Never ignore a subpoena. You get one, you obey.
Unlike your teeth, if you ignore them, they WON’T go away.
Alright. I’ll leave the poetry to Miami Harold. Besides, I’m exaggerating. It’s not a subpoena, it’s an invitation. Nevertheless, it’s an offer I can’t refuse.
I have one sibling on earth, an older brother. At age 60, he’s getting married for the first time. On New Year’s Day. So Guido and I are heading to frozen Philadelphia — the City of Bodily Harm, where we were all born and some remain — to bear witness.
Why New Year’s Day? Why force people to curtail their New Year’s Eve celebration so they must function sufficiently next morning to clean up, dress up, abandon their afternoon of football, leave their warm houses, and drive all over creation to attend a ceremony? Why cause friends and loved ones to travel great distances on a crowded, hectic weekend?
These issues were explored in depth by numerous parties, whose conclusions, I suspect, are obvious even to casual observers. (My brother and I were at odds quite a bit for many, many years.)
Anyway, we’re heading out. My mother, who will be 90 in February, awaits with open arms, if disbelieving soul. Like most of the family, she was astonished when her younger son, Mr. Confirmed Bachelor, tied the knot at age 38. At 60, her other son’s vows are unfathomable. But as Aristotle noted, What is Actual is Possible.
The socks, undergarments, hats, gloves, overcoats, and assorted heavy fabrics are out of storage. Exorbitant plane tickets, rental car, staying-with-friends arrangements all set. Two bottles of tequila for warmth (backup: Jack Daniels). I want a cheesesteak out of this, or at least some scrapple, and ideally a pizza.
We’re out Sunday, back Wednesday.
Happy New Year!