Xmas is played out. It’s gotten ridiculous. I hate the idea that I should feel obligated to purchase hastily picked gifts for friends and family. I hate the idea I have to shell out my hard-earned money to travel back to freezing-ass cold, snow, ice and all the hysteria that goes with it every December. Don’t get me wrong – I love my family. But there’s got to be a better time of year to see them, a calmer time of year.

So, after traveling back to Michigan every year for the holidays since moving to California in 2000, I decided enough was enough: In 2005, I announced to my family that I wasn’t coming back in 2006. My mom didn’t blame me. She shares my California love.

And so I joined the ranks of the Xmas orphans. No gifts to buy. No traveling to withstand. Being an Xmas orphan in San Francisco isn’t as bad as I had originally thought it would be – there was an overabundance of parties to attend; the City is empty, meaning you can drive 60mph through the Mission with little concern for running into people parked in the middle of the road; and the bars aren’t overcrowded, either – all positive things.
So, with my compadre, Mikey, up from Los Angeles for the weekend to spend Xmas with me, we set off on our Xmas orphan adventure, during which we learned many important things:

• Wearing bright red pants means you’re probably gay – On Friday night, the 23rd, we decided we were hungry for some delicious Cable Car Pizza on Valencia. I was still wearing my “Father Fucking Xmas” outfit – bright red polyester pants, long-sleeved green shirt, green Doc Martens – from a holiday party earlier in the evening. Three drunken idiots, clearly bridge-and-tunnel material, were walking along with us, asking such intelligent questions as, “Is that pizza you have?” (No, it’s milk of magnesia). The drunkest of the three then began berating me: “Why are you wearing red pants? What do they stand for? Your pants are too bright! You must be a fag!” So, don’t forget: red pants = gay; blue pants = bi; green pants = tranny; khakis = stupid.

• Wearing bulky black eyeglasses also means you are gay – Xmas Eve day was spent at the Kilowatt on 16th, watching Mikey’s beloved Cincinnati Bengals take on the Denver Broncos. We drank heavily, a damn fine way to spend Xmas Eve.

But our fashion sense once again proved to be too much, for our fellow football fans. “Why do you wear such big, thick Buddy Holly glasses? Are you gay?” Damn, looks like Mikey’ll have to go back to stuffing a bandana in his back pocket.

• A three-day diet of junk food, meat, cereal and alcohol isn’t advisable – Mikey and I are both from the meat-and-potatoes Midwestern school of eating. When we picked up groceries on Xmas Eve, we decided to give ourselves a present and eat as much crappy food as we possibly could, a diet consisting of all the basic food groups – pizza, doughnuts, beer, vodka, chips, cereal, wine, candy and toast. We also indulged in delicious sausage balls, bagels, chocolate, cookies, Chicken Tikka Masala, naan, bacon and more beer. After three days of this, Mikey’s stomach decided it was time to opt out of the festivities and give back. Four solid heaves and he was back to square one. Who knew (other than models)? Hell, in my haze, I managed to burn a pizza to a golden black. I guess downing Nyquil after placing a pizza in the oven wasn’t such a good idea.

• You can find an open bar on Xmas Eve – We spent Xmas Eve in North Beach after scoring the best parking spot ever! An Xmas Miracle – chilling with a few friends and, of course, drinking heavily. At midnight, our drunken crew decided to take a walk and randomly ended up at the Wharf. It was spookily deserted, i.e. pure heaven. After spending about twenty minutes waking the sea lions, we searched for an open bar and finally found our Taj Mahal at Kennedy’s Irish Pub and India Curry House on Columbus. Within minutes, we had ordered up assorted Indian dishes, pints in hand, pool tables and air hockey secured, while playing music on the jukebox. We owned that shit. Hell, Mrs. Claus was even behind the bar serving up discounted beverages to our obviously inebriated Xmas crew.

• Xmas day bagel brunches are strange – My Jewish friends host an annual Xmas day bagel brunch, so I was excited to finally hit that scene. And what a scene it was. We learned many things there in the Inner Richmond:
— Our hosts need to invest in an “OED” (Oxford English Dictionary) in order to satisfy guests who need to disprove the theory that “flammery” was an old English slang word for bullshit.
— The phrase “Putting it over like Hitler” is supposedly an up-and-coming phrase that refers to how Hitler and Eva Braun fooled people into believing they were married (never mind that they actually were married).

— We need a friend like George. My friend’s father is semi-retired, but to keep busy he drives one of those trucks with a revolving advertising slogan on the trailer. Basically, he’s paid to drive around. But being Jewish, he refuses to drive on the Sabbath. So he tells his boss that on the Sabbath, George drives the truck. George does not exist.

• “Nights in White Satin” can be an Xmas theme song – We have no idea how this happened. The overwrought, maudlin 1967 tune by the Moody Blues somehow became our sad little anthem for the weekend.

• The Korean owners of my corner store don’t care about Xmas – We foolishly braved thick crowds at Safeway on Xmas Eve to avoid having to potentially run out of booze. But the good-hearted people who own King’s Market at 22nd and Bryant were totally there for us! The only sign it was Xmas was the exceedingly loud holiday music blaring out of the open door.

• The old rave anthem “James Brown Is Dead” is finally appropriate – self-explanatory.

I can’t wait for Arbor Day!

Tim Pratt is a fascinating writer, a titillating speaker, and a damn fine DJ who enjoys Boxing Day, lemons in his Corona, chocolate pudding, cool jackets, and the word “cuddlebutt,” which he recently made up. He lives and wears his cool jackets in the Mission. Experience the magic at timpratt.blogspot.com.