“Santa baby, an auto space convertible too, light blue…and hurry down the chimney tonight.”---Javits & Springer
When we were kids, the Christmas extravaganza extended from about a week before the anointed hour until well after New Year’s Day, our house constantly full of rotating guests, hearty drinkers all, moved by the spirit of the season, carousing late into the night by the light of the brilliant tree and the candlelit windows. On Christmas Eve, my sister Alice and I were sent to bed upstairs in my grandmother’s portion of the house to avoid the raucous clatter and, more importantly, not be caught off guard by the sudden appearance of Santa Claus, who famously grows apoplectic when children are not nestled snug in their beds prior to his arrival.
By the time I was five, I was pretty sure Santa Claus was a parental fabrication, the logistics of the situation being what they were. All those countries. All those kids. All those toys. How could Santa possibly do it, even with the capable assistance of all the elves in Europe? Alice, only three years old, was having none of it. I tried explaining to her the difficulty of Santa’s job, the incredible numbers involved, the troubles with possible headwinds, the petty jealousies which often occur among elite reindeer. It was an impossible fantasy, I told her, how could Santa possibly deliver? But Alice refused to be swayed by all this logic and she had her unimpeachable answer: “Magic,” she said. “Santa Claus is magic.” So how is a five-year-old supposed to argue with that?
A few minutes after this discussion had run its course, there was an inarguable noise on the roof. Alice dived for cover and warned me to get in bed quick, which I did. I mean, no matter what you think you believe, there’s no sense in taking chances, right? On Christmas morning, my sister and I crept downstairs to get a look at the vast panorama that Santa—or someone—had wrought. My heart caught in my throat when I spied a large, shiny lump of anthracite at the top of my stocking. Alice was giving me the stinkeye. “He knows what you were thinking,” she said in her best scoldy voice. Let me tell you, there’s nobody as smug as a three-year-old who’s been proved right by the likes of Santa Claus.
The Expanded Christmas
As far as Alice was concerned, anything surreal which happened between mid-November and the end of January was due to the immediate influence of Santa. Snow on Christmas Eve? Santa Claus. Our father unexpectedly gets Christmas day off from work? Santa Claus. Alice gets a better doll than little Celia Hart across the street? “Well, she was bad and I was good.”
Despite the anthracite, I got a Lone Ranger costume that Christmas, amazingly like the one in the Spiegel catalogue my mother received in the mail each year. I wouldn’t take it off for a couple of days and I even wore the mask to school first day back. Eddie Melucci, a bully from second grade, accosted me, his ever-present posse trailing behind him for laughs. Eddie told me in no uncertain terms he was going to take off my mask.
Now, I knew a few things were certain in life. The school bell at St. Patrick’s was going to clang loudly each weekday morning at eight-thirty sharp. The Yankees were going to win the American League pennant. And the Lone Ranger, come hell or high water, was not going to let anyone take his mask off. Since I was now the Lone Ranger for all intents and purposes, I had to prevent this disaster from happening. When Eddie reached his hand out, I grabbed it and somehow flipped him over my back into an unceremonious pile on the ground. As with most bullies, that was enough for Eddie, who just sat there in abject defeat. I slapped myself on the ass the way the Lone Ranger did Silver and galloped off across the schoolyard, my new fan club in tow. Just for good measure, I crowed “The Looone Ranger Rides again!” When I told Alice about this, she was unimpressed. Santa Claus did it, she assured me. “He was mad at that boy for trying to take the Christmas present he brought you. Santa Claus hates bullies.” And hey, you know what? That’s as good an explanation as anything I’ve got.
Future episodes of Santa interference in November-December life convinced me that Alice was right about all this. A couple of days after Christmas in 1962, Marilyn Todd, not yet my first wife, and I were travelling eastward out of Austin, Texas in my 1950 Cadillac hearse. I started to pass a semi on a two-lane Missouri road and realized too late that I would not get by in time to avoid being crushed by another tractor-trailer speeding at us from the opposite direction. I floored it and tried to squeeze through what looked to be far too little space, closing my eyes just before destruction reigned, as did Marilyn. Oddly, nothing happened. We opened our eyes a couple of seconds later, still intact. Marilyn turned to see what happened to the truck and on a level surface with no ditches and no sideroads, it was simply no longer there. We looked at each other with that Twilight Zone expression of awe. “If Alice was here,” I told her, “she’d say it was Santa Claus.” “Good enough for me,” Marilyn agreed.
Marilyn and I somehow made it to Lawrence, where we moved into a cheap apartment off South Union Street. We got jobs in one of the old textile mills now converted into headquarters and warehouses for a batch of small companies. She piled processed foods onto an assembly line, I made boxes. The first time Marilyn tried to use the old gas stove in our sublime living quarters, it exploded with her head in the oven. She screamed and ran at me, her great mane of blonde hair on fire. I quickly put it out with my hands, there being no time for alternatives. She suffered no more than a slight hair loss and singed eyebrows. I didn’t have a single burn on me. “We’re alright!” she cried, amazed. “We didn’t get burned a bit!” Marilyn looked at me in wonder, inviting an explanation, then realizing what it would be.
“Santa Claus, right?” she offered. “Well, it’s still January,” I admitted.
Bad Santa
A 17-year-old boy in Royal Oak, Michigan was returning very late last Christmas Eve to the Judson Center social services building, his temporary residence, when he got an inspiration. Not wanting to wake the other residents nor suffer the indignity of a severe scolding, he decided to take a page from Santa’s book and climb down the chimney; no-one would be the wiser.
He eventually made it onto the roof, snuggled himself into the chimney, pushed himself a short way down and—you guessed it—got stuck. After a half-hour of moaning and groaning, he was discovered. Firefighters from the city of Royal Oak broke up their poker game and grudgingly came to the rescue. The teenager escaped with minor scrapes and bruises and with a newfound respect for chimney sweeps. But a five-year-old resident of the home was thoroughly confused. “I don’t get it,” little Tommy Jenkins told reporters. “Santa Claus comes down that thing every year and he’s WAY fatter than that kid.”
The Weather Outside Is Frightful
Out on the Great Lakes, the Native American tribes were preparing for Winter. As always, the question of how much firewood to assemble was an issue so the tribal elders went to the Medicine Man for counsel. “Shit, what do I know about weather?” he thought, but didn’t want the elders to doubt his wisdom. “How about I get back to you tomorrow?” he offered. Then he went off and called the local weather bureau, which assured him it would be frigid. The Medicine Man told the tribe he had read all the signs and omens and the next few weeks would be cold, indeed. The Indians went back and piled up even more firewood.
A few weeks later, the elders returned for an update. The Medicine Man again told them he would check the signs and have word tomorrow. Again, he called the weather service and asked for their predictions. “Very cold,” they told him. “Very VERY cold!” The Medicine Man was curious about their diagnostic abilities. “Tell me something,” he asked. “How can you be so sure about this?”
“Easy!” the weatherman replied. “Those Indians up on the Great Lakes are collecting firewood like crazy!”
Home Remedies
John Porter from upstate New York had an idea. Anxious to unfreeze his frozen pipes, he cleverly backed his car up to an opened window to let the exhaust warm up the house. It did a good job and the pipes were back to normal in an hour. Not Porter, though. He and his wife and three children were rushed to the local hospital with severe carbon monoxide poisoning. “I TRIED to tell him ,” said the oldest, eight-year-old Sidney.
Meanwhile over at George Gibbs’ place in Columbus, Ohio, the fuel line had frozen on the family car. George diagnosed the problem correctly and decided to fix it by running warm gasoline through the line. But where does one get warm petrol, you may ask? Well, if you’re like Gibbs you just stick a couple of cans on the family stove and….
Relax, George only suffered second-degree head burns. And yes, the house is still standing. Most of it.
Interview With A Mall Santa
“Well, I guess I’ve seen it all, heard it all in 19 years. My first day on the job, a middle-aged lady hit on me: ‘Can I have YOU for Christmas?’ she wanted to know. Hell, I was only 17 years old, what the heck do you say? The worst one was an older lady who just looked me in the eyes and ‘I just want the pain to go away.’ I felt like telling her, ‘Me, too!’
People ask for everything. EVERYthing! One guy asked for a lifetime supply of Eggo waffles. A weird kid wanted ‘a remote-controlled buffalo.’ Where do you s’pose you pick up one of those? I think he’s going to be disappointed Christmas morning and pissed at Santa. A cute little girl in a riding helmet wanted a unicorn that poops rainbows. I told her I’d get right on it. Good luck, dad. Another kid wanted a new liver. He was okay, just wanted ‘to play with it and stuff.’ One boy wanted plutonium, he didn’t say how much. An ornery little guy asked me if I could change his name to ‘Batman’ for Christmas. I told him sure, if it was okay with his mother. He snarled something and left. A little girl wanted a gumball machine filled with avocados. A little guy asked me for a goat car and told me he’d leave me a beer if I got him one. Another kid said ‘a thousand bucks.’ Every other little girl in line wants a pony; I think when I quit this I’m going into the pony business. The pony guys should have a kiosk in the mall.
Let’s see, what’s left? Oh, a time machine, little boys like those. Almost as much as magic glasses that let you see through girls’ clothes that wouldn’t work on boys’ clothes. Flying Cars. A personal robot army. A house made of chocolate. Pet dragons are big—do they let little girls watch ‘Game of Thrones?’ Somebody wanted a stainless steel stuffed animal, go figure. Invisibility cloaks are popular if the magic glasses run out. Every so often, a little boy wants to be visited by extra-terrestrials. No little girls do. Little girls are easier if their first request is tough. They’ll always take a Barbie for a backup, although it has to be a particular Barbie because they might have the one Santa decides to bring. So much for Santa’s being all-knowing.
Kids ask me about the reindeer, what they eat. About Mrs. Claus and the North Pole and whether their mom left enough food for me last year. They ask me if I’m lonely, what I do the rest of the year (supervise elves works good), if I get a vacation, if I’m cold all the time back home. One smart little boy asked me how the global warming was affecting my business. I guess he’s smarter than the Republicans.
The worst thing about being a Santa is the tiny kids who are scared to death of you. Some wet their pants, which is a big downer for Santa. I have a couple of spare outfits in the mall office. The biggest high makes up for the bummers, though. Lots of the kids tell you they love you. They want to hug you. Several of them don’t want to leave, the moms have to drag them away. I think that’s what makes me come back every year, the love of the little ones. That’s not such an easy thing to find in this world. Anyway, pardner, I gotta go, duty calls. You have yourself a Merry Christmas! Santa insists on it!”
Letters From The Left Coast
Hilarious column. I”ve been astounded by the chutzpah of these (GoFundMe) requests. In the 90s, before all these social funding apps existed, musicians sought what they called “investors” to fund their CD projects. They were quite serious in calling them investments, including financial analyses of cost vs. predicted cash-flow income, etc. What they neglected to include was an objective analysis of the market share for a completely unknown “artist” (zero).
While we’re on the subject, I am seeking funding for my conceptual art installation, The Day Before Tomorrow, involving ylang-ylang oil, sock puppets suspended in zones of light and an endless loop of Kenny G.’s total recorded output playing in the background. I have room for one more 10k investor, so are you in or are you blind to the future of Art?---Marty Jourard
Jack Gordon sent us this advertisement from a SoCal newspaper:
A friend of mine has two box seats for the 2017 Super Bowl in Houston. He paid $1700 for each ticket, not realizing when he bought them that February 5th, the Super Bowl date, was the same day as his wedding, thus now he is unable to go.
If anyone would be interested in taking his place, the location is St. Peter’s Church in New York City at 5 p.m. Her name is Charlene, she’s 5’4, about 115 pounds, great figure, good cook with a salary of $90,000 a year. She’ll be the one in the white dress….
That’s all, folks….
