A friend called me the other day at work to inquire about my sanity. Which was nice. He said he was worried after reading this blog. Funny how we relate these days.
He took me out to lunch. I had a Mick chicken burger at the Mayflower, the day after the Stones were in town. The meat came heavily breaded, deep fried and, with the melted Monterey Jack, looked more like a Keith Richards close-up than the mug of the big-lipped guy. The side salad was limp. What does this mean?
It turned out the friend had troubles of his own. As he was sharing, he started to weep, so naturally I panicked and abruptly changed the topic to the Stones — something I know almost nothing about. I would have picked the Jays if they didn’t suck and I actually liked team sports. Every morning when I grab the Globe from the stoop and see the Sport section, I just think of all those poor trees.
After lunch, we popped into the Christmas store next door on Elgin. It’s fabulous any time of year but November and December. I love the over-the-top ridiculousness of all that seasonal junk. I fought against an urge to buy a $12 sparkly metallic tree branch. The carols that animated the place were drowned out at the door by the cackling Hallowe’en display. Christ and pagan ghouls, all in one conveniently-located shop!
My friend seemed to rally. He bought a tree decoration for his girlfriend. I felt better too.