EX-MAS

© 11/21/2006, 11/25/10. All rights reserved.

(The following was submitted to Richmond "Style Weekly" at least twice, but no reply was ever received from editor Scott Bass, who seems congenitally unable to respond as a normal, polite human being.)

Well, it is about that time of the year again.  No, I don’t mean the raging guilt-trip that drives the Christmas-shopping bus!  I am referring to the predictable whinging about the loss of the “true meaning of Christmas” that descends upon us less-than-thou each December harder than Brenda Lee’s recurrent, incessant bleating to go “Rockin’ Around The Christmas Tree.”

The Saints Among Us just cannot restrain themselves from casting righteous blame upon us heathens for gleefully contributing to the loss of said “true meaning” with our incessant secularization of what is deemed almost exclusively a Christian holy event.  In order to prove it, they rant in high dudgeon about the renaming of the “Christmas” trees as “Holiday” trees, declaring that such political correctness (“PC”) is unworthy of a (mostly) Christian nation that indisputably owes its very 230+ -year-old existence to Jesus of Nazareth, a guy who's allegedly been dead for about 2000 years!

To be sure, Merriam-Webster’s “New International Dictionary, Unabridged” (2d Ed.—the "Holy Grail" of dictionaries) notes that the word “Christmas” is a derivative of the words “Christ” and “Mass,” presumably referring to the Communion sacrament celebrated on Christmas Day in the Roman Catholic Church and its earlier predecessors.   So, OK, “Christmas” is a Christian event.

HOWEVER---

The organized Christian church was formed long after the said alleged death of Jesus, and it demanded unquestioned literal belief in hearsay writings by those who never knew him.  The “New Testament” was so decreed by the Synod of Hippo in 383 CE, which gathering also dispensed with those clearly unreliable Gnostic Gospels and other "inconvenient" writings about early Christianity that just might not fit the authoritarian precepts of the early Roman church.  The Gospel According To Luke contains one of the most beautiful pieces of literature known to any of us with its well-remembered story of the birth of Jesus as set forth in the King James Version, the one I learned as a child.

Nevertheless, as learned astronomers and others have pointed out, the shepherds would not likely have been out in the fields tending their flocks at night in late December!  No, if the events described in the Gospel of Luke are correct, then the supposed birth of Jesus would have likely occurred in the spring along with the births of many other animals.  The naked baby Jesus might have gotten very cold in that feed trough in the manger if he had been born in December, swaddling-cloths or not.

Early Christians in Europe had observed local pagans having a very good time in December celebrating the completion of the harvest and the turn of the sun to longer days following the Winter Solstice.  People all over the Northern Hemisphere had been celebrating these occurrences for thousands of years, probably, and the early Christian hierarchy realized that, in order to subject these pagans to Christian control, they had to hijack the pagan festivals, the Winter Solstice, or Yule Festival, first and foremost.

So, those early Christians merely “adjusted” their calendar a bit and made the Winter Solstice Festival happily coincide with a new legend about the birth of Jesus.  The bit about the shepherds in the field didn’t really matter since everybody in Europe figured it was warmer down south in “Asia Minor.”

The practice of decorating a cut evergreen tree was a pagan custom at one time but it, too, was hijacked by the Christian power structure to become a symbol of the church.  As the influence and political power of The Church grew in Europe over time, it eagerly embraced the intolerance that is a fundamental part of the human condition and which so many others have come to suffer.  Pagan celebrations were outlawed, and witches and other infidels were tortured and burned and otherwise killed off lest they “infect” the ignorant masses with their "untruths."  Keeping the masses ignorant and credulous allowed The Church to maintain political control (and the cashflow).  It may have been nearly impossible for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but the very wealthy church hierarchy were obviously already in, anyway.

Following World War II, the annual Christmas shopping spree took off with a vengeance.  Families had much more disposable income and time off to go shopping.  The advance of suburbia and shopping centers and malls accelerated the process, notwithstanding the once-powerful magic of downtown department stores and photos of expectant children on Santa's knee.  Many could be reassured that they were doing the Lord’s work by ensuring that retailers and their employees would have a nice Christmas, too.

Having worked retail in several places in the past, I know from personal experience that many retailers lose money until the Christmas shopping season.  Christmas shopping is absolutely essential to the health of the US economy. Don’t believe otherwise for a minute!

These days, some PC types try to be all-inclusive with due observances of the various winter festivals going on: Christmas, Kwanza’a, Chanukah, etc.  What’s a well-meaning business to do but refer to its trees and decorations as “holiday” whatever?  This seems to annoy the True Believers who will brook no variance: they intend to put the “Christ” back in Christmas with an in-your-face, jut-jawed declaration that such stuff is “CHRISTMAS” stuff, not “HOLIDAY” stuff!  And anybody who doesn’t like it can kiss their you-know-what!  Howwzat for the holidays?  “Up yours” for Jesus!  "Holiday," by the way, is a contraction of "holy day."  It's just not as obvious to quasi-literate "good Christians."

Whatever the rest of us do, we’d better not stand in the way of those hyper-pious True Believers who intend to jam “Christmas” down our godless, pagan throats no matter what.  It is not enough that they have been in almost total control of the US political and economic system, but any spineless government or retail PC schmuck who wants to practice a little tolerance had better get out of the way!  It is “Christmas” or else, guys, and we are either with them or against them, as one of our Presidents has famously suggested.

Speaking of who said what, it is well to remember one of my favorite songs written by Kinky Friedman: “They Don’t Make Jews Like Jesus Anymore.”

Happy Holidays!

BROKE DOWN: BAD TRIPS ON THUNDER ROAD AND ROUTE 66

© 11/23/10. All rights reserved.

I don’t know if we have “all been there,” but one of my friends has taken the same bad trip on “Thunder Road” that I did, and he lived to tell about it. It’s an experience that at least a few married men have had from time to time.

I am talking about, of course, the way in which nostalgia can dim the memories and create marital strife. I bought a video of “Thunder Road” which is, as I declared to my (now ex-) wife upon its receipt, the “greatest movie ever made.” That is what my memory as a twelve-year-old insisted, so I insisted that she sit down and watch this “greatest movie ever made,” complete with one of the “greatest theme songs ever sung.”

That theme song from “Thunder Road” had been an integral part of the lives of most of my male friends as we were growing up. The movie’s story (starring the late Robert Mitchum and his son) is about moonshiners driving fast cars on twisty roads, outrunning the “revenooers” in hot pursuit. What twelve-year-old boy is not gonna like THAT stuff?

Robert Mitchum was the epitomé of masculinity, and the fast cars hauling illicit ‘shine were to die for (which he finally did in the movie). There was really nothing else that mattered to me at the time, and most of my friends have confirmed similar experiences with the movie, BUT—

The movie sucks. I am ashamed and sad to admit that, but as my (ex-) wife and I were watching it, I sensed a growing tension between us as the movie’s action and plot pathetically failed to live up to my nostalgia-addled memories. I felt as if I had become the Biggest Dork in the Universe, having intensely recommended—no, INSISTED—that my woman sit down and watch that dreck with me so I could, once again, bask in the reflected masculinity of Robert Mitchum. At least she had the grace to laugh afterward. I say “afterward,” because she also had the grace to sit through the entire thing (or had the spite to make ME sit through the entire thing). It was AWFUL! I was mortified that I had made such a big deal out of such a pile of crap! And the song was pathetic. It was not nearly as majestic as I had remembered. It sounded as if it had been recorded in a soup can. I may as well have sat down and just eaten a huge pile of feces. Maybe my credibility was so shot with her that it became grounds for divorce!

And, that was not the end of it. Several months ago I was leafing through the video catalogs and came upon the “complete” DVD’s of Season One and Season Two of “Route 66,” which were made in 1960-61 and featured Martin Milner and George Maharis cruising around America in a gorgeous Corvette. It was EVERY teen guy’s dream to get a car like a Corvette and go riding with one’s best pal across America, looking for love and adventure. At the time there was no concern at all about how one would support oneself, much less put premium gas in that Corvette. It simply did not matter. It was way beyond “cool”!

So, I proceeded to order that set of DVD’s so I could revisit another one of my strongest memories, having not learned any lessons at all from my wretched trip down “Thunder Road.” Well, I got the DVD’s out just this past weekend and started watching in black-and-white splendor (like “Thunder Road”). The first episode on Disc One is taken up with the guys’ encounter with various ill-mannered rednecks in southern Louisiana (WAY off the course of Rte. 66!), working on an oil rig out in the Gulf that did NOT explode. Pretty lame. At least, if the oil rig had exploded, it would have been more credible than the contrived brusque encounters with the locals, all worked up and neatly resolved in just 30 minutes, as that was the length of each episode made for TV back then. And, we wonder why attention spans are so short today!

I managed to finish watching the fourth episode on Disc One last night, though I was nodding to sleep before 10:00 PM and have little memory of what it was about. This is just pathetic. I think there are four discs in each of two albums per each of the two seasons with four episodes thereon, which seems to total about 64 episodes. That is about 32 hours of black-and-white TV-watching, all told!  With 30 hours left, I just don’t know that I want to burn that time that way.  It’s not like I can get anything else done while watching, either (other than sleep).

I also have the complete “Upstairs, Downstairs” PBS series and the comedy series, “Keeping Up Appearances.” I also bought a wad of Victor Borge DVD’s. What in the world am I going to do? I used to think he was funny, but now I am worried, because those memories are also ancient. I can no longer trust my adolescent recollections. Victor Borge may have been a fine comedian as well as a good piano player, but should I trust myself?

I can’t even believe I am putting this down in writing and daring to let someone read it who has seen those movies recently and will surely conclude that I am an idiot, just for having paid good money to purchase the DVD’s and watched it again!

I am doomed.

A "GUY THING"

© November 20, 2010. All rights reserved.


Most people, when they die, want to go to Heaven; I want to go to Harbor Freight! I love that place. I am as addicted to tools as junkies are to heroin. I buy stuff all the time just because I don’t already have it, whether I need it or not.

I was at Harbor Freight last night. It is several miles on the other side of Richmond from the direction from which I come. It requires a specific intent for me to go there. But, I am always pleasantly rewarded when I get there, even if I cannot find what I originally sought, like last night. Stuff just LEAPS into my shopping cart, which they so thoughtfully provide the customers. Like Costco or Sam’s Club, there is no way one can get out of Harbor Freight with just one or two items.

FOR EXAMPLE: last night I was seeking a wheeled cart on sale for my new sandblasting cabinet, which I also bought at Harbor Freight some months ago and which has yet to be used. I looked and looked for that cart to no avail, despite the determination that it was in stock. So, I got a rain-check. But, I also picked up a HUGE caliper about 30 inches long, some polishing rouge for plastic (I have some scratched reading glasses), some ceramic-bladed knives (they are REALLY sharp) and a set of four different tiny locking pliers, like Vise-Grips. I was ecstatic! It was almost better than orgasm, and a lot less work!

My shop is loaded with stuff I got at Harbor Freight that I have never used. I have all kinds of really neat devices that will ensure I can perform almost any repair task humanly possible. I never have the occasion—but I am prepared! I have several different sets of screwdrivers, sockets, stretchers, saws, saw blades, sanders, sanding devices, sandblasters, sandblasting equipment, compressors, cables, pullers, pliers, hammers, wrenches, probes, hoses, handles, fittings, fixtures, files, drill bits, measuring devices, whatever. I don’t care if I never use it—I will have it when I need it.

Willie Nelson celebrated his 75th birthday this week, and there was circulated on the Web a fine-looking photo of Willie and an apparent quote from him commemorating his longevity. He said that he had “outlived my pecker.” Well, that may eventually happen to most of us, but we will always have Harbor Freight, even if our prostate craps out on us!

It’s a “guy” thing; you wouldn’t understand!

Dems vs. Re-Pubes

(From an e-mail reply to a friend, inquiring about my (non-)involvement in the raising of the Va. interstate speed limits to 70 mph, and the absurd national DUI standard of 0.08% blood alcohol content, thanks to that "liberal" Bill Clinton.)

* * *

The Dems are often worse than the Re-Pubes, when it comes to correcting our ways!

The Re-Pubes want to criminalize all but the "Missionary Position" between hetero married couples, and the Dems want to make sure we don't sprain our private parts while doing "it" (because they heard somebody, somewhere suffered that misfortune) by requiring a govt.-approved "sex harness" for all such encounters! With training wheels! And warnings prominently printed on the device! And safety shields! And reflective side markers! And an audible back-up warning! The Re-Pubes want to bust us for having fun, and the Dems want to make sure it is no fun at all!

Spare me from both parties.

MUD BOY AND THE NEUTRONS

MUD BOY AND THE NEUTRONS were playing on my car CD as I pulled into “Brothers” Italian restaurant at 8:20 PM Hallowe'en Night, one of the precious few establishments thankfully still open that late Sunday hour. I was ravenous, having not eaten since the day before and having worked outside all that day. The CD music source accompanied the book I am now reading, It Came From Memphis, a history of the post-WWII Memphis music scene.

I felt like a condemned prisoner, savoring the last meal before The Big Dirt Nap. The next day would be “clear liquids only” in preparation for the “cobra-cam” colonoscopy early the morning after in Charlottesville. I was eagerly anticipating consuming about a half-gallon of the dreaded “green-apple quick-step” cocktail that I should pick up at the drugstore and mix with cold water before guzzling. I figured disco-dancing was out for that night! Remaining close to the toilet was Priority No. One. (Or No. 2—this higher math confuses me so.)

All my reading glasses were accounted for, so there should have been no evidence that my head was ever lodged “where the sun don’t shine.” I had forgotten to ask the doc if the ‘scope was night-vision equipped. If ultra-violet, it would take tanning to a new level! Groucho Marx had observed that inside a dog, it was too dark to read, etc.

Pathetically stupid, not-at-all-frightening slasher flicks were on The Tube all day (I periodically checked), and I despaired of finding something amusing or interesting in my persistent channel-surfing at home. My porch lights were turned off to discourage the panhandling rug-rats who might show up and threaten to deprive me of all the candy I had purchased allegedly for the observance at hand. I loathe sharing anything. After all, I could have made my last meal exclusively of really small “Snickers” bars!

So, I started my “last meal” at “Brothers” (Oilville, Virginia) with a delicately breaded, fresh, fried calamari, complete with a small dish of marinara sauce and two huge wedges of lemon. It was some of the best I have ever eaten, as good as “Nick’s Roman Terrace” on West Broad Street (just east of Parham Road) in Richmond. Likewise, the Romaine lettuce in my Caesar salad was also very fresh, and cold. I finished up with a wonderfully crisp-toasted Italian sub sandwich, washed down with very cold Italian beer and cold water. It was a delightful meal, and I brought home a chocolate cannelone to munch on as I desperately tried to find something worthy on the TV. Regrettably, it was too late for some savory drip coffee to go with that pastry.

Much of getting old is about subjecting oneself to all sorts of invasive procedures that may only reveal one’s impending death. “Mud Boy and the Neutrons” don’t abate the experience. Had I known about these things as a child (like the dreaded annual prostate exam) I might have been less eager to reach adulthood, but we don’t know of nor learn about such things in our tender years, when “invasive devices” for most of us are otoscopes in our ears and hypodermic needles.

I once told my doc that if I felt both of his hands on my shoulders while undergoing the prostate exam, I was going to leave immediately! As bad as it is to endure such a procedure annually, it must be a living hell for the docs who have to perform them all year long! Dignity for both doctor and patient are redefined.

Well, chicken broth and no coffee all day before the exam. I hope I have lost a ton of weight for all the deprivation I have endured!