Have A Mercy Mild Christmas To All

Hope you're having the best-ever Christmas season, etc., etc., that your Yule is bright, and all your wishes come true, and Santa doesn't have any trouble reading his list in a snow-laden sleigh that very well could ruin his computer system.

It's a great one for me so far, except I'm getting sick and tired of the Salvation Army bells everywhere I go. That coming from a guy who actually rang the bell one Christmas, now fairly far back, in the 2000s some time. I look at the current crop of Salvation Army ringers and wonder if they feel as uncomfortable as I did doing it, but none of them betrays the slightest reticence about it. And I'm one of the world's best readers of body language; if anyone feels remotely uncomfortable, my consciousness swoops in like a hawk and picks up on it. I saw a bell-ringer, I believe it was yesterday, who was even singing "White Christmas." It gave me the chills to think she'd put herself out like that, as though the bell itself isn't annoying enough. But of course it does a lot of good, presumably, that's what they say, but who can really tell? There's probably an annual report at the website.

The family has basically given up Christmas as a thing. Mom and Dad are of course passed on, which definitely saves money on gift-giving. I always had a hard time trying to think of something to give them every year. Then they died and that challenge was gone. Yes, I miss them something awful. There was a picture of them on the table today, how it got there I don't know. (I've been cleaning out boxes and it might've fluttered to the floor, then I picked it up -- let's say -- and didn't realize what it was.) Anyway, they're in their later teens. Dad's got glasses on, which he didn't usually wear. Mom's in a fancy dress, like maybe they were on their way to get married. I stared at it. Dad's staring at the camera, so I'm looking right into his eyes. Mom's looking to the side. I wouldn't know what to get them if they were alive. Maybe a tin of Topsy's popcorn.

I could go to church for Christmas. But don't think I will. It's almost better to celebrate the Blessed Story on your own and in your own way. When I read it and meditate by myself it doesn't sound as trite, not as much of a rerun. And really I am into it. I've got a whole system going of getting to the nub of everything in a holistic way. I'll keep the details to myself. The more I publicly explain it the worse it sounds. In which case I may as well go to church. (I love church, usually, but sometimes I don't as much.) I wouldn't mind going to a Catholic thing. Even though I'm not Catholic. The only reason I don't go to the Catholic church is because I'm not Catholic. Otherwise, I think it's cool, exciting, and profound. But probably one look at the priest thinking "This guy ain't Catholic" would do me in, and that'd be it. Last thing I'm ever going to do is take any kind of initiation. Am I right? Screw it. And I don't especially want to go to my own church. I've been through all the possibilities there, and for personal reasons I've been a lot on edge there. Yes, I know the objections to that kind of attitude.

About the picture above, that's my hand. I can't remember what I was doing, but it involved the camera on my phone. I somehow accidentally snapped a picture of my hand when I was taking a blue wastebasket out. I looked at it and thought it was inscrutable enough, it ought to be a Christmas-greeting picture. Something Hallmark would pay big bucks for, if I were money-grubbing enough to sell it. Let 'em take their own pictures, and leave me the heck alone.

OK, friends -- far and wide -- people who read this blog, people who used to read it but got sick of it and moved on -- Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Other holidays that may exist, I respect your various greetings, too. And would say them to you if I knew them. Seems like there's something called Kwanzaa, which is something. Happy that. And Hanukkah, that means something very great. Happy that. If you're a native of somewhere and you have a tribal greeting, Merry that, Happy the other thing. Happy Holidays to those who are politically invested in exploiting the holiday bullshit ... I have no respect for that at all. Live and let live, leave well enough alone, eh? Happy Solstice, which was a few days ago, maybe ... I didn't hear a word about it this year. Hasn't the moon been dark lately? I don't usually look at the sky, but made the mistake of looking at it recently when there wasn't much to see. Merry Meet to all my Merry Meet friends. I recently bought a Porta-Potti, so Happy Holidays to other Thetford toilet owners. All the best to Catholics, those who go and love it and those like me who would love to go but hate to give priests the heeby-jeebies (See above).

I hate to bring this post to an end. But what else can I say to keep you dangling on the line? Most of you dropped off already. I'm happy, though. You be happy! OK? I'd love to be like Santa Claus, and come down your chimney and give you a big happy hug, or talk you into happiness, peace and harmony. But obviously that's not going to happen. Me out!

The Great Piss Storm of '013

I'm wistful today. You see, it's the time for the Holiday Extravaganza, a wonderful event that's timed every year to coincide with winter and Christmas. Which was fun to go to until they changed some of their policies.

Someone asked me to go several years ago. And they were right, the various handiwork holiday crafts were nauseating to see, but, as it turned out, were especially a delight to piss on.

This is true. It's one of the few Craft Sale/Holiday Extravaganza-type events I'd ever seen that had a lenient policy on pissing on the merchandise and exhibits. Which was especially welcome to me, because when I see a lot of that stuff, Santa Clauses with the rounded heart bored in his chest area, denoting the heart of Santa offered up to the world, etc., I experience one of two reactions: 1) A spinning feeling that makes me feel faint; and, 2) The need to piss on it, thereby expressing my revulsion.

But enough about me. Except to add, I went to the first Extravaganza I heard about, and was unprepared for what I would see. Which is to say I'd relieved myself sufficiently at home, then when it came time to express my feelings I could only muster a few minor tinkles, something like an eighth of a cup were it measured. Hardly worth my time.

The second Extravaganza was in '012 (Ought 12). Again I didn't make a production of it, just enough of an output to say I had one. Because, frankly, these days no one cares, really. You tell someone what you did and they always answer with something they did. Leaving my story to wither on the vine and get no kudos. I hate that about life these days. It's almost enough to make me strain real hard, like right now, till my face turns red, and, oops, there went about an eighth of a cup...

The third Extravaganza was in Ought 13. This time I didn't care what anyone thought. So I crammed for it. I knew -- by now I knew what they'd have -- I'd see lots of those Santas with the rounded heart, PLUS -- and this was really what got me going -- some touching sculptures of Santa kneeling at Jesus' manger. I had drunk probably three pots of black coffee. The level in me was something like this, starting at my groin and going to my nostrils. I was noticeably yellow with jaundice, the liquid I was packing.

Long story briefly told, I got to the Extravaganza and was amused to see a few of the better pissers taking little demur tinkles on the merchandise. Just enough, really, to season them, but not enough to put you in the books. But it's a big place, with plenty to piss you off. Like the little old ladies -- who were cool hippie chicks in the '60s -- fidgeting with their tablecloths, etc., and rearranging the merchandise for the best psychological presentation. I saw that -- and these are all things that push my buttons -- and went into a whirl.

When you go into a whirl, it's a brain function, I'm guessing. But it starts in the gut. You get a queasy feeling, kind of like what a volcano feels. You know you've got to do something; this thing is inexorable. Similar to having to sneeze when the sun's out. I took in the whole panorama of the place. The little old ladies, the holiday sprays, the "old-fashioned" children's horses, trees trimmed with ornaments, and especially those Santas with hearts bored in them -- tiny hearts, medium ones, and big hearts... Oh god!

What a terrific memory this is for me -- although for the others, I'm sure they regretted the normal liberal pissing policy. I went into a spin -- I was stirred in the depths -- and essentially lost my consciousness, having trained it nearly completely on the task at hand, destroying their Holiday Extravaganza with such a prodigious gushing output. It rivaled a small town's water tower rusting through, if it's not too immodest to say so.

I crossed my eyes and could see the yellow in my own eyes, the level sloshing back and forth as I walked. Walked? I strode, unzipping in a most determined, focused way. It'd ruin my pants if I didn't get it out. This son of a bitch -- if I'm permitted one vulgarity -- couldn't be stifled, couldn't be stymied. It was like a train coming through town; you might make an ordinance against it in the future, but it's vain to try to stop it in the present moment.

I literally saw the heavens opened, but I cried out, "Not now, Lord, I've gotta go!" And ... I did. Everyone dove for cover and I did what had to be done. Spraying, dousing, flooding that arena with so much piss -- they've literally got a marker on the walls 10 inches from the floor denoting the level. I know it was such a mess I got some on me and had to wash my jeans after all.

This was no small deal. The merchandise -- the good, bad, and in-between -- was all ruined. Leading to the rules change in Ought 14 banning pissing on the merchandise all together. Which I heard about from others, since the bastards banned me.

Ah well, and today's the day. I saw it mentioned in the paper just as I was finishing my third cup of coffee, and thought, "If only..." But it could never happen. Not again. Because I'm a good guy and respect the rules. Live and let live. I'll just pee later in a more appropriate place.

Santa Claus Was the Christmas Star

All of us have suffered the same tired discussion every year for the past 2,000 years: What's the truth about the Christmas Star? I hesitate to even mention it -- beating the same old dead horse -- because most of us turn it off at the first breath. Even now I feel queasiness coming over me. And it always ends inconclusively, because, whoever it is -- scientists, theologians, pastors, Sunday School teachers, even your parents -- it always ends the same way: "We'll never know." Doesn't that just make you sick?

In fact, they come pretty close to saying there wasn't even actually a Christmas star. They point out, rightly, that with a simple sky-view app, we're able to see precisely what the stars in the sky were like on any day in history. According to this, there wasn't any unusual star activity on the first Christmas. They tell of various conjunctions of stars on different dates, but none of them are quite right. Especially if you factor in the Wise Men (Magi), following a star that eventually pointed to a particular location!

I can't believe I just belched out a whole paragraph on this. That's how queasy I get. Because I've been saying for years that the star was actually Santa Claus. When the story says it was a "star," of course we can take that a couple different ways. Santa Claus is a major "star," right? He's even one of the "stars" of Christmas, is he not? I'm saying that's what the Bible meant.

A couple things here. You might say Santa wasn't even around in the days of Jesus. I beg to differ. How many times have I seen authoritative artwork showing Santa Claus bowing at the manger? Yes, they have an agenda when they put those pictures out, trying to detract from Santa and give greater prominence to Jesus. The agenda, unmistakeably, has to do with how Christmas has become commercialized. Which wasn't the case way back when.

But the pictures tell me something different: Santa was there! How did he get there? Isn't it obvious? Hello? His sleigh? The brightness of his countenance (let's say), and the leadership of Rudolph ... It had to be a magnificent sight in the sky of the ancient world, before electricity, when nights were extremely dark.

It's no great shakes to answer how Santa knew about Jesus. If he knows every boy and girl in the world, what they're doing when they're awake, when they're asleep, when they're bad and good, how much more is he going to know Jesus! The very guy who would go on to compete with him -- head to head, mano a mano -- for Christmas supremacy. I'm sure they got together as the years went by, trying to hammer out who would get what, which one would get the fun side and which the serious side. That's how it should be done. Like in the circus, you've got clowns and regular people. Or TV, cartoons and documentaries.

In my opinion, I'd much rather it was Santa Claus than an actual burning star. An literal star, if it got too close, would fricassee Christ and completely obliterate the earth. You don't mess around with stars. Our sun is a star, 93 million miles away, and look at the damage it does. But Santa Claus, being a person, whatever star quality he has, gives things a personal touch. He can rip across the sky, leading the Wise Men, then double back and make sure they're not lost. When Herod goes out to look at the star, he can be hiding in an alley. Then back up! And most importantly, he can hover right above the stable and point to it without fricasseeing anyone.

I'd love to sit down with Santa and get his take on this stuff. Wow! To think, all those years when I was a kid, I was in the same house with him. However briefly. But always asleep. There on my little bundle of straw, my parents standing on either side of me, looking down, with sheep, donkeys, and cattle lowing. Waking up to the Little Drummer Boy, who back then was my parents' paperboy. We don't have paperboys anymore; now it's just a guy tossing it from his truck and roaring off.

A Christmas Miscellany

1

The War on Christmas recently opened up a new front, The Battle of the Ho Ho Hos. I might be a latecomer to this battle, focusing as I have on saying Merry Christmas and not Happy Holidays.

But having pretty much secured the victory on that front -- although the greeter at Walmart the other day told me Happy Holidays, leading me to waste a couple hours returning all my gifts -- I've moved on. You could say I focus on the "anger" in "Manger."

The latest thing is whether Santa Claus ought to be laughing in the traditional "Ho Ho Ho" way. I've heard teachers complaining that when kids hear Santa laughing like that it also gives them the giggles. But why wouldn't one guy's laugh make others laugh? Think of it like a yawn that makes everyone sleepy. Well, as it turns out, they say, apparently ho is now a slang term for the word whore. Who knew? We give in to crap like this?!

Just the other day I heard of some school in Sweden where they adopted a zero tolerance rule on Ho Ho Ho. You can be expelled for laughing that way. Santa was banished from the property. This cannot happen. As Sweden goes, so goes the world!

2
There's one old aunt I really miss at Christmas. She always gave us our own box of See's Candies, which I seem to recall tasted pretty good. I love the old time box, about as traditionally boring (in a good way) as you can get, complete with a picture of the old dear who started it.

You can still buy it, and I could get some for Christmas if I would plan ahead, but I never think of it till Christmas day.

Maybe now that I'm also old I could become the guy who gives everybody See's Candies. It's a great way to be missed when you're dead.

Speaking of relatives who gave particular things, we also used to get an actual silver dollar for Christmas, or maybe a few of them. Like those old 1897 silver dollars. Which, unfortunately, we never treasured, using them for bus fare, etc., or at the laundromat. No doubt the bus driver and the laundry guy were quick to take them.

3

Remember back when ladies wanted furs? Things have changed with the desirability of furs. I'm not sure how and when it all switched so drastically. There was a big stir about it a few years ago. No one wants to be covered in ermines and furs anymore!

I guess an ermine is some kind of animal like a mink, maybe it is a mink. It could be a type of bandage for all I know. So I'm hacking at a lady with a plastic knife, trying to inflict cuts so I can later cover her in ermines.

When we learned our animals in school they never mentioned ermines.

4

This year I listened to the soundtrack of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer," the 1964 Rankin/Bass Burl Ives TV show, probably 14-15 times. It's basically the only one of those shows I actually like, and I mostly like it for the music.

I like the counterculture vibe to it, how the heroes are misfits. It's pleasantly subversive, although they do later find an honorable role in the prevalent culture. Other than that, it's entertaining with a big slice of sentimentality. And kids are going to be liking it for decades to come.

The other shows in the mold, to me, suck. The one with Fred Astaire is putrid. And I can't even remember the others. "Frosty the Snowman" isn't quite as sucky, but still it's very inferior. There is one other I like, maybe a little less known, "The Little Drummer Boy." It's got a lot of good bits. Plus, I like the deserts, the Wise Men, the travels to Bethlehem, the donkey, etc.

5

Christmas music. It's interesting to me that a few Christmas songs have become the enduring legacy of great artists of the past. They'd basically be forgotten were it not for Christmas. Even Bing Crosby fits in this category more and more. But think of Jimmy Boyd. If it weren't for "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" he'd be forgotten. There's also "All I Want For Christmas" from him. Of course going along with Bing are the Andrews Sisters. And Nat King Cole. Bobby Helms. Brenda Lee. The list goes on.

Maybe some of these artists weren't gung ho on recording Christmas songs, going to the studio in June, but they'll live forever only because of Christmas.