Showing posts with label santa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label santa. Show all posts

How the Scrinch Loved Christmas ... Songs

 

Years ago I DJ’d part time at a local radio station (which figures into my novel Radio Red). I happened to be working when the boss decided it was time to start the Christmas season with the Gift of Music.

He produced a card file and a stack of CD’s. On each card in the file (no computers -- it was that long ago) was the name of a Christmas song, which we shuffled into randomness. As soon as I saw what happened to fall as the first one, I had my intro.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to get the holiday season under way with WLNB’s selection of Christmas music, and I’ve been chosen for the honor or starting it out. I’m perfectly okay with that, as long as I don’t have to play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’. Now, let’s see what’s on top of our play list ... no. It can’t be. Not that -- anything but that!”

Ah, but it was. And so I started out the Gift of Music with a redneck song about a reckless driving Santa Claus murdering elderly pedestrians.

I never said I was a good part time DJ. Note that I’m no longer employed there.
 
Santas got run over by a fire truck?



I like to be the best combination of Scrooge and Grinch that I can possibly be. For the uninitiated, Scrooge is the old time British fellow who gets scared by ghosts into loving Christmas. The Grinch is the green guy who goes down to Whoville to steal Christmas, but ends up returning everything when the Whoville people start singing happy carols. This begs the question: if the people in Whoville were happy anyway, why didn’t the Grinch just keep the stuff, and sell it on Ebay?

Yep -- two great stories, two bad endings. Just call me the Scrinch. Or Grooge, that would be okay.
 
There are other books, you know.
 
 
 
 I base most of my attitude on either out of control commercialism or people who, themselves, act like Grinches. Yes, I get upset when I see giant plastic Santas on display at Wal-Mart -- in September. But don’t we all get mad when some scumbag burglar steals the Christmas presents right from under someone’s tree?

Christmas all year round might seem like a good idea, but in reality it would make the holiday cheap and ordinary. Put a friggin tarp on the decorations until mid-November, okay? I once went shopping for Halloween, and turned the corner to discover a plastic Frosty giving me a ... well, a frosty look.

As for stealing gifts, vandalizing decorations and such ... not that I haven’t wanted to vandalize decorations, but only when they're lit in October. For everyone else, a public whipping on New Year’s Day should beat the holiday spirit into them.

My point is this: Although I get as angry as everyone else when “Let it Snow” starts playing in the store while people in shorts and tank tops stumble in, wiping sweat from their brows ...
 
I don’t know if I should say it. It might ruin my reputation, and where am I without that? Next thing you know, people will discover I really like animals. But ... okay, complete honesty, here:

I love Christmas music.

People may never look at me the same way again.
 



Christmas is the only thing I look forward to through the months of bitter cold, with nothing but driving snow and black, dead foliage. I hate cold, I hate snow, I hate heating bills, I hate bulky clothes that never warm me up ... but I love Christmas. Colored lights shine through the dull twilight of winter. People actually cheer up a little. Well, some people. And of all the things about Christmas, I love the songs the best.

It doesn’t matter if they’re old or new. Sure, the barking dog Jingle Bells thing grates on me, and I’ve heard versions of “Santa Baby” that make me want to hurl down a chimney. But from Frank Sinatra to Christina Aguilera, nothing perks me up more. What they’ve done elsewhere in their lives, or what other people think of them, doesn’t matter -- I’ll listen to it if it’s Britney Spears, or Barry Manilow.

Old or new? I love “Carol of the Bells” and “The Hallelujah Chorus”, which my choir sang in high school. They didn’t have new Christmas Songs back then. But I’ve got songs in my Christmas library by Faith Hill, the Trans Siberian Orchestra, the Eagles, and, yes, Hannah Montana.
 


Type of music? It’s all Christmas to me. Doesn’t matter whether it's the Bryan Seltzer Orchestra, Jessica Simpson, or Andrea Bocelli. Or that other fella, Tchaikovsky, and his Nutcracker thing. Still, nothing will ever beat the classics, and Bing Crosby is the king of the classics. I may not like white winters, but “White Christmas” will always be close to my half-frozen heart.

So that’s it --  my big confession. I love Christmas music ... almost all Christmas music. As long as the lyrics aren’t being “sung” by pets.

I don’t even mind that great tribute to holiday violence, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer”.

Much.

 

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Remember to have a Merry Christmas!

 
 
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Santa After Christmas

(Bonus points if you can identify all the TV shows referenced.)

 

           Santa Claus had a ritual, one he followed every year after delivering gifts for all little boys and girls. It involved whiskey.

           His main elf assistant, Evergreen Iciclepears, poured him a shot, and started to walk away with the bottle. Santa snapped his fingers. “Keep ‘em coming, Iciclepears. I just delivered 1.4 billion presents.”

           (Evergreen Iciclepears’ real name was Charles Anders. But Mrs. Claus, who was always sound asleep when Santa got home from his big business trip, had renamed all the elves to make them sound more festive. The Elves accepted this because North Pole work paid well and had great benefits – including dental – but privately they called Mrs. Claus Cranberry Cuddlecane.)

           Alcohol was not all of Santa’s routine, of course. After taking care of the reindeer he plodded to his big easy chair, pulled off his boots, and stuck his aching tootsies in a tub of hot Epsom salt water.

Then he took three ibuprofen, which always waited for him on a tray full of other items, brought by Nutmeg Sugarlights and placed right by his chair. (Her real name was Josephine Hendrickson.)
 

 
 
The other stuff including soothing eye drops, because the screaming wind dried his eyes out. Then there was a cough drop, for similar reasons, and some antacid, because in the space of twenty-four hours he’d eaten approximately 423,000,000 pieces of candy and cookies.

Once Santa settled, Forest Tinselstockings came in with the anti-static brush. (His name actually was Forrest – Forrest Gump, no relation. Since that Tom Hanks movie came out he kind of liked his new name.)

Santa delivers all those presents by means of a space-time wormhole tesseract, a device given to him in 1032. At the time Santa, using his magical reindeer, could easily get around and deliver gifts to all the good children. Just the same, a strange man arrived at Santa’s home in the Forest of Burzee – literally inside his home, materializing in a small blue box and calling himself The Doctor.

The Doctor informed Santa that he’d someday need time saving devices, and gave him a Bag of Holding (which proved to be bigger on the inside) as well as the tesseract. All he asked in return was for Santa to make him a power tool that could open doors and make routine physics calculations, but that would still fit in his pocket.
 
I asked one of those AI sites to give me an image of The Doctor ... and I have to admit to being a little freaked out. There are at least three Doctors mixed into the results.

 

Santa came to realize he’d need those items. First, he didn’t have the heart to give toys only to good kids, despite the protests of his Chief Naughty Judge, Toadstool Chocolatecake. Soon out of a job, Toadstool moved south to England, where he fell upon hard times and took a servant job after changing back to his original name, Dobby.

Second, Santa could not predict the ability of the human race to … shall we say, expand. He originally served a population of a 250,000,000, which seems like a lot until you subtract adults and bad kids. The Viking kids almost never got presents, but up north they appreciated the coal.

As a result of the devices, Forest – Forest Tinselstockins – had to use the anti-static brush every December 26th. It not only helped static, it also removed tachyon particles that became attached to Santa’s wool clothing and beard during the trip. If not for that treatment, at random intervals Santa would find himself flung to a very hot planet circling the star 40 Eridani A, where absolutely no one believed in Santa and his jolly nature was seen as quite illogical. Getting back to Earth was a pain.

My point is that Christmas was a stressful time for Santa Claus, even more stressful than for anyone else. At least Santa had a team, led by the trusted Merry Toffeebaubles, to get the lights untangled and strung up. (Merry’s real name is Mary; she considers herself lucky, especially since her last name used to be Weirenkawoski.)
 
"One light goes out and they all go out!"

 

So he had his Jack Daniels, his over the counter meds, his foot bath, and his combing. He relaxed with a couple of glasses of the good stuff while listening to gentle, soothing songs sung by Blueberry Embercane (previously known as Elvis). Planning for next Christmas started on December 27th, so the relaxation time was very important.

Later he’d be checked over by Dr. Gingercane, who had a degree, maybe ironically, from The University of Hawaii. Santa always had various scratches, bruises, and the occasional burn, and dog bites weren’t out of the question. He hadn’t been seriously injured since Saddam Hussein tried to shoot him down in 1989, and that was just a little shrapnel.

“Merry Christmas, Santa!” said Evergreen Iciclepears after Santa had, shall we say, warmed up a bit. “Preliminary indications are that it went very well this year.”

“Well, I got back with all the reindeer,” Santa replied. “So yes – Merry Christmas, indeed. Is breakfast almost ready?”

“Oh, absolutely. Partridge Emberwine is cooking up all your favorites. So, do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”

Santa paused to think. “Well, back in 1914 I resolved not to give gifts to bad kids anymore, but I just couldn’t stick with it. In 1964 I resolved to lose weight, but the wife wouldn’t allow it. ‘The kids expect a fat Santa!’ she kept saying. Who could foresee this health craze? Now she wants me to get a Wii Fit.”

Leaning back, he sighed. “I guess I’ll just resolve to keep going … and maybe, someday, if they come to understand giving enough, more of the bad kids will become good kids.

“Now, let’s get to that breakfast – I’ve got my early massage scheduled.”
 
The annual appearance of Emily's Wreath Of Kahn

 
 
 
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