I’ll get to the story shortly; it features a picture of me in a clown suit so it’s worth it. Just stick with this for a second.

There’re twelve posting days left until Christmas. I love Christmas. Christmas is my absolute favorite fucking day of the year. I am 28 years old and still, to this day, I can not sleep the night before Christmas because I’m so excited about opening (and giving) presents out. I love getting my picture taken with Santa – once with Robin and if I’m home in time once with my sister. I love those calendars with the chocolate in them, I love buying and decorating a tree – I love going Christmas shopping for my pets. Every year Robin and I go shopping for a poor family and I love delivering the presents to their house and having coffee with them, maybe some pound cake – I love playing Playstation with the twelve year old kid who’s just happy he has someone else to play against besides the computer. I love seeing my family. I love seeing Robin’s family. I love seeing my friends Christmas night, we huddle into some bar on Columbia Street (although this year I’ll be in Boston for Christmas, NYC for New Years) that’s open, the rest of our neighborhood tucked in with their families and we’re taking shots and anticipating a new year.

I. Fucking. Love. Christmas.

And yet, despite the joy in the air, there is a retarded amount of negativity in comic land. Who said what in what article and who’s offended and who attacks who and who insults who and this story sucks and that story sucks and this creator is a hack and this storyline was a waste and blah blah blah. Bunch of scrooges, all of ‘em. So, with twelve posting days to Christmas I’m going to spend a little time each day spreading some Christmas cheer to someone who I’m thankful for and who I want to see thrive in the new year. It’s called Christmas cheer, bitches, deal with it.

The first one is sort of an obvious choice but I’m thankful for Joshua Hale Fialkov. I wrote Josh on a whim about a year and a half ago and told him that I would love to do submissions work for him. Over the past year and a half I became his editor, attempted cowriter, occasional advisor, sympathetic ear and master convention salesman. But more importantly, we became friends. And although we get on each others nerves occasionally, and although I tend to be a loud-mouthed jerk who makes up shit because I can’t fall back on true experience, especially when I’m drunk, and although we don’t always see eye-to-eye creatively, and although I put a really, really, really nasty word in a press-release once that got him more than a little upset, and although I can occasionally be embarrassing to be around because I don’t shut the fuck up ever, and although I occasionally question his choices to his face and frequently do it behind his back (much like he does with me, I’m sure), and although many of you who read this blog and share private conversations with me have heard me say, “I’m done with this SHIT” many-a-time because I’m a control freak and somewhat of an egotistical jerk – I can honestly look back on the past year and a half and know that I would have given up a year ago if wasn’t for Josh. He’s had a pretty shitty year and I think it’s wearing us all down but I honestly believe it’s going to turn around for the cat and I think this coming year is going to be good for him. If anyone deserves it, it’s him.

Happy Holidays, Josh, you grumpy fucking elf.

Story time…

__________


Every summer my block had at least two block parties. Block parties in Brooklyn were fucking nuts; I’ve yet to experience a city where block parties were of the same magnitude as ours. The block would be cleared of cars by seven in the morning – we’d use some of them to block off access to the street, everyone else had to find spots elsewhere. At seven in the morning every kid that lived on the block was outside with our bikes or playing football. This was our time, when it was too early for the adults to hang out and we had the open street to ourselves.

Eventually the adults started coming out and our bike riding space had to be shared with volley ball nets and people playing catch. Every building had a grill in front of it and a beat up TV with an extension cord running into the window playing the Mets’ game. Families and friends would come by – each stoop would be packed with twenty or more people, eating hamburgers and drinking beers. The adults would get several kegs and put them down in no time at all.

The best part of the block-party was when we popped open the Johnny pump. Every block in Brooklyn had that one guy with the illegal Johnny pump equipment – a sprinkler cap and a special wrench to turn the pump on. I believe for block parties we might have gotten a permit to operate the pump but we usually ran it every day over the summer, but during block parties we weren’t going to get hit by a car while playing in it.

The sprinkler cap made it a lot more fun – a nice heavy mist of water that sprayed across the street since the water pressure from the pump was so strong. We’d just run through it – everyone would take turns sitting on it at some point and laugh as the water puffed our shorts up and made it look like we had huge penises.

Sometimes we’d leave the sprinkler cap off – this was more of a “fun for adults” thing. You couldn’t really run into the water that was blasting out of the pump, I’ve seen many kids run in front of it and get knocked over and swept into the gutter by the incredibly powerful stream of water. What we would do when the cap was off was take these cans with the bottom cut out and use it to direct a stream of water towards an innocent bystander. You can also use the stream coming from the cup to launch blue balls and play a baseball variant.

By noon the entertainment would show up. All of the adults would chip in money and we’d get a couple of rides (usually a Ferris wheel and one of those spinning rides), some parties had a DJ show up at night (we only had a DJ one year). We’d usually get a fire truck to pass by as well and the kids can take a tour of it, some clown for the kids (and one year I just dressed as the clown, and there’s a picture below if you don’t believe it) and an ice-cream truck would show up for a couple of hours and it would be free ice-cream for all of us (free as in the adults picked up the tab).


Once you got too old for the rides they just became a nuisance. It was impossible to ride your bike around when there were giant metal carnival rides around and tons of kids lining up to get on them. But that’s ok because we all knew the water guns would come out eventually.

People used block parties to premier their new Super Soakers. It was like the red carpet during the Oscars but instead of wondering what sort of dress a famous actress would wear you wondered what Super Soaker Bobby got at Toy R’ Us last weekend. We’d go inside for our gear and come out with the big gun held tight in our hands, a smaller gun tucked into our waste, and a water balloon clutched in our free hand.

It would be a war zone. Kids with water guns running all over the place, trying to corner the opposition and soak them – water balloons flying from windows – occasionally an adult will bust out an arsenal of water balloons and take us kids off guard. The water fight would last for at least an hour – we’d all be soaked and spent but after eating some hot-dogs we’d have enough energy left over for a late-night game of Manhunt.

Now, our block parties were the tame ones. Other ones I’ve been to had a DJ and local rappers trying to get record deals, more state of the art rides and firework displays. Block parties were no joke in Brooklyn – if we were going to Disney World one summer we’d still get more excited about our block parties.

And that’s definitive Brooklyn.