war paint.  The two streak their faces and howl for the Hawks.  Sid sits in a corner, a self satisfied look on his face.  The room is alive again, and the magic is almost palpable.  We're brewing up a voodoo hurricane, however, none of it seems to be leaving the tavern.  Despite our trance, the Hawks can't get the edge.  In the end, they lose.  A dreaded shutout has occurred, and now the team has lost three in a row.  But hope springs eternal. 

Pronouncements about the next game are already under way.  This defeat is shunted aside thanks to the possibility that next time our team will be victorious.  There's no time to consider the loss, though there is enough to learn from it.  Next time, always next time, winning is in our future. 

Though, for a bit, there is a solemn silence.  We did our best, only it wasn't enough. 

The jukebox comes back to life, randomly playing Cher's 'Strong Enough.'  And it feels right.  Like the machine knows -- it's been around long enough to be one of us. 

There will be another game.  Soon.  And with a losing streak developing, the Hell Fire might have to come out first. 

She haunts
the halls
the way she
slips and slithers. 
Her whispers
frost panes
with
wisps of lace.   
She dangles whole. 
Feet
above the floor. 
Calls the boys, 
"Shower with me." 
And we
find them
froze. 
A glacial washroom. 
Cleanse and fuck
to your doom. 
The temptation
of
a sure thing --
she plans
on nothing. 
Brush past
the shadow that
causes
shivers. 
She watches. 
Licks her lips. 
Frigid. 
She's
cause and effect;
The reason for,
why, and how,
without
intending to. 
She freezes
what
she loves --
ice entombed.

It was the war to end all wars.  Mexico had joined forces with Albania, the Fourth Reich had come from the distant future to aid the Belgians, and Antarctica could no longer remain neutral.  It might have been the beginning of the end, but America refused to submit to a seemingly inevitable fate.

The moment the tide turned can be marked on any calendar:  February 29th, 1940.  FDR and JFK had just captured a Japanese U-boat off the coast of Atlanta, and Air Marshal Samantha Socrates Aloysius Lee, descendant of Robert E., otherwise known as Judy Garland, had given the order to allow Greenland’s air fortress The Rum Guzzler into combat. 

– What?  I’m helping the boy with his history.  Get back to whatever the fuck you're doing.  I'm in the midst of scholarly matters, not your bullshit.  Now, where was I?  Oh yeah. --

The next morning there would be no Dresden.  It still makes my cock fucking rock hard to think about The Rum Guzzler darkening the sky and the earth shaking as thousands of bombs create a hurricane of fire.  Oops, there it is.  Anyhow, the Albanians felt the best thing to do was secure the land bridge connecting South America with Africa.  Finally understanding the significant strategic value of and our inability to protect said bridge, Judy Garland gave the order for it to be demolished.  As such, it no longer exists, though I’ve heard it may have only been a matter of time before the whole thing fell into the sea, but I’m not saying, I’m just sayin’. 

Fortunately, this got the Czar involved.  Up until then he’d thought it best to play it safe, only sending his armies to guard against Chinese invasion as well as rape-murder their way through Poland, Finland, parts of Germany, and a whole shmear of Slavic nations.  The thing to remember – Yes, I know what the fuck I’m saying.  Stop bitching at me and just wait in the kitchen  – the thing to remember is that Russians hate to see the loss of land.  Just look at the size of their fucking territory, most of which they leave empty, not a fucking city for miles.  And yet, they bristle at even the thought of destroying land.  Of course, some people might argue, your Uncle Pete for one, being a cocksucker, that it makes no sense for the Russians to declare war on Albania when it was the good ol’ U.S. of A. that destroyed the bridge.  He likes to think it was just a pretense to fuck up Albania, but anyhow, whichever is right, the Czar came charging into battle, cannons blazing. 

So the war is raging.  About this time Hedy Lamar figured out how to make the atomic bomb.  However, the only way to deliver it at the time was C.O.D., which naturally made it difficult to ship.  Yet, the threat of the bomb stalled the Mexican advance.  See:  they had no idea which way to invade since none of the Southern states are of enough value to stop us from nuking them off the face of the earth.  This delay ultimately cost them the war.  We sent the Marines into the Yucatan, set up shop in the Mayan ruins, and unleashed hell. 

But it’s not all sunshine – seriously, stop poking your fucking head around the corner.  I know what I’m doing Maggie. -- The particulars of time travel are hard to explain and’ll take too long.  Suffice it to say the Fourth Reich did not bring weapons per say.  They brought the blueprints.  About six months after their arrival in Belgium, the new weapons were in the hands of soldiers and causing all kinds of trouble.  Guns that can shoot four different kinds of bullets at once, a shotgun that reloads itself, grenades that rip open temporary black holes.  It was a nightmare to trouble Satan himself.  However, and this is a good lesson in general, technology can only do so much.  Just having a good gun doesn’t make you a good soldier.  And the Belgians being technically a kind of French, I think you see my point.  Our side never flinched.  Theirs did.  Nuff said. 

I guess the summation of it all is that World War the Sequel was a hellish nightmare that reshaped the very face of the Earth as well as changing the course of human history forever.  Now, go write your report. 

...he’s gone.  You can come out now.  And before you say a goddamn thing:  if that kid isn’t willing to read a book then fuck him.  Maybe a solid F slap to the face will wake his lazy ass up.  He thinks he’s so clever, trying to get me to chat and virtually write the paper for him.  Do you remember the report he wrote questioning why Nathaniel Hawthorne would cast Demi Moore?  Fucking dumbass.

     These days there aren't many request for Deland Moran and the Vista Cruiser Honky-Tonk.  But that's the way of things.  Some moments can shine bright, but if the light doesn't carry, well, people won't see it. 

     Back in '69 Deland played guitar and/or piano, depending on his mood, sticking with one all night or switching back and forth.  My Uncle Mick, who owned this joint then, hired the band for one night that turned into years.  Mick's joint:  Moriarty's Last Resort -- like the final stop for villains who deserved better.  Whether that meant ends or surroundings, no one really knows.  Anyhow, Deland played this hybrid, sorta bluesy-jazz-rock.  The thing about it was Deland always played something one of a kind.  The tunes he called up with his fingers didn't come by more than once or twice.  Like a musician might talk about using a mood to write a song, Deland only conversed with his notes; You could tell what kind of a day he'd been having based on the way he played.  And never an explanation out his mouth.  He left the vocal styling to Jim Palmer the bass player. 

     See, Jim Palmer had a gift for crafting several lyrics around Deland's way of playing.  So the Honky-Tonk would wait to see what mood Deland's tune carried then Jim and the others -- Lefty Camino on drums, Jack Poulakis on rhythm guitar -- would jam alongside accordingly.  Anyhow, Jim kept a set of lyrics on hand he could insert regardless of the way Deland played; The notes may not have been the same, but the lyrics matched the mood of Deland's tune.  All Jim needed was to time out the rhythm and sing in step as it were.

     Those boys always put on a unique show.

     Of course, this is around when, people like myself, tend to think the corporate tentacles started creeping in, strangling the odd out of the business.  If it couldn't get stamped, sealed up on a record, people didn't want to buy it.  Or so the company would have you think.  See, bands like the Grateful Dead may have given you a little twist during the show, but what they played is recognizable from the record.  You couldn't really do that with Deland Moran and the Vista Cruiser Honky-Tonk.  And I say that having seen record men come into Moriarty's offering them contracts and getting pissed when they couldn't hear the songs they wanted.  It makes sense; people want consistency when it comes to things they enjoy -- no reminders of impermanence.  So those boys just stuck to playing in Moriarty's. 
     My uncle, being a fan, hired them regularly, and I worked there more the older I got.  From nineteen on I tended bar for bikers, chronic tourists, drifters, loners, traveling salesmen, Okies, Arkies, and all types of American gypsies -- regulars though they wandered, returning when they could.  And every night, the Vista Cruiser Honky-Tonk played.  (That being said one does have to allow for certain predictable and unpredictable occasions:  illness, injury; Jack Poulakis might disappear for a while in avoidance of gambling debts, gun toting girlfriends, and benders.  But at some point the band would be whole again, usually inside of a week.)

     Around '74 my uncle got sick.  Cancer.  It didn't take long before he couldn't make it to Moriarty's anymore.  So Deland says to me one night, "Your Uncle Mick has always been good to me.  Me and the guys."  I said thank you that's good to hear, and he added, "My cousin has got some equipment.  I'd like to make your uncle a record."

     That's how it came about, in the Autumn of 1974 Deland Moran and the Vista Cruiser Honky-Tonk recorded their one and only album.  There didn't need to be any spacing between tracks -- the whole performance went off like one single song.  Although, the grooves did get set pretty tight.  But the band managed to pack forty minutes on each side of that record.  A one of a kind LP. 

     My uncle listened to it twice before he died. 

     At the band's request I kept the record to myself.  Since Uncle Mick left me the bar, I asked about putting it in the jukebox, to play during the afternoon or whenever they might not be around.  The guys said that would be all right.

     Only the regulars and I ever gave it a spin.  I guess it takes a bit of a context to get into the tune.  That record is for my Uncle Mick and in a way, for Moriarty's Last Resort.  Jim Palmer barely sings on it.  He only sticks his voice in a few times.  Like when he sings, all gravely and raw, "I don't know the road you take to get home, but I'll follow you... even if I walk alone."

     The Vista Cruiser Honky-Tonk broke up in the late 70s.  Mainly, the guys felt old and just didn't have the fire to keep playing.  Deland stuck around for a while, but it never really sounded the same.  He didn't even try to find replacements for Jim, Lefty, and Jack.  And I think that's just right.  Eventually, even Deland disappeared.  I have no idea to where exactly, though I recall he had some family out around Chicago.  Or Florida.  Maybe Aspen.  I don't know for sure. 

     I still play the record, from time to time.  People don't appreciate it so much anymore.  We used to get folks, every now and again, who'd request it on the jukebox -- old regulars passing through.  We don't get as many these days.  The star is fading, but at least it shone.