Today is Christmas Eve. And all through the house I could hear the three tenors singing Christmas carols. I could not be in a more festive mood. In my fridge was a neatly rolled white bag containing my Christmas dinner: an Italian sub from Jimmy John’s, a bag of chips and a chocolate chip cookie. This was enough to make me happy. I usually go for Chinese take-out on Christmas but a sub is cheaper and anyway I never know what to say to the Chinese checkout girl wearing a Santa hat. I know she’s being festive for the rest of us and I wish I could be as thoughtful and say something in Chinese but I usually end up mumbling something ridiculous like, “Happy good evening.” My standard politically correct Christmas greeting is “Happy Holidays!” But even this bland exclamation is not foolproof. Earlier today the girl behind the counter at the tanning salon gave me a glare and responded to my irreligious greeting with an emphatic “Merry Christmas!” mixed with, I thought, a little disdain. She looked like she was in training to become a Fox News broadcaster so I just smiled. And anyway who was I to be judgmental when I was artificially cooking my skin so I could look bronzed for my next Florida show. But all that didn’t matter because tomorrow I would have an excellent Christmas dinner and maybe even watch a bowl game on ESPN360. True it wasn’t going to be a traditional turkey and mashed potatoes Christmas dinner and I didn’t have a tree or even a present to put under the nonexistent tree but there is more to the holiday spirit than all that. Yes, I am certain I remember reading something from Charles Dickens about being of good cheer and full of brotherly love even absent a present or two. As I sat sketching out some new art designs and pondering all this, my thoughts drifted off to memories of Christmases past and I smiled and closed my eyes as the Vienna boys choir sang Pani Angelicus. Then, very faintly and barely perceptible, I smelled the Christmas turkey roasting. Well it wasn’t exactly the smell of a turkey roasting, maybe chicken or something very close. I opened my eyes and sniffed a few times wondering if I was imagining all this. No, I could definitely smell something roasting. I went to the kitchen half expecting a Christmas miracle but there was only a box of Cheerios and a pile of tools on the counter. I peered into the fridge just to make sure but there was only the Jimmy John’s bag, a stick of butter and a half empty carton of milk. And then it dawned on me. I put my forearm to my nose and took a deep breath. It was me and not some phantom turkey. Between the tanning bed and the lotion I almost smelled good enough to eat. This could not be healthy I thought. The image of the crispy delicious skin of a roasted turkey was not the picture I wanted for the future of my skin. And I should’ve known better anyway. Just last week a friend of mine had had a spot on her forehead surgically removed because it was a benign form of skin cancer. For over a year she had been trying to pop it thinking it was some sort of pimple but as everyone knows you can’t pop cancer. You just can’t. And then to add insult to injury the surgery caused two black eyes. As she watched her good looks transform into a bandaged and bruised reflection she decided to dye her hair in an attempt to camouflage if not forestall her slide down the ugly tree. But the dye only took to the roots and now she has a two-tone hairdo that only completes her transformation. I didn’t want to go down that road. I made up my mind then and there that tomorrow would be the start of a new life for me absent tanning beds. And just maybe I would wish someone Merry Christmas. Happy holidays and best wishes to all!

I stopped heating the studio to save a little money. Instead I bundle up like an Arctic explorer and have to suffer the aggravation of my safety glasses constantly fogging over from my warm breath. I even stopped eating out, which is no small sacrifice since I don’t cook. Now I eat a lot of Cheerios and peanut butter sandwiches. I really do miss the Italian subs and cookies from Jimmy John’s. But it’s not all bad because Madison and her mom occasionally mail me boxes of homemade cookies. It would be even better if I could figure out a way to make the cookies last more than a day. I’ve cut back in other ways too, ways that perhaps only single people can. I don’t flush the toilet as much as I used to. Now this only applies to number one and not number two. Even with the lid closed I don’t think I could bear the thought of a turd floating around in the next room. I know what I’m doing is both good for my wallet and for the environment but I sometimes wonder if I’m slowly descending into an uncivilized lifestyle. Sometimes when I come in from the studio I stand in the doorway of my room and take a long smell just to make sure I’m not overdoing the penny pinching. The one thing I refuse to cut back on is audible.com. At least with the books I can claim a certain amount of sophistication even if my house does smell like urine. Today I listened to a biography of Alexander Hamilton as I worked on art. The author, Ron Chernow, weaves such a comprehensive story that my mind drifted off to revolutionary America while my hands stayed with the copper. At one point in the story Hamilton was exclaiming in a letter to a friend about the perfection of his firstborn son with the notable exception that little Philip’s legs were too chubby and he laughed too much. Damn I thought, growing up in the 18th century was tough. Back then I guess babies had to start working out sometime after the first trimester and God forbid you crack a smile when dada leaves a floater in the chamber pot. I could sympathize with baby Philip to some degree. Just yesterday I had bought an Under Armour workout shirt after unsuccessfully trying to squeeze into two pair of pants before going out to the studio. I accidentally punched myself twice in the head trying to put on the skintight shirt. I felt Philip's pain. Life can be tough even in the 21st century. But at least we’re allowed to laugh about it.

It’s always amazing to me to watch an empty field turn into a small tent city of artists in the space of just a few hours. It begins with an advanced game of musical chairs. The artists searching for their booth numbers in the early morning light, trying to decipher spray-painted numbers on the ground while hanging out of their vehicle windows. It’s not exactly a coordinated affair but a certain synergy does exist. The artists have learned through hard experience that the meek do not inherit the best spots so there is no shyness when it comes to getting the job done. Every artist follows their own practiced routine making the whole affair quick if not bloodless.

As the last of the tents are pitched and the clanging and soft cursing has died away there is at least a good hour or two to sit and stare at your fellow artists before the first few customers trickle in. This is the part I do not like. I am an artist by trade but not by temperament. Listening to the pockets of conversation is sometimes humorous but mostly I find it painful. I usually try to escape becoming a participant by hiding in the back of my tent but eventually my neighbors find me out. Two shows ago I was between a noodle slurping elderly woman painter and a collection of porta potties. Hands down the porta potties were the better neighbors. For starters she decided to store all of her extra gear in my booth space, which I would have forgiven if she hadn’t asked disingenuously, I thought, if it was okay after the fact. On more than one occasion I had to remind her to be careful around my art because she was carelessly bumping into it. “I’m always very careful.” she replied as if I had imagined the bumping. And then she spent the better part of the day slurping on a bowl of noodles. Either because she ate the noodles one at a time or because she was constantly refilling the bowl, the annoying behavior went on for hours making it feel like I was undergoing a form of Chinese water torture. I could not have expressed my annoyance more clearly I thought. But either she was slow in the uptake or didn’t care because she planted her chair in the back of my booth and commenced a one-sided conversation that eventually drove me to hanging out in the porta potty’s.

But I am not always so unlucky. At my last show in Lake Mary, Florida I was blessed with two excellent neighbors. On the one side was an elderly married couple that did nature photography. They were genuine and considerate and their photography was good. On the other side was a middle-aged printmaker named Roger. To describe Roger was to describe a caricature of the stereotypical Jimmy Buffett fan. From his naturally styled graying hair to his brown sandals he was the epitome of the aging beach bum. He talked as if he had smoked too much pot in his youth. His stories wandered aimlessly and sometimes he would pause for whole minutes trying to find a word only to come up with a homophone like replacement that left you with little doubt as to his meaning but wondering about the workings of his brain. But he was entertaining and relaxing in the kind of way that all harmless people with a slight disconnect from reality are. It was a beautiful clear day and I stared up at the sky daydreaming and watching a group of vultures circle lazily overhead as Roger prattled on. Following my gaze, Roger helpfully pointed out that the birds were Ospreys. I glanced over at him to make sure we were looking at the same birds. ”Ospreys?” I questioned, giving him a chance to correct himself. “Yup, you can tell from their white bellies.” He replied still staring upwards. The three birds were all black. “But they’re all black.” I said. “They really are pretty birds.” he replied after a moment, unconcerned with my observation. “Once I saw an eagle swoop down and grab a fish and watched as a black crow kept pestering the eagle until it dropped the fish. Then an Osprey swooped in and grabbed the fish and flew away.” As Roger spoke he vigorously animated the story with his hands. “Those f-ing crows have no idea of their size.” He concluded with a surprising amount of animosity. I looked at Roger again. He was shaking his head still staring up at the sky. “They have no business messing with the Eagles.” “Yeah.” I agreed not knowing exactly how to respond. A few customers had ambled into our booths and we both turned away from the sky and tried to sell some art.