Rifles & Reindeer

When it comes to mall Santas, I tend to overlook the individuals under the red suits and see only the Christmas figurehead, that boisterous, jolly reminder of the fact that, soon, I’ll be unwrapping the presents that I’ve dictated people buy me. I suppose my underlying notion is that the individuals spending their free days or nights dressed up like an overweight gift-bearer are looking for spare cash or ways to knock off a few hours of a community service sentencing. The idea that some people do it for other reasons — personal enjoyment, for instance — is lost on me.

That being said, it’s one thing to go in and simply dress up as what might as well be a large painted bullseye for remarking teenagers or shopping-weary parents; it’s another thing entirely when the man stepping into the shiny black boots and tomato-colored pants dedicates himself to the role.

The other day I was reading on the CNN website a profile of something called The Fraternal Order of Real Bearded Santas. The group, more than 300 strong, consists of men who believe in growing genuine Santa beards rather than rely on the elastic-banded, coarse kind so often pulled down by children. The men consist mostly of retirees, people having put in their time at normal jobs that conjure up images of the American heartland — a grocery store worker, say, or a train conductor. For only twenty-five dollars a year, all a person had to do was grow a beard and he was in.

In addition to the group as a whole, the article profiled three FORBS members who had had interesting experiences in the course of their years spent lying to children each December.

Of the three profiles, the first one I read really wasn’t all that impressive. The man had been a FORBS Santa for seven years straight, and while he actually did make little wooden toys for children, it felt cutesy and pedestrian. Anyone could do that, I thought. He sort of made up for it when his “wacky Santa memory” turned out to be him waking from a nap during a slow day at the mall to a parent telling her child that, no, Santa was not dead. But still.

The next two offered more promise.

One Santa, at sixty-two years old, was a retired LA County deputy sheriff, a fact which, by itself, filled me with ideas, but when I read that his interesting fact labeled him an expert witness in dog and cockfighting cases, it made me envision him as the protagonist in a poorly-written primetime TV show. The episode playing in my head had him receiving an emergency call in the middle of little Sally’s request for Butterscotch the Electronic Pony and having to rush off to give his expert testimony while still dressed in his jingling red jacket. “Kringle,” the show might be called or “Law and Order: Santa Victim Unit.”

The third profile was of a man in his mid-fifties, a former utility company lineman who told about the time a child asked him in the same sitting for both a BB gun as well as a chainsaw. In his pockets he carries coins that have sides reading “naughty” and “nice,” a detail, odd at best, made all the more uncomfortable by my lingering question of whether or not he carries them around all year long. Referring to someone as naughty in the period from the day after Thanksgiving to Christmas morning is spirited and festive; any other time of the year, it’s just creepy and tends to brand a person something of a pervert.

What disturbed me most was the last fact my eyes happened to catch. A self-described gun hobbyist, the man admitted to working on what the article referred to as a “candy-cane rifle.” I wouldn’t exactly call myself an expert on the particulars of Santa Claus, but I’ve never picked up on his need for weaponry. Not once have I read about Santa’s hunting habits, plugging walruses from the warmth of his North Pole cottage. I haven’t gleaned from Christmas cards or carols his bundling up with Sprinkles the Elf to track and bring down a reindeer, dragging it back to the workshops so that Mrs. Claus can help dress and store the meat, maybe to feed the army of elves once toy production gets into full swing.

It was disturbing to think of Santa as a cold-blooded killer. But what if this man, this impostor with nothing to his credibility but a genuine beard and a twenty-five dollar online certification, had more sinister plans? I combed the article for something like a name or a location, but there was nothing about any of the unnamed men operating in what could have been any mall in the United States. It might not have been as frightening had the man just been into guns; guns are distinctive and stand out against a crowd of children and white snow. But a candy-cane? There wouldn’t be any warning, and I go to malls.

As I sit here, this Christmas season is coming to a close, and while my shopping is done for now, there’s always next year. I suppose I’ll have to start paying more attention to the men on whose laps the local children sit and make their Christmas wishes. Not only will I be looking for a Santa’s surprised face as a child tugs on what will turn out to be his genuine beard, but also for the shiny glint of a naughty coin, followed by the rise of a Santa as he grasps in his hands a four-foot candy-cane and stares down the stem as if taking aim. And while people around me think merrily of decking the halls, I’ll be planning, worried and at the ready, to hit the deck.

The Greatest Gifts of All

I’ve always enjoyed the process of buying gifts. Whether it’s for a birthday, holiday, or upcoming prison release, one of the most appealing ways to spend a day off work is picking up the perfect present. It’s not just the idea of stepping out of the house that gets me going, it’s the thrill of the hunt; it’s a primal feeling, almost instinctual, and something that I imagine even certain types of cavemen felt when approaching, say, their friends Grog and Urga’s third wedding anniversary. Nothing beats the feeling I get when I stumble upon that great find in some hole-in-the-wall craft shop or bookstore. As much as I enjoy receiving gifts, I enjoy the act of giving that much more.

That said, when it comes to presents, the best ones to buy are the ones that wander off the beaten path. Sure, shopping for Stephen King’s latest bestseller or a new blockbuster DVD release is fine, but it’s kind of like shooting fish in a barrel. Anyone can pick up these types of items. How hard is it to stop at just about any local megastore or go to an online retailer? The answer is: not hard enough. There’s no fun in it. Instead, if someone tells me they want something like that, I’ll start searching for a special edition or a limited release. If it’s a book, maybe there’s a copy that’s been signed by the author or an expert forger. For DVDs, why get it in the regular plastic case if there’s a version that comes in a collectible tin or a replica of a famous television spaceship? These little touches help differentiate my gift from just any gift and only sweeten the discovery.

For me, if a springtime birthday party is a joy to buy presents for, then the period of time from Black Friday to New Year’s Eve is the nirvana where my gift-giving glee is in full force. Last September, I received a phone call from my grandmother asking me for a few ideas for possible Christmas presents. The day she called was an unseasonably warm one, and I thought it strange that I should be sitting in front of a fan, sweating like a fugitive, and thinking about a wintry holiday almost three months away. Struggling for breath under the blanket of heat, I told her I’d think about it, though after passing out I forgot all about putting together a list for her. Later that week, I was walking around a department store when I noticed that the Halloween decorations they’d put up just weeks before were now quickly being downsized to a couple aisles and replaced with warm red and cool silver decorations. The temperature had leveled out by then, and it felt right — or, at least, better suited — for the approach of Christmas. The excitement I felt was encompassing, and by the time I stepped away from the rows of ornaments and dead-eyed animatronic reindeer I was already thinking about gifts I might pick up.

In my experience, I’ve found it easier to shop for friends than relatives. I don’t know if it’s because my immediate family and I rarely hold a conversation much beyond “Hi” or “I’ll see you later,” but my friends are always the easier group to shop for when I go hunting for gifts.

This is where the joy of perusing smaller stores and shops comes into play. What could be more relaxing than, on a beautiful day, taking a stroll along your local promenade or shopping district and seeking out stores that may or may not be open in a month’s time? When I was growing up near Alton, Illinois, opening a store specializing in overpriced, poor-quality artwork or ceramic figurines was an act of gumption to say the least. To this day I still enjoy checking out the wares of shops like these not only to see if, somehow, I can find a framed picture or small statue suitable for gifting, but also because, in rougher financial areas, I like guessing how long it will be until these stores go out of business. If you’re shopping with a friend, make a game out of it. Loser buys lunch!

When I’m browsing, I’ll always try to imagine the look on a friend’s face upon opening a certain present. Will it elicit a certain amount of enthusiasm? If I think so, I’ll jot it down on a piece of paper or make a note on my phone. If I’m unsure of my friend’s reaction but it’s something I would like to have, I’ll ask myself, how can I convince them to give it back to me? And if the gift wouldn’t interest either of us, I move on.

Whereas shopping for my friends can be a breeze sometimes, presents for my family can be problematic at best. It’s hard trying to scrounge up meaningful gifts for people who, sometimes, might as well be strangers, and it’s so disheartening to have to fall back on gift certificates to places like Home Depot or a certain megastore owned by a family of Bible-thumping nutjobs. Who enjoys something like that? I guess a place like Home Depot I can see — a carpenter, a handyman, someone who enjoys taking on the little around-the-house projects that require such festive utilities as a socket wrench or a rubber mallet. But a gift card to someplace like Costco makes me imagine somebody traipsing around a cold, expansive warehouse store, a smile stretched across his face, tossing into a squeaky-wheeled cart things like shampoo and motor oil, maybe thumbtacks or a plastic paper towel holder.

That just seems so sad.

At a Christmas party at my aunt’s house one year, I received a little decorated envelope as my gift from her. I could tell it was going to be either a gift card or a small folded-up piece of money, and so I opened it, expecting to be able to go get a novel from a bookstore or maybe a new shirt. Instead, much to my disappointment, the gift card was for Casey’s, a local gas station chain. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I wasn’t sure how exactly my aunt had imagined my reaction to something like that. In a couple weeks I would turn twenty, and so I’d already learned the joys of having to fill a gas tank, but still. Who wants to get gasoline as a gift? My brother, just fifteen years old, got the same gift, and so, after giving our aunt our most sincere-sounding thanks, we made plans to sell our gift cards to our grandmother.

That’s why, in my opinion, lists are a lifesaver. I have friends who think that resorting to a Christmas or birthday list is the ultimate form of gifting failure. My friend Jessica, for example, would almost never use a list, for others or herself, reasoning that if she knows someone and someone knows her, figuring out what to get for each other without being told shouldn’t be that difficult a task. As for me, a list has a certainty, a reassurance of perfection. Not that I don’t enjoy a little spontaneity in presents — I’ll pick up little knick-knacks or trinkets like a lighthouse figurine for my great-grandmother or a comfortable throw for a friend’s mother — but for the big gifts, I want something that won’t fail. There’s nothing worse than the naked look of disappointment that comes, if only momentarily, before being replaced by an exaggerated projection of joy.

Once I have my gifts purchased and at hand, the next step for me is finding the best way to present them. To some, the options for wrapping, bagging, and boxing might be overwhelming, but I enjoy the seemingly limitless possibilities that are available. In my humble opinion, getting the right wrapping paper or gift bag is almost equally important to the present itself. A gift’s wrapping can make or break the occasion.

I’ll stand sometimes in the stationery department of my local retailer, looking at all my options, weighing one hunter green bow against another one, slightly lighter, with a tag that reads “seafoam”. I can spend hours there imagining the opening of a particular gift and the recipient’s stare as they look upon my present, transfixed. As with a pet or a prostitute, the bag and paper must suit the recipient’s personality. You wouldn’t want a rambunctious puppy jumping up on your seventy-six-year-old Aunt Ida any more than you’d want your fifteen year old son’s first time with a woman to be spoiled by the fact that she has a penis because you didn’t do your homework.

So put a little thought into it. Dark hues on simpler patters, I’ve found, are good for manic depressives, as they’re often surprised that anyone’s bothered to remember their birthday or Christmas at all, so it’s best not to overwhelm them with ornate designs or bold colors. For circuit boys the opposite is true; one can’t go wrong with loud-colored gift bags and lots of tissue paper, especially if the recipient is still high on ecstasy. The bright colors will be mesmerizing and the sound and feel of the tissue paper as they rifle through it should make for lots of fun sensory moments.

I understand that when the gift is opened, the paper is going to be nothing but a shredded afterthought on the table and the decorative tissue a crumpled plaything for a house cat or unsupervised infant, but none of that matters to me. What’s more important is the aesthetic quality and the sense of anticipation a well-decorated gift inspires in the person for whom it is intended. That’s what makes it all worth it. In the end, for me anyway, gift-giving is an artform, no different than painting or nude interpretive dance. No matter how long or hard I have to search, no matter how hard a gift is to wrap, bag, or box, I enjoy knowing that I can make a person feel valued and cared about and that he or she will come, almost certainly, to regard mine as the greatest gifts of all.

10 Tips For Surviving Your Family's Thanksgiving

1. Arrive Late

Obviously, the less time you have to spend at your family’s Thanksgiving, the better. Unless you live in your parents' basement or have what an ethicist calls "morals," this is as simple as a well-crafted lie. Avoid stories about “getting stuck in traffic” or “hitting a wild animal,” as these are obvious fabrications. Instead, go with something a bit more dramatic; the more unbelievable it is, the more likely your family will have no choice but accept it. “I’m sorry I’m late, but there was a drug bust in my apartment complex!” is an excellent example of how to excuse your tardiness.

2. Avoid Discussion Of Your Latest Relationship Disaster

Once you arrive, your family will no doubt want to “catch up” and hear about all the reasons why you have yet to get married and have children. It is wise to keep these questions at bay, as who would want to dwell on why he or she is not good enough for a significant other? Instead, make a preemptive strike. Talk about upcoming birthdays, last week’s American Idol vote-offs, or your cousin’s latest abortion. These topics are guaranteed to keep your relatives talking or arguing for hours.

3. Before Dinner, Seek Out Interesting Relatives To Talk To

Just because your family’s chatting it up doesn’t mean you’re going to want to join in. So, to keep yourself occupied, scout the room; find those relatives that aren’t talking about babies or poring over vacation photos. Interesting relatives who provide the most interesting conversation topics include drunken uncles or recent parolees. Who doesn’t enjoy prison stories about Hubcap, the Polish shanker? Stay away from relatives suffering from obvious drug addictions, as their lighthearted tales of dumpster diving invariably turn to pleads for money.

4. When Sitting Down To Eat, Choose A Seat Where You Cannot See A Clock

Unless, by some rare occurrence, you find yourself enjoying the evening, the worst possible thing you can do to yourself is watch the time. So, sit facing away from a wall clock, microwave LCD, or VCR display. Avoid wearing a watch, and if you have your cellphone on you, place a piece of black electrician’s tape over the external display to help keep you from peeking.

5. Steer Away From "Hot Button" Issues

Just like on a first date or a late-night trip to the bathhouses, holidays are never the place to bring up your religious, political, or ethical views. So what if you feel that the ground-up fetuses of lambs makes for the best skin creams? Don’t share. Maybe your grandmother is a secret supporter of PETA. Did you agree with the policies of George Bush, the 43rd President of the United States? Of course not! Only a select number of former mental patients and retarded salamanders stuck around on that sinking ship, but now is not the time to bring up this or your hardcore association with Amnesty International. Keep to tamer topics and one-sided issues, like the eternal debate between Ford and Chevrolet, or ask, “Who here agrees that bestiality is a good thing?”

6. If You Reach A Lull In The Evening, Investigate The House

All conversations eventually run dry, and so you may find it necessary to excuse yourself for a moment to shake off boredom. Avoid taking any hallucinogens, as this tends to lead to what families sometimes refer to as “awkward moments.” Rather, take a few minutes to investigate what’s behind the house’s closed doors. What kinds of prescription medications are kept in the bathroom cabinet? Are there hidden prisoners in the basement? How much dirty laundry has been put off and shoved into the master bedroom? However, be cautious investigating these rooms. The last thing you want to discover as you’re trying to pass the time is something like your Aunt Millie’s secret collection of sex toys or Great-Uncle Bertram’s extensive stash of antique Nazi paraphernalia.

7. Avoid Children

When’s the last time a child or infant asked to mix you a drink or take your finished plate into the kitchen? If you are able to actually name a time, then you are delusional. That’s right, because children are not even people and therefore unable to care about how you feel. Children are the last thing you want to deal with when you’re near family, as they are best described by the term “takers.” All they do is want you to watch them perform inane tasks like spin in a circle or pound out notes on the electric keyboard that for some unknown reason their parents got them for their birthday a few weeks ago and, why the heck not, brought it along to Thanksgiving so that they could perform a rendition of what you can only assume is a Schubert piece because you have no idea what the hell it is. If kids are present and unavoidable, make up a game for them to play. Tell them you’ve hidden delicious treasures at the other end of the house and that other, more clever children are looking for them, so they’d better hurry along. Or, have them play Traffic Cop out on the highway. Children, like religious nuts, have great imaginations; use this to your advantage.

8. Bring Backup

In dire situations involving the most unbearable of families, one might find it necessary to recruit a backup, someone to whom you can talk throughout the evening. This can be a friend willing to come of their own accord, but in order to get them to agree you may have to “sugar-coat the truth” a little. Do not go into detail about your niece’s gangster boyfriend or your second cousin’s extensive mob ties; your friend may not want to become entangled in any webs of deceit or illegality. Sometimes you may need to call in a favor. “Remember that time I was your surrogate?” you may have to remind your friend. Or, if applicable, “The summer of ’97: I’ve still got the photos and the bloody knife.”

9. Have A Friend Phone Your Cell

If you anticipate the evening dragging on with no end in sight, it may be wise to arrange for a friend to call you. Predetermine a time, and if your friend hasn’t received word from you, have him call your cell. The conversation doesn’t have to last long; just remember that your facial expressions must match whatever story you make up. Alert relatives may notice your lack of concern if, minutes later, you announce that your best friend has been in an industrial accident or run down by a freight train.

10. Replace Cooked Turkey With "Wild Turkey"

This is to be used on a case-by-case basis. Examine your own personal drinking habits before utilizing this tip. If you’re one for keeping embarrassing secrets or prone to displays of public nudity, perhaps taking in massive amounts of bourbon is not the best course of action. If, however, you are a seasoned drinker and relatively confident that inebriation will help smooth out your evening, eat as little food as possible. If you have a strong craving for your sister’s succulent turkey, just remind yourself that that’s what leftovers are for. Right now, much like with a kidney stone, you need to focus on passing this evening. If you feel uncomfortable drinking Wild Turkey directly from a glass, mix it with a carbonated beverage like soda. That way, by the time anyone suspects anything’s up, you’ll be too sloshed to care. Just remember never to share your drink with a grabby-handed underage niece or nephew, and if you must sober up before you drive home, do it outside, safely in your car. Follow these helpful hints and you’ll be well on your way to heading out the front door pain-free and with one more holiday done!

Jack the Pumpkinhead

A few years before I was born, my father got his job working at Hallmark Cards. This, more than anything else, shaped my childhood.

Growing up, my family celebrated EVERY holiday. We always seemed to have more decorations than we knew what to do with. My mother, a very crafty and creative person, would make some of them, but the majority came from Hallmark. At the end of a season, my Dad would snag a bunch of decorations at a discount, and we'd use them the following year.

We had stuff for all of them--I mean all of them. When I first brought my wife "home for the holidays" she was surprised to find out that my family had a menorah (my family is not Jewish, but Hanukkah is a holiday so we had the proper paraphernalia).

Of all the holidays we celebrated, the best was Halloween. That was my Dad's favorite holiday (it was his mother's favorite, too). Every year our house was transformed in a bizarre wonderland, complete with rubber bats, screeching haunted houses, paper skeletons, and foam pumpkins. Our parents would take us out trick or treating and when we came back my sister and I would have a gift waiting for us, usually in our rooms, left by "Jack the Pumpkinhead."

There have been two periods in my life. One period where I was embarrassed by this because I didn't know anyone else that got a little present on Halloween from "Jack," and another period where I thought "Well Linus [from PEANUTS] seems clued in on this so it must be more common."

I think that my Dad probably got this strange tradition from Charles Schulz when he saw IT'S THE GREAT PUMPKIN CHARLIE BROWN when it aired originally in 1966 (when he was six). I saw this cartoon a few nights ago, and I must say...it's quite subversive. I'm not sure if my father (and many others) picked up on Schulz's rather ironic Christmasification of Halloween, but growing up my household believed in Jack the Pumpkinhead.

Like most things, my father took what existed and sort of mixed it with something else entirely. You see, Schulz's characters talk about "The Great Pumpkin," whereas my father insisted that our family was visited by "Jack the Pumpkinhead." Who the heck is that? Jack the Pumpkinhead is a character created by L. Frank Baum in his 1904 novel THE MARVELOUS LAND OF OZ (yes, THAT Oz...you know, the one where Dorothy goes with Toto). I have it on good authority that my Dad was probably exposed to this book as a child (because growing up we had a beat-up copy of this book amongst our books that probably belonged to him...or my mother).

Thus, "The Great Pumpkin" was "Jack the Pumpkinhead" in our house.

I can recall getting several presents over the years, but only one honest-to-God "Jack" encounter:

My parents brought us home from Trick of Treating, and my sister and I started to take our costumes off. Suddenly, from the kitchen we heard a commotion. Running, with our pants down at our ankles, my sister and I got to the kitchen just in time to see my father dash madly out the back door. Yelling, he ran all the way to our back fence--hot in pursuit of something.

Horrified and excited, we waited for him to slowly make his way back into the house. He appeared worn-out and disappointed.

"Oh man," my dad told us. "You missed it! I almost caught Jack the Pumpkinhead!"

What? You did?

"Yeah, I caught him in the kitchen and ran after him--but he got over the fence before I could catch him."

Really?

"I almost got him," he said. "I was this close to catching him...but he got away. I could hear him laughing at me..."

Parents (and future parents) take note: this stupid, obvious bit of theater was 100% believed by both myself and my sister Amber. That's the power parents adults have over children (wield it justly). My Dad is not Daniel Day-Lewis, and yet I was (and still am) in awe of his performance. For the longest time I not only believed in Jack the Pumpkinhead, but I was convinced that my father had nearly caught him!

My wife (for obvious reasons) grew-up in a Santa-free household, and would no doubt be horrified by this story. Her family has this "thing about lying to children," but you know what? All adults lie to children, in some for or another. And beyond entertaining us, the lie did nothing to Amber or me. I don't still believe in this Halloween-Santa. I'm not devastated when he doesn't show up, now that my Dad isn't putting trinkets on my pillowcase.

It was just something fun and sort of magical from my childhood.

Of course, as an adult I see the real magic at play--the swirling of pop culture inside the mind of a goofy, 20-something-year-old father...how he waited for us to lower our guards, then go running across the lawn. Whenever I wonder where it is I get this strange capacity to create things (be it a Grape-Flavored Tear Drop poem or cartoon sheep), I always remember Jack and my Dad.