Oh hello, Marlena’s. Every year, I say I hate—no, too strong, dislike is more correct— Christmas: I hate what it does to my evening wanders around Union Square; I hate what it does to shoppers, they become avaricious and wanton with their lusts (a henley for a cousin; a giftcard for the other cousin). I think I need to obtain something from a store that only exists at the intersection of crowded and busy: nope, I’ll wait until January.
Thing is, Christmas has ceased to mean stuff for me.
I don’t want anything, save a drink with friends, a home-made card, something salty and the opposite of cupcakes, the opposite of a season that thrives on forced memory and tradition. But somehow, Marlena’s manages to make it okay, their explosions of Santas like an elder bear convention, less like a mall and more like Truman Capote’s version of a holiday.
Thank you, Marlena’s. Everyone go there right now. They won’t make you a fancy drink, but it’ll be an honest drink.
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