Reindeer Games

fantod (FAN-tod) noun
1. A state of nervous anxiety, irritability, the willies, the fidgets.
2. A fit or emotional outburst.
Of unconfirmed origin. Perhaps an alteration of fantique (a state of anxiety) or a blend of fantasy and fatigue.

I can't wait for this holiday season to be over. I swear. Days never passed so slowly and with so much chaos and disarray. I returned back North with a nose redder than Rudolph's and a car buried under four feet of snow.

I've spent more Christmas holiday seasons in Florida than in New England, so I'm used to the whole decorated boats as opposed to decorated lawns and palm trees wrapped up like candy canes. It's still a little surreal, having just left my frigid and festive city to arrive in 80 degree Ft. Lauderdale... but nothing new.

I spent most of the week by myself, wandering in the sand, listening to Beach Boys Pet Sounds and the Luna Superfreaky Summer mix I made last year. I went down to the pier on Christmas Eve to find some little punk surfer to make out with behind the boardwalk but after the sunset and some peach ice cream, I went home empty handed.

I've been going to Boca Raton since I was born back in the golden days of the year of our Lord, 1976, and not a single thing has changed. Everything even smells the same -- salt, oranges, pavement. It's kind of comforting. Our house is in Deerfield Beach, on the Intercoastal waterway, which is essentially a highway for boats running from Maine to the tip of Florida. I sit and watch the parade of boats go past, all wrapped up like Christmas trees. Everyone's drinking and playing Christmas carols on their boat too loudly. Every few minutes there's the honk and ding of the drawbridge.

The drawbridge is one of the coolest things about this place. Big machines that move on their own are one of my morbid fascinations; I'm simultaneously terrified of and mesmerized by them. When I was little I was afraid of the forklift at Home Depot, but then I wasn't afraid to crouch next to the train tracks in my back yard to watch the engines speed by. Anyway. The boats pull up and honk at the drawbridge. The drawbridge blows its horn in response, two short blasts. The traffic stops on either side of the bridge and it raises, the boats go through, and when it's safe the bridge honks three long honks and the gates go up for the cars. It happens probably twice and hour, and you can hear the whole ordeal from the breezeway. I don't mind it. The jangling of the chains reminds me of my childhood. Of being sunburnt and waterlogged. Every single time I hear the horn I feel a tiny panic in my stomach, wondering what it would be like to be a pedestrian, stuck halfway across the top when it opened.

The little lizards are another favorite attraction of mine. They're everywhere, running along the sidewalk, across the cars. From plant to plant. There's a shower at the pool where you pull a chain down to rinse off before jumping in, and when you turn on the water, dozens of lizards fly out from under the shower. My dad said he found a few in the bedroom the other day. I wish we could get the parrots to come inside. There's a bird sanctuary island across the Intercoastal, and you can hear the boil of birdy laughter all the time, but especially in the morning. The birds and the drawbridge start at 5:30 AM.

My family, which is surprisingly functional, crowded into the condo on Sunday and began a stolid dedication to disgusting overindulgence -- eating and drinking excessively for the next week. I remained silent for most of this time to be on the safe side. I found that pleading the fifth makes for a smooth holiday season. It was my first ever Christmas in a decade without gin & tranquilizers, or cigarettes for that matter, so I was a little edgy. But this year I didn't knock down the tree or throw up at inappropriate times.

My parents, sister, and brother-in-law went to church on Christmas Eve. I told them I'd rather not go. Feathers were ruffled, but nobody said anything. We don't talk about the things that bother us; we slam doors and get drunk.

I'm watching The Nightmare Before Christmas, and the DVD has the making of the movie. Perhaps without the intention of picking a fight, my sister asks me how it was. I tell her I'm surprised at how young Tim Burton is. I pictured him white hair and wizend, cane, like an Edward Gorey character come to life... but here he is, bursting with youth and smile. I tell her he looked young, and she says he probably had plastic surgery. I say that I doubt someone so obsessed with scars, stitches, and physical deformities would undergo cosmetic work on their face. She says that's how it is in showbiz -- you've got to sell yourself, sell your face, how that's something I have to learn to accept and deal with, that one day I'll have to sell out too... and now we're fighting not only about fucking Tim Burton's theoretical choice of a plastic surgeon but my dedication to growing old gracefully, to the dismay of my future publishing house.

I could go on but you're probably already bored and wondering why I'm even complaining about my tame family relations. Compared to other people's fucked up holidays, I've got it good. I'm quite aware of this. Did I mention my dad dresses up as Santa Claus every year and goes door to door hugging unsuspecting victims?

And you wonder where I came from.