Here we are. It’s Christmas Eve, and what have we done? Well, at this point, we’ve probably already started gaining weight, getting drunk, and/or greedily lusting for the waiting gifts that lurk in our dark, musty closets. It’s at these times when we’re quickest to forget the meaning behind the current incarnation of what we have come to celebrate as “Christmas.” It’s this time of year when we must go back to the poets, the Dylan Thomases who spoke of Christmases rolling “down towards the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street.” As Christmas Day draws nigh, I look to one particular philosopher for perspective:
I want to do my reading on “Christmas Pasts” […] I’m talking about the 70’s Christmas office party. Back when a fully stocked bar was considered standard office furniture, and office parties were like something out of a Playboy cartoon. Why, the desks would be overflowing with every kind of hard liquor. Why, there were gallons of Scotch, bourbon, vodka, gin, not to mention Galliano, Amoretto, Medori Rife, German crockpot gin, you name it. And sexism was blatant. Boy oh boy, you’d find salesmen groping secretaries in the mailroom, keys would be exchanged, and although this was Christmas, Jesus was nowhere to be seen.
Joel Robinson, #0321, Santa Claus Conquers the Martians
And doesn’t that ring true in all our hearts? Here’s hoping your Christmas Eve was delightful and enchanting and other words that have lost their meaning in this cynical age. As I write this, NORAD tells me that Santa is over King William Island, Nunavut, Canada. May he treat you well… at least, better than he treats his international army of elfin child slaves. See you tomorrow.