There is a way in which one ought to Christmas shop, and a way in which one oughtn't. The former involves making a list, organized geographically according to store location, for all the people for whom you are shopping. You then hit each mall and each store one time--unless you don't find something at a distant locale, and so return to a nearer location for a backup item on your way back through. Generally, this manner of Christmas shopping can be accomplished in a day or 2.
However, there is a 2nd way to do your Christmas shopping. This one involves having no lists, save for a vague mental one, and driving indiscriminately to several malls several times over a series of several days. This process is known colloquially as "hell." Though perpetually unorganized and hopelessly scatterbrained, I still tend to fall into the former category of shopping when it comes to Christmas. There's something about that specific task that inspires me to get my shit together, if only for a brief December moment. My beloved Lindsey, however, is more of the latter persuasion, catching as catch can on the St. Nick superhighway. You can predict the level of hilarity that ensues as a result of this disparity, I'm sure.
So after a few days of aimless mall wandering of the most abject sort, December 22nd rolled around, and it was therefore time for a dinner party at Nancy's house. The reason for this gathering, besides the season, was the engagement of 2 of Nancy's friends. The homestead was all Christmased up, with something on the order of half a dozen trees and perhaps 50 or 60 Santa Clauses of all sizes and varieties. Wine was flowing, as were pomegranate martinis. Savory, sumptuous smells wafted from the kitchen, much to the olfactory delight of all. The scene was indeed set for a cockle-warming evening of polite prandial pleasures. And then--as is his wont this time of year--Jesus showed up.
An older married couple--both formerly divorced--brought up The Golden Compass. The recent film had (duly) brought attention to Philip Pullman's trilogy entitled His Dark Materials, the first book of which (Northern Lights) served as the basis for the film. I've neither seen the film nor read any of the books, but apparently they've all been enduring a great deal of media-worthy flack for their allegedly atheistic subtext. Since the couple in question is religious--specifically, 21st century American Christians--they took it upon themselves to pontificate on the inherent evils of the film and books they had never and would never see or read.
My memory is cloudy at best--I was concentrating on not passing out from the sheer absurdity of it all--and so my attempt to recreate the scene will likely be vague, brief, and somewhat fictionalized. However, in the interest of giving you some idea of the transcendent spirituality at work here, I will say that the film and the entire series of books (ostensibly fictitious, all) were flippantly derided and dismissed out of hand. And why? Well, the wife of this couple had been sent a notice from a "Focus on the Family"-type organization (it may have actually been "Focus on the Family"), urging them to publicly decry the corruptive fictions, to boycott them, and to forbid the good children of America from taking part in such a nefarious orgy of soul-polluting hedonism. According to her report, His Dark Materials culminates in the death of God. The protagonist purportedly kills God. Did you hear what I said? Kills God. No one present for the conversation had seen or read any of the works in question, but by golly, killing God doesn't sound too awful good. If only one of these people could've said something overtly racist to divert our attention from the travesty of The Golden Compass.
I know, I know--that seems like a non sequitur. It is.
A little while later, after we'd sated our pre-Christmas appetites, a nice polite conversation ensued in the living room while we all relaxed and sipped wine and pomegranate martinis. The evening's newly engaged distinguished guests were the topic of conversation, and someone inquired as to whether the gentleman had asked the lady's father for permission to marry his daughter. "Of course," they said. Some were shocked by this news, so convinced were they of societal degeneration at the hands of children's movies starring Nicole Kidman. Lindsey chimed in, explaining that all of her childhood friends who had since gotten married had made this same traditional appeal. "Well," said a filthy rich, smug, white old fart, "you have to realize that in the black community, that's not always an easy thing to do!"
He let out a roar of laughter.
You get it, of course. All of them black crack whores living off of the welfare provided by rich white taxpayers--they're churning out so many illegitimate children that it's impossible to keep track of whose is whose. Hahaha. Ha. Haha. Needless to say, most everyone was far too stunned and appalled to respond. One brave soul did venture a loathsome attempt at reconciliation. "Well," she blubbered, "...I mean...that's true, but..." Well done, Miss. I left the room to bang my head against a wall and vomit profusely.
After the moronic dust settled, I was instructed to retrieve a guitar for a bit of sing-along 'round the yule log. Lindsey and Nancy sang some Christmas ditties and the Beatles' "In My Life" (Bob, accompanist). Some folks sang along. Fun was had by all. And then, of course, the piano caught on fire.
We'd just settled in for a long winter's beverage, and Lindsey required a refill. As we reposed unwittingly, Lindsey headed toward the kitchen to refresh her libation. There arose quite a clatter as she walked past the entryway. Namely: "Holy shit. The piano's on fire!" We sprang from our couches to see what was the matter, when what to our wandering eyes did appear but a fucking flaming baby grand inferno. As Lindsey nearly poured her alcoholic drink on the flames (thinking better of it), her step-dad Ray and I tore off to the pantry to locate the fire extinguisher. Lindsey replaced the booze in her glass with water and went to douse the flames. Nancy, momentarily forgetting that her piano was burning, exclaimed, "Don't dump water on my piano!" Just then, Ray floated in on the wings of angels and squelched the piano pyre with the focus and alacrity of a seasoned professional. The day had been saved, despite Philip Pullman's propitiations to Satan on the fire's behalf.
Apparently, a festive holiday decoration was to blame (that, and black people). A shiny gold fabric had been placed on the piano, atop which sat a wreathy swath of pine. From this pile of pine rose a candle of the most exorbitantly precarious height, the wick of which had been, of course, set on fire. At some point in the evening the candle had burned to its base, setting the gold cloth and pine aflame. Were Lindsey not a relentless lush of the most unrepentant sort, who knows what further damage may have been incurred.
I kid the woman.
After that night, things were slightly more orthodox--I flew back to Pennsylvania on Christmas Eve, and Lindsey stayed in Saint Charles to celebrate Christmas with her family. As per custom, I spent Christmas day with my father's side of the family. This year, as in past years, I was reminded of how cool my cousins are, and how I really should talk to them more than once a year. Here we all are:
(L to R) Back: Tom, Abby, Davis. Middle: Me, JoEllen, Sarah, Rick. Front: Amy, Kirsten, Katie.And here are the 'rents, aunts, and uncles:
(L to R) Back: Melanie, Dad. Middle: Tom W, Jeff, Tom N. Front:Becky, Linda, Mom.Lindsey rejoined me in PA on the 26th, and we (again) got soused with Dr. R (see Profiles of the Professorial and 2007 Holiday Retrospective, Part One). We returned to Nashville on the 28th, just in time for me to get thrown on the floor by a squat, angry hillbilly. How did this happen, you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Later.
Next up: 2007 Holiday Retrospective, Part Four: New Year's. I swear it'll be the last one.
I promise to have this done by next holiday season. At the latest.
