Dave's Fiction Warehouse

S hould auld acquaintance be forgot? Probably not, but life goes on, you know? One of the few things I really loved about the movie "When Harry Met Sally" was Billy Crystal’s frank admission that he didn’t know what the hell “Auld Lang Syne” was supposed to mean. I don’t either. But if I’ve had a bit too much drink on New Year’s Eve — and that is not unheard-of at the Warehouse — I still can get misty-eyed over the song, watching the boozy couples sway amid the confetti. Probably because the generally accepted meaning of “Auld Lang Syne” boils down to “for the old times.” Who can’t drink to that? The older I get, the better I was. With all due respect to Robert Burns, here’s a ballad composed by James Watson in 1711 that is a bit easier to comprehend: Should Old Acquaintance be forgot, and never thought upon; The flames of Love extinguished, and fully past and gone: Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold, that loving Breast of thine; That thou canst never once reflect On Old lo...

I 'm really trying to think of something to get Mom for Christmas. This has become an annual problem. She’s in her 80s, and after all those Christmases and birthdays there’s nothing she wants, and certainly nothing she needs. Lately my brothers and I have resorted to sending edible treats of one sort or another — ham or fruit or chocolate or cheese. But there’s only so much one woman can eat. Mom grew up during the Depression, which means that things pretty much have to disintegrate into their component molecules before she’ll think about replacing them. She works outside a lot and lives in Montana, so once I got her a nice warm Eddie Bauer parka. She thanked me profusely and always commented on what a nice gift it was, but I never saw her wear it. The thing is, she already had a perfectly good coat. Maybe it was slightly frayed or patched here and there, but it had years of use left in it and you can’t just quit wearing a perfectly good coat. Especially one that probably, by then,...

W e were talking about the insane Twitter flame-fest that erupted during and after NBC’s live version of The Sound of Music. What the hell was up with that? I was shocked and saddened. What do people expect of live television? Something really classy like the f*%$#ing Grammy Awards? Look, the original Sound of Music was corny even when it was new, and this stage version didn’t add much in the way of sophistication. But we’re not talking Schindler’s List here. You had good-looking people doing a pretty good job with all the goofy numbers, and in a way it was kind of refreshing to see a big star like Carrie Underwood laying it on the line without the possibility of her inevitable gaffes being edited. I’m not her biggest fan, but she showed some guts there. Some of the commentary was sporadically amusing, like this Vanity Fair report from too-cool-for-school Michelle Collins. But really, she’s making fun of The Sound of Music itself, not this particular performance. Believe me, she’s not ...

I 'm sitting here thinking about all the cameras I’ve bought over the years. I mention it because I’m thinking about buying another one. It’s kind of a sickness with me. It’s another shot of bourbon for a man who’s had way too many. And it’s getting near closing time. My first serious camera was a Mamiya-Sekor 1000 DTL; I guess that was in 1972. I ordered it from 47th Street Photo in New York. There was something about the viewfinder, the fresnel screen: When you snapped something into focus, it was like looking at a 3D finished print right there in the camera. It was a slice of irreplaceable time. I loved that camera. I took a lot of pictures of my toddlers, and a lot of my camping trips. Some of those photographs still exist, grainy black and white prints I produced in a laughably primitive home darkroom. Any iPhone would be better, of course, complete with Instagram-style filters that can faithfully replicate every freaking mistake I ever made as a fledgling 35mm photographer. B...

I t’s a question I’ve long pondered: Why America, with all its tech prowess and industrial might, can’t produce a string of Christmas lights that will last more than one season. Yesterday I decided to deploy my annual Christmas display, a subdued arrangement consisting of lighted garlands on the porch and fake greenery around the entrance and a door wreath that is admittedly getting a little threadbare. I plugged everything in. Three of the four strings remained dark. No problem, I thought: I’ll just change fuses. I did that, and — voila! — now none of the strings would light. A variety of Christmas curses filled the tepid air over Jacksonville — like Darrin McGavin in A Christmas Story, except mine was actual profanity. I considered bundling all the Christmas crap back into the garage and being done with it. But this morning it’s still out there. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a metaphor for finding the Christmas spirit in an aging heart. Sometimes it just doesn’t light up when it should. A...