Friday, December 22, 2006

I'd Give Anything



I Want To Be Home For Christmas

"I'd give anything to see
a little Christmas tree
And to hear, hear the laughter
of children playing in the snow
To kiss my baby, under the mistletoe.


But I can't promise my eyes this sight
unless they stop the fight.

'Cause I'm a prisoner of war

lying here in my cell, hoping
my family is well.
Wish they wouldn't worry so much about me,
just try to get us home, in time for the Christmas tree.
Listen,
oh yeah, oh,
I want to see snowflakes fall
I want to see Santa Claus
Oh I want to hear jingle bells ring,
want to hear jingle bells ringing.
But I can't promise my eyes this sight
unless they stop the fight."
If I can't make it home in time
I know you'll be keeping my spirit bright
by wearing my name and trying to stop this fight
Ah, but I'd give anything to see you, the family... and that little Christmas tree."

I moved to London in June of 2001, fully intending that I would be there forever -- and if not forever, then a very long time. I found work fairly quickly (I won't say that I found good work quickly: I got a job as a bartender at a "western" eatery in Earl's Court called the Texas Lone Star. My job duties included pouring frozen margarita after frozen margarita (we were mad packed on the weekends) and trying not to choke on the irony that I'd left Wyoming all those years ago only to end up lulled into catatonia by the endless loops of Shania Twain on the Gloucester fucking Road in the heart of London fucking England. As you might imagine, I got that job because my American ass added a dash of verisimiltude to the whole farce of a theme (James Baldwin was right, you know: black people are never more American than when they are abroad), but my salty attitude almost got me fired on the regular -- and I was only there a few weeks! I just refused to take that job seriously. I was constitutionally incapable of appreciating the absurdity. I might have tried harder, but I was prevented from doing so by the clientele, who didn't even have the good sense to be British citizens. The customers were overwhelmingly Americans who were staying in hotels in the area (like the dude who's posted a comment at the link above) -- and I get being overwhelmed with homesickness and needing the comforts of home, but we're talking about business travellers and other vacationers who just couldn't be arsed to find a restaurant that didn't look like a

UPDATE: I started this post around Christmas, and I it was epic. Ultimately, I was trying to talk about the soul ache I had because my little brother had been deployed to Iraq and was spending Christmas over there and then I...well, anyway, he came home safely, praise God. So we'll just leave this sad little holiday post where it is, a'ight, family?

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