Just like the rest of us, huh?
You have guaranteed travel accommodations, that we pay for. We have self-funded travel that we must budget, or even severely limit in order to make our finances stretch the month.
Your paycheck and personal security are locked in for a definite time period, regardless of what the economy does.
You have stipends and monetary allowances above and beyond your salary for additional mundane expenses. We must make one monthly sum suffice for every expenditure that arrises.
You can intentionally abstain from your job without being docked pay, much less dismissed for non-attendance.
You don't have an Employee Union because you don't need one; your "employee rights" and huge benefits are guaranteed, and irrevocable, and should you come under scrutiny for abusing them, you have a guaranteed opportunity to address matters publicly in a national forum, and then vote on them too.
You're paid to argue: to speak out and act on agendas based on your philosophies and opinions – that you can safely claim reflect the views of those who elected you. We form our opinions based on the potential consequences of your actions, speak and argue them in public at risk of alienation or even reprisal, and have to make our living doing something else perhaps unrelated, even possibly contrary to our hopes and ideals.
If your "views" parrot those of middle-management (The House Speaker or Majority Chair) you are granted unspoken permission to bend the company rules, to sabotage accomplishment.
We get the opportunity to affect your future once every two, four or six years. You get to affect our future every day.
You can vote yourself a raise, not just when you need one, but when you think it would be nice – regardless of the cost of living.
You have large, sometimes non-gratis volunteer, staffs to help you accomplish daily mundane tasks.
You have access to networks of contacts to aid you in securing your future once your employment has been terminated, in case you aren't set for life via the diligent efforts of action committees working in your best interests.
You can exempt yourself from the laws you mandate upon the rest of us.
You are given waivers, sometimes mysteriously so, from the so-called "beneficial" government programs you shill.
You get away with accumulating massive debt, then pass the burden onto a non-blood related successor. We're stuck with ours, to the grave if we can't even the balance. Then it's our children's problem.
Corporations seek out mutually beneficial relationships with you. We get sent to collections.
You enjoy guaranteed deferment from any type of duty that would place you in personal danger.
You can successfully argue that your responsibilities are merely symbolic.
The press allows you a broad forum whenever you want to speak out on something that concerns you, and proactively seeks out your opinions on current affairs. And you are taken seriously, no matter how disconnected from reality your views are.
You're the one making our country a hated enemy among the nations, and a laughing stock among their leaders. We're the ones getting shot at.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Just in time for March: April!
If Denny's gave out fortune cookies, there'd be one that says "You again?"
Enlightenment should never venture out unaccompanied by self-awareness.
You aren't crazy. I'm not crazy. We just buy different brands of Normal.
________________________________
Up next on Country Station WISC:
She went back to the party and made me independent.
He took up with a Walker, now our union's on the curb.
She's right, I'm left, it's wrong.
South of the border, down Illinois way.
She's Keepin' Madison Honest, I'm Keepin' Milwaukee Famous.
________________________________
FUN AT THE DOCTOR'S
I went recently to see my nutritionist. Every visit, they have me take off my shoes and socks, and stand on an electronic scale – a metal plate – connected to a computer, that also apparently can tally up such exotic measurements as body fat, muscle mass, pulse rate and such, while it mundanely records weight too. I hopped on, in what has become a routine, and the nurse monitoring my numbers on-screen casually danced her fingers on the keyboard with a chirpy "all done!" I put my shoes back on and followed her to the examination room, where I'd wait for my doctor.
While I sat in yawny meditation, staring at the back issues of "Shape" and "Self" magazines, my ears caught what sounded like a sudden commotion outside the door of the exam room – something a little out of the norm for a sedately efficient doctor's office. I leaned in the chair, toward the door, nudged it open a slight crack, and peeked out. Apparently, from what I heard, there was a woman wandering around the medical complex somewhere, whose numbers were so out of whack, that she was a walking emergency... and no one could find her.
Several nurses hustled about – that double-fast clip that indicates their next step is to whip out cell phones and alert security. At every turn of the corner: "Did you find her?" "No, they're looking down the hall, in the restroom..." Etc. Etc. Etc.
At once, one of them said something like, "hold it..." I think I was the only one who heard this, because nobody else sounded like they were "holding it." The nurse who had weighed me, entered the room where I was. "Robert...?"
"That's me," I said, "long time, no see." I grinned, in my usual, habitually annoying, just-made-a-funny custom.
She was looking at my scale print-out. "Oh good gawd..." This didn't sound good. "I marked you down as female." She then turned and addressed the rest of the office. "Hold up, everyone." The mysterious wandering woman about to explode, had been located. It was me. The numbers were perfectly fine, for a man. A man my size.
For the next five minutes, as she took me back to the electronic broiler plate to re-weigh me as the correct gender, I was the center of attention amid an entire office of 20- and 30-something females carrying clipboards and thermometers. I'll take what I can get.
Enlightenment should never venture out unaccompanied by self-awareness.
You aren't crazy. I'm not crazy. We just buy different brands of Normal.
________________________________
Up next on Country Station WISC:
She went back to the party and made me independent.
He took up with a Walker, now our union's on the curb.
She's right, I'm left, it's wrong.
South of the border, down Illinois way.
She's Keepin' Madison Honest, I'm Keepin' Milwaukee Famous.
________________________________
FUN AT THE DOCTOR'S
I went recently to see my nutritionist. Every visit, they have me take off my shoes and socks, and stand on an electronic scale – a metal plate – connected to a computer, that also apparently can tally up such exotic measurements as body fat, muscle mass, pulse rate and such, while it mundanely records weight too. I hopped on, in what has become a routine, and the nurse monitoring my numbers on-screen casually danced her fingers on the keyboard with a chirpy "all done!" I put my shoes back on and followed her to the examination room, where I'd wait for my doctor.
While I sat in yawny meditation, staring at the back issues of "Shape" and "Self" magazines, my ears caught what sounded like a sudden commotion outside the door of the exam room – something a little out of the norm for a sedately efficient doctor's office. I leaned in the chair, toward the door, nudged it open a slight crack, and peeked out. Apparently, from what I heard, there was a woman wandering around the medical complex somewhere, whose numbers were so out of whack, that she was a walking emergency... and no one could find her.
Several nurses hustled about – that double-fast clip that indicates their next step is to whip out cell phones and alert security. At every turn of the corner: "Did you find her?" "No, they're looking down the hall, in the restroom..." Etc. Etc. Etc.
At once, one of them said something like, "hold it..." I think I was the only one who heard this, because nobody else sounded like they were "holding it." The nurse who had weighed me, entered the room where I was. "Robert...?"
"That's me," I said, "long time, no see." I grinned, in my usual, habitually annoying, just-made-a-funny custom.
She was looking at my scale print-out. "Oh good gawd..." This didn't sound good. "I marked you down as female." She then turned and addressed the rest of the office. "Hold up, everyone." The mysterious wandering woman about to explode, had been located. It was me. The numbers were perfectly fine, for a man. A man my size.
For the next five minutes, as she took me back to the electronic broiler plate to re-weigh me as the correct gender, I was the center of attention amid an entire office of 20- and 30-something females carrying clipboards and thermometers. I'll take what I can get.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Februarandumb
I'll go Confucius one better... If a tree falls in the forest, how does it know whether anyone is listening? If you're alone in a sealed room, how do you know you're anywhere?
I was out on the sidewalk in town recently, and four men passed by me in a line; two of them were identical twins, the type who trouble themselves to dress identically as well. Only, the twins were the first and fourth men in line, respectively, as they passed – like human bookends. The experience was just a tad unnerving.
I've made this comment before, but it never ceases to amaze me how bicyclists wear all this trendy streamlined protective gear, and literally brandish their physical fitness at the rest of the non-bicycling world they navigate through... then habitually run stop signs, something no conscientiously life-savoring individual would ever do, on foot or in a vehicle. Proof that arrogance is actually an evolutionary safety valve to help keep the population down.
Whenever I go somewhere to browse, like at a bookstore, I find either beautiful women congregating, or spaced out wanderers. Never an even mixture. It makes me wonder which group I belong to – and I'm definitely not a woman.
I have about five different versions of "Clair de Lune" on my iTunes list. I enjoy listening to them in succession, like a great debate where I agree fully with all points of view.
A mental exercise I do – that I think probably places me among a very small group of human beings indeed, if I'm not in fact the only one, or certifiable – is making up lists of comically outrageous words. A few past examples would be like, "glittertwit," "rectalooza" and "crotchurion." I was a little distracted one afternoon, at a coffeeshop, engaged in this little writing warm-up... coming up with some real groaners and eye-ball rollers. I felt a presence behind me, and turned my head to look. An elderly woman with a five-or-six year old granddaughter were reading over my shoulder. "You see," said the woman to the girl, "how important it is to practice your spelling." I could only grin, like an enterbuttual.
I was out on the sidewalk in town recently, and four men passed by me in a line; two of them were identical twins, the type who trouble themselves to dress identically as well. Only, the twins were the first and fourth men in line, respectively, as they passed – like human bookends. The experience was just a tad unnerving.
I've made this comment before, but it never ceases to amaze me how bicyclists wear all this trendy streamlined protective gear, and literally brandish their physical fitness at the rest of the non-bicycling world they navigate through... then habitually run stop signs, something no conscientiously life-savoring individual would ever do, on foot or in a vehicle. Proof that arrogance is actually an evolutionary safety valve to help keep the population down.
Whenever I go somewhere to browse, like at a bookstore, I find either beautiful women congregating, or spaced out wanderers. Never an even mixture. It makes me wonder which group I belong to – and I'm definitely not a woman.
I have about five different versions of "Clair de Lune" on my iTunes list. I enjoy listening to them in succession, like a great debate where I agree fully with all points of view.
A mental exercise I do – that I think probably places me among a very small group of human beings indeed, if I'm not in fact the only one, or certifiable – is making up lists of comically outrageous words. A few past examples would be like, "glittertwit," "rectalooza" and "crotchurion." I was a little distracted one afternoon, at a coffeeshop, engaged in this little writing warm-up... coming up with some real groaners and eye-ball rollers. I felt a presence behind me, and turned my head to look. An elderly woman with a five-or-six year old granddaughter were reading over my shoulder. "You see," said the woman to the girl, "how important it is to practice your spelling." I could only grin, like an enterbuttual.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Ranuary Jandomness
Why doesn't Victoria's Secret offer senior discounts? Just curious.
I need to find a cold remedy stronger than M&Ms.
Diabetes means you must greatly reduce or eliminate most great tasting food. Neuropathy means you are now a slapstick comedian below the waist, and impotent. So basically, all I can do with a prostitute is take her to Safeway and buy her groceries.
Just thinking... if Charles Lindbergh had flown backwards from Paris to New York, and naked, he'd still have the record.
-------------------
I went with my nearsighted, partially deaf uncle, to stroll a Farmers' Market, and we came to a BBQ Rotisserie with some tasty looking chickens on the spit. "Let's get lunch," I said.
My uncle looked and said, "just a minute, I need to tell this guy something." He stepped up to the man running the rotisserie and said, "buddy, I hate to break this to you, but not only is your crank organ not making any music, but I think your monkeys are on fire."
-------------------
I did something today that very soon the DHS may consider an act of terrorism: I sat in public, writing. Not on a computer, but with a pen and paper notebook. In our new culture of instant incrimination, writing in longhand may be interpreted as subversive behavior. Because I may be... what? Taking names? Drawing a diagram for a plot? Casing the joint and taking notes? Question: wouldn't it seem more nefarious if I were typing on a laptop computer, instantaneously transmitting what I typed somewhere else via a wireless connection? Apparently no. Why is writing on paper so potentially evil? Because I'm not generating income to some third party by doing it. The pen and the paper are already mine. My thoughts are mine and remain so, even though I am releasing them into reality by writing them down. No internet portal is being accessed, no application process utilized – I'm not even draining a battery. I don't owe anyone money... that's why it must be demonized. Frowned upon. Okay, maybe that's taking it a bit over the top, but at the growing rate of technology, the top is closer all the time.
I need to find a cold remedy stronger than M&Ms.
Diabetes means you must greatly reduce or eliminate most great tasting food. Neuropathy means you are now a slapstick comedian below the waist, and impotent. So basically, all I can do with a prostitute is take her to Safeway and buy her groceries.
Just thinking... if Charles Lindbergh had flown backwards from Paris to New York, and naked, he'd still have the record.
-------------------
I went with my nearsighted, partially deaf uncle, to stroll a Farmers' Market, and we came to a BBQ Rotisserie with some tasty looking chickens on the spit. "Let's get lunch," I said.
My uncle looked and said, "just a minute, I need to tell this guy something." He stepped up to the man running the rotisserie and said, "buddy, I hate to break this to you, but not only is your crank organ not making any music, but I think your monkeys are on fire."
-------------------
I did something today that very soon the DHS may consider an act of terrorism: I sat in public, writing. Not on a computer, but with a pen and paper notebook. In our new culture of instant incrimination, writing in longhand may be interpreted as subversive behavior. Because I may be... what? Taking names? Drawing a diagram for a plot? Casing the joint and taking notes? Question: wouldn't it seem more nefarious if I were typing on a laptop computer, instantaneously transmitting what I typed somewhere else via a wireless connection? Apparently no. Why is writing on paper so potentially evil? Because I'm not generating income to some third party by doing it. The pen and the paper are already mine. My thoughts are mine and remain so, even though I am releasing them into reality by writing them down. No internet portal is being accessed, no application process utilized – I'm not even draining a battery. I don't owe anyone money... that's why it must be demonized. Frowned upon. Okay, maybe that's taking it a bit over the top, but at the growing rate of technology, the top is closer all the time.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Last Randoms for 2010!
Sometimes the message your inner voice is shouting is "shut up and listen."
I thought I knew exactly what I wanted to write here, and all that came out was this.
You haven't truly experienced the post-modern professional business model, until you've stood between two executives having a staring contest – each hoping the other will suddenly become competent.
A flash of tit can turn even the crappiest day around.
There are days when I'm just out of tune, like an old guitar in cold weather.
I own about thirty blank notebooks – each one I purchased, thinking "I wonder what I'll write in this one." Then I blogged.
------------------------------
A few things you'll never read on a tombstone:
"I wish I'd spent more time at work."
"Jogging was totally worth it."
"I ate all my veggies."
"He knew every knock-knock joke."
------------------------------
RETURN OF THE DAMN POETRY CORNER
Little Johnny Harmon, he went to town,
loaded up with water balloons, to make folks frown.
That night Johnny Harmon lay in his little bed,
Next morn, police found Johnny with concave head.
The meat wagon pulled up to carry him away,
The cops asked his parents had they anything to say.
"When was the last time you saw the little sport?"
"Hopefully just now," was their thoughtful retort.
I thought I knew exactly what I wanted to write here, and all that came out was this.
You haven't truly experienced the post-modern professional business model, until you've stood between two executives having a staring contest – each hoping the other will suddenly become competent.
A flash of tit can turn even the crappiest day around.
There are days when I'm just out of tune, like an old guitar in cold weather.
I own about thirty blank notebooks – each one I purchased, thinking "I wonder what I'll write in this one." Then I blogged.
------------------------------
A few things you'll never read on a tombstone:
"I wish I'd spent more time at work."
"Jogging was totally worth it."
"I ate all my veggies."
"He knew every knock-knock joke."
------------------------------
RETURN OF THE DAMN POETRY CORNER
Little Johnny Harmon, he went to town,
loaded up with water balloons, to make folks frown.
That night Johnny Harmon lay in his little bed,
Next morn, police found Johnny with concave head.
The meat wagon pulled up to carry him away,
The cops asked his parents had they anything to say.
"When was the last time you saw the little sport?"
"Hopefully just now," was their thoughtful retort.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
One Thing I Like About The Media: Nothing
I'm not sure if this ranks a "coming of age" story, or merely one of waking up. I can say for certain that a paradigm shift has taken place in the last fifteen years, between me and the newspaper business.
Part of this tale is truly sad, for as I've become more aware, others in the print industry have only increased their denial – arrogantly so, in some cases. Arrogance, as a defense mechanism, is not that surprising if you've been around the various personality types who populate this self-gratified media world as long as I have.
First, a reality check – if you've paid attention to business news at all lately, you know that the newspaper industry is currently trudging through shit. It held its own against its chief rival, television, when the two believed they were the only dogs in the fight. They scuffled, routinely, like pro-wrestlers re-fighting the same match night after night along a tour circuit, to an entertaining but intentional draw. They shared the mass audience to mutual benefit, under the guise of competing for it.
Just as the big three terrestrial networks fought a naive ratings game with cable only to become subservient to it, the news-pulp empire has too become an Alamo, fending off the ever proliferating Internet – like survivors holed up in a barricaded shopping mall against the growing zombie horde.
The immense torrents of misinformation, rumor and jabbering opinion that masquerade as "news" online, combined with journalism's own inner decay, have resulted in an intellectually barren media landscape. Viral video-casts and ethics-free satellite broadcasting, where it's more important to work an F-bomb into a sentence than a truthful noun or adjective, have opened the bombay doors beneath us. Self-abandonment is the new "freedom" – a free-fall that looks just like flying, until the nasty old ground rises up and spoils it.
What I've encountered – and kept a running mental tab of for nearly two decades – has been astonishing, and not in a good way.
When I first got into newspapers many years ago as a young compositor – what graphic artists were called then, and when I was genuinely young – I was put through the standard gauntlet of passive-aggression. I took my turn in Intimidation-101, which I learned each newspaper had its own spin on. There is no official "paying of one's dues" in the paper business. When you move to a different job at another newspaper, there is no acknowledgement of anything you endured at the offices of your former one. You are expected to run the gauntlet once more – be fresh meat again and prove yourself against another pack of cronying, self-distracted little-bigshots.
The only rule that all newspapers have in common is that they have each established their own constantly evolving – if improvised habituation can be classified somehow under 'evolution' – "system" for getting a new edition out every morning. And squeezing as much work out of their staffs for as little compensation as can be gotten away with – even when labor knows it's over a barrel because of the strapped economy, and management knows that labor knows, and proceeds to pump the dildo harder anyway.
There are very few businesses where so many disparately tasked departments work side-by-side under one roof, and care less about each other's welfare. Each faction does its job with as little regard, or more and more, with as little competence as necessary, and escapes home to leave someone else holding the bag.
A surefire trick to going home on time is to con another department's workers into believing that some of your duties actually belong to them instead. I've never had the privilege, but it must be sweet.
Management are the people who've mastered the art. They talk all day, and little else. They unctuously discuss what "needs" to be done, until the subject bores them, or the phone interrupts – another discussion concerning some other unctuous "need." The urgent business is ushered out the door with a wave, for the drones to worry about, with a vague notion that their meager livelihoods are at risk.
Some quick definitions.
Management: The ones who get to go home early, even at the outset of apocalypse.
The crisis: Your problem, not theirs. The only upside is that it only lasts until tomorrow, to be replaced by another crisis even more dire. If it isn't taken care of, they get to complain about YOUR incompetence. You get to complain about the length of the unemployment line.
If your faith already wanes regarding our journalism media, you probably don't want to be a fly on the wall for a meeting of your local paper's editorial board. You'll come away looking for either a razor for your wrists, or the nearest gun shop to get on the waiting list.
A quick revelation, in case you were still wondering: Media people hate you.
Once a day they gather around a conference table to discuss which of us on the outside world is most deserving of their everything-but-objective spotlight. If they deem you foolish enough, you'll be tomorrow's featured player at the circus.
The generic, categoric reference to those of us toiling to survive in the real world boils down to "Looks like old Shit-for-brains is at it again."
They decide each afternoon how to repackage a product that we civilians will pay to have thrown at our doors, one more time, tomorrow morning. In short, newspaper people are celebrities. Their names, after all, appear in print regularly.
What today's journalists and media people practice is more accurately the progressive spin of elitism, which balances out the elitism of the corporate right. Haven't you noticed? We, bound to lives of day-to-day survival, are the ideological "middle class." The corporate moneychangers and media trendsetters are the ones enjoying actual "options" in life. The ones whose incomes are not completely consumed by monthly bills and playing by the rules. Journalists used to report what's happening, but now "review" it. Many young journalists enter the industry precisely because they've been taught it is salaried activism. Activism for their own shit. Political. Trendy. Cool. Whether or not it's relevant.
So too is advertising a collusion of loose cannons presented to resemble a disciplined business. Some of the reasons modern advertising gnaws at most people's sanity are actually not too sublime. The ad industry doesn't try to bombard your id with hidden messages in ice cubes anymore – it has adopted the sledge hammer approach. Relentless, repetitive, aggressive behavior modification.
By simple contemplation, nearly anyone who reads a print ad, watches a TV commercial, or pays vague attention to a car radio will perceive a brazen con being pitched. The era of an earnest business "getting its message out," is long over.
Some might label it all an indictment of capitalism, but it's more accurately the sublime triumph of greed. The cure is not socialism – the system where private sector greed is outlawed so that government greed can enjoy impunity. The only thing worse than the maddening caterwaul of advertising, would be an enslaving federal mandate that you MUST buy a bigscreen TV and a smartphone with a government surveillance chip – which is likely coming.
So smoke 'em while you got 'em. You're already surrounded by folks who think you don't deserve 'em – even though you planted 'em, grew 'em, rolled 'em and then paid for 'em, too.
Part of this tale is truly sad, for as I've become more aware, others in the print industry have only increased their denial – arrogantly so, in some cases. Arrogance, as a defense mechanism, is not that surprising if you've been around the various personality types who populate this self-gratified media world as long as I have.
First, a reality check – if you've paid attention to business news at all lately, you know that the newspaper industry is currently trudging through shit. It held its own against its chief rival, television, when the two believed they were the only dogs in the fight. They scuffled, routinely, like pro-wrestlers re-fighting the same match night after night along a tour circuit, to an entertaining but intentional draw. They shared the mass audience to mutual benefit, under the guise of competing for it.
Just as the big three terrestrial networks fought a naive ratings game with cable only to become subservient to it, the news-pulp empire has too become an Alamo, fending off the ever proliferating Internet – like survivors holed up in a barricaded shopping mall against the growing zombie horde.
The immense torrents of misinformation, rumor and jabbering opinion that masquerade as "news" online, combined with journalism's own inner decay, have resulted in an intellectually barren media landscape. Viral video-casts and ethics-free satellite broadcasting, where it's more important to work an F-bomb into a sentence than a truthful noun or adjective, have opened the bombay doors beneath us. Self-abandonment is the new "freedom" – a free-fall that looks just like flying, until the nasty old ground rises up and spoils it.
What I've encountered – and kept a running mental tab of for nearly two decades – has been astonishing, and not in a good way.
When I first got into newspapers many years ago as a young compositor – what graphic artists were called then, and when I was genuinely young – I was put through the standard gauntlet of passive-aggression. I took my turn in Intimidation-101, which I learned each newspaper had its own spin on. There is no official "paying of one's dues" in the paper business. When you move to a different job at another newspaper, there is no acknowledgement of anything you endured at the offices of your former one. You are expected to run the gauntlet once more – be fresh meat again and prove yourself against another pack of cronying, self-distracted little-bigshots.
The only rule that all newspapers have in common is that they have each established their own constantly evolving – if improvised habituation can be classified somehow under 'evolution' – "system" for getting a new edition out every morning. And squeezing as much work out of their staffs for as little compensation as can be gotten away with – even when labor knows it's over a barrel because of the strapped economy, and management knows that labor knows, and proceeds to pump the dildo harder anyway.
There are very few businesses where so many disparately tasked departments work side-by-side under one roof, and care less about each other's welfare. Each faction does its job with as little regard, or more and more, with as little competence as necessary, and escapes home to leave someone else holding the bag.
A surefire trick to going home on time is to con another department's workers into believing that some of your duties actually belong to them instead. I've never had the privilege, but it must be sweet.
Management are the people who've mastered the art. They talk all day, and little else. They unctuously discuss what "needs" to be done, until the subject bores them, or the phone interrupts – another discussion concerning some other unctuous "need." The urgent business is ushered out the door with a wave, for the drones to worry about, with a vague notion that their meager livelihoods are at risk.
Some quick definitions.
Management: The ones who get to go home early, even at the outset of apocalypse.
The crisis: Your problem, not theirs. The only upside is that it only lasts until tomorrow, to be replaced by another crisis even more dire. If it isn't taken care of, they get to complain about YOUR incompetence. You get to complain about the length of the unemployment line.
If your faith already wanes regarding our journalism media, you probably don't want to be a fly on the wall for a meeting of your local paper's editorial board. You'll come away looking for either a razor for your wrists, or the nearest gun shop to get on the waiting list.
A quick revelation, in case you were still wondering: Media people hate you.
Once a day they gather around a conference table to discuss which of us on the outside world is most deserving of their everything-but-objective spotlight. If they deem you foolish enough, you'll be tomorrow's featured player at the circus.
The generic, categoric reference to those of us toiling to survive in the real world boils down to "Looks like old Shit-for-brains is at it again."
They decide each afternoon how to repackage a product that we civilians will pay to have thrown at our doors, one more time, tomorrow morning. In short, newspaper people are celebrities. Their names, after all, appear in print regularly.
What today's journalists and media people practice is more accurately the progressive spin of elitism, which balances out the elitism of the corporate right. Haven't you noticed? We, bound to lives of day-to-day survival, are the ideological "middle class." The corporate moneychangers and media trendsetters are the ones enjoying actual "options" in life. The ones whose incomes are not completely consumed by monthly bills and playing by the rules. Journalists used to report what's happening, but now "review" it. Many young journalists enter the industry precisely because they've been taught it is salaried activism. Activism for their own shit. Political. Trendy. Cool. Whether or not it's relevant.
So too is advertising a collusion of loose cannons presented to resemble a disciplined business. Some of the reasons modern advertising gnaws at most people's sanity are actually not too sublime. The ad industry doesn't try to bombard your id with hidden messages in ice cubes anymore – it has adopted the sledge hammer approach. Relentless, repetitive, aggressive behavior modification.
By simple contemplation, nearly anyone who reads a print ad, watches a TV commercial, or pays vague attention to a car radio will perceive a brazen con being pitched. The era of an earnest business "getting its message out," is long over.
Some might label it all an indictment of capitalism, but it's more accurately the sublime triumph of greed. The cure is not socialism – the system where private sector greed is outlawed so that government greed can enjoy impunity. The only thing worse than the maddening caterwaul of advertising, would be an enslaving federal mandate that you MUST buy a bigscreen TV and a smartphone with a government surveillance chip – which is likely coming.
So smoke 'em while you got 'em. You're already surrounded by folks who think you don't deserve 'em – even though you planted 'em, grew 'em, rolled 'em and then paid for 'em, too.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Yuletide Yammer: The Sins of a Santa
I was amazed recently by a story of "dueling Santas." Two guys – one maybe a bit pathological – who identify so intensely with Santa Claus that their very lives are dictated by assorted Kringle-isms.
Both are naturally roly-poly, sport real snowy beards, and make all or part of their respective livings portraying The Jolly Old Elf. A special breed of men who need nothing, save to dawn the red coat and cap, to create the illusion – no extra padding or fake facial hair required.
As well it so happens, though they may brighten the days of the children they encounter, they apparently hate each other's living guts the rest of the time.
"Patho-Santa" is one of those fellas written about or featured on the local news from time to time, who's turned it into a lifestyle. In Santa drag 24/7, living in an ornately festooned house – even his casual-wear is all reds and greens. And his wife rues the day she said her wedding vows unawares that she'd be drafted into "Mrs. Claus" duty, fleshing out the fantasy; powdering her hair, wearing wire-framed specs and baking gingerbread men for the next thirty years.
The other Saint Nick keeps his fetish in check, wearing normalized clothing on weekdays. He keeps a bag of candy treats or trinkish giveaways stashed in his car, however, in case he's, say, out grocery shopping and some kid "recognizes" him – in which case the astute tike wins a prize. Oh yes, this "Real Santa" has also unionized all the other Real Santas; men like himself, who stay fat, grow genuine Santa beards and earn money with it come the holidays.
Fulltime Santa, meanwhile, has come out as verbosely unimpressed by these organized "once-a-year" Bitch-Kringles, has bucked their union, and has so earned their collective ire.
It all brought back to mind a time years ago, when I too earned a little extra holiday cash as Big Red – though technically a minor-leaguer in false whiskers.
Portraying Santa, done long enough, can become a nerve-racking ordeal requiring steely patience and a willingness to turn a blind eye to candid, random evil. Santa is either highly revered, or utterly hated – and no one in either camp is willing to dampen their feelings simply for the sake of social grace. Both forms of attention can get scary. It's astonishing to me that a Mall Santa is a minimum wage gig, considering what they endure, and how strong the urge must be, for some, to go home, shooter an entire bottle of NyQuil, and leave a churlish suicide note written in crimson from a raggedly opened vein.
No wonder they unionized!
One year, working Fisherman's Wharf, dressed in the furry red-n'-whites, with a bag of peppermint candy, I met everyone that most people might assume would avoid hassling poor Santa.
... No, Santa doesn't want to pet your pit bull – especially when dogs aren't allowed on the wharf. If I don't pet him, you'll sic him on me? Fantastic! And if I do pet him, those strolling cops who've just spotted you will cuff me too? Awesome. Thanks for giving me options...
... Oh hi, ho ho ho, you work at the Wharf too? You're the stinky-pored rummy caricature cartoonist? You belong to what union?? No, I'm not a member. My name is SANTA CLAUS, and that's all the I.D. you get. My real name? Kris Kringle – there, happy? Your semi-drunk handshake is turning into a vice-grip. If you don't let go, Santa's free hand will drop the candy sack, become a fist, and make you spit your teeth out – all six of them...
... I mean it, pal. You'll find out why Santa wears RED. The stains don't show. That's right, go draw someone. Goodbye. And next bath, put some actual water in the tub, you smell like ranch dressing on ass...
... Hello. Santa's your "homie?" Is that right? Take a picture with you? And your posse... who all wanna flash their semi-automatics for the camera? You're kidding. No, you aren't. Holy muther of gawd. Quick, snap the damn thing before the coppers walk by – or a rival group who wants a picture too. Sure, hey, Santa loves everyone. I'm glad I'm loved back, at the moment. Red flannel doesn't do diddly-jack against a 9mm...
... Ma'am, will you please NOTICE that your 4-year-old won't leave me alone? Santa's getting really bugged. She wants to hug me continuously, but her head only comes to my waist, and well, yeah... it looks EXACTLY like THAT. Another few minutes and Old St. Nick will have a bunko squad tailing him with a video-cam. Here come those wharf cops again. Guys, I'm aware what this must LOOK like, but really it isn't – and no, I'm not enjoying this underneath the beard. I think her parents are glad Santa apparently has NOTHING ELSE TO DO and is willing to babysit their LITTLE PERVERT while they waddle, windowshop and slurp down fried squid...
... Whadda ya know, the fat kid who wants 17 peppermints is also a junior conspiracy buff – he's shouting that I'm NOT REALLY SANTA! Of course he waited until he got both sticky paws full of candies before he commenced tattling. That's right, tell everyone I'm punking them. What's wrong, can't cram your cheeks full fast enough and still yell? Spewing wet peppermint rubble every time you exhale? Right, move in closer, thinking you can snag another mit full – while I aim for your chubby little sausage toes with my size 13 boot. You'll tell your parents? But you ditched your parents back at The Lobster Mill stuffing their own gullets to bursting, so you could wolf free candy off of Santa...
Sometimes, you either have what it takes to be Santa, or you find out the hard way that you're ill-equipped emotionally. I had one of those, too.
One holiday, the company I worked for at the time, "adopted" an impoverished family for a surprise visit from Santa, along with a cadre of company elves, delivering a Christmas bounty of clothing, necessities, toys for ten children (all born a year apart in their parents' ten-year marriage), and a holiday feast with enough food to make leftovers until well past New Year's. I had Santa duty.
They were working-poor, in a house with no heat. Some windows had wooden planks to replace broken glass.
We were on a tight schedule, because we couldn't start until Dad left. According to Mom, he was yet still a man of overruling pride who would not have allowed us entrance. It would be easiest if everything were already in place, and we were gone, before he returned – thereby sidestepping any proud, knee-jerk anger – making rejection pointless. Yes, she was pulling one over on her husband, for his own good, and the good of her children. The oldest child of the ten would not come out of his room, overcome by a like sense of self-induced humiliation. Their mother told us not to worry, that he'd eventually get in the spirit and come out.
As Santa, I determined to play it to the hilt – go the extra mile. I set about to memorize all ten names, and what was on each of their wish-lists (Mom had secretly spilled the beans beforehand) so when I met each child in turn, I'd seem to "know" them, just like Santa Claus would – and that would clinch the deal for these kids to hang on to hope somehow, that the joy of the holidays was theirs as much as anyone else's. Yes, I was so darn noble!
Full of myself. Stupid. Still believing I made a difference by putting on a fake beard. Miracle on 34th Street! Tch.
Well, there's nothing that'll melt your heart and numb your senses quicker than kids who've spent their entire young lives in a state of "without" – who suddenly see SANTA CLAUS paying a personal visit to their run-down little shack of a house.
My "Santa voice" turned into a cross between Julia Child, and... Julia Child. The next-to-next-to littlest (3-years old?) hugged my knees and wouldn't let go. The 9 and 8-year old daughters were as smart as 20-somethings, and helped hand out toys. Mom never had to raise her voice once. Angels all. Little angels, I tell ya, every one of 'em. I'm misting up just writing about it, two decades later.
The oldest peaked through an ajar door. I saw it, and motioned for him to come out and join us. The door drew closed. I whispered to a company "elf" that they needed to get me out of there, because I was maybe two heartbeats away from dropping character – becoming very worthless very quickly. The kids didn't want me to go, but I had to. And Dad was due home soon, so we all had to scram anyway. It was too much. Back at work, I got out of that red get-up as quickly as I could – before I turned into a quivering lump.
In stark contrast, there were times I worked as a Renta Claus for various corporate holiday events, in the ritzy Carmel/Pebble Beach country club zip codes. Able to buy Santa's workshop a thousand times over, some of these well-off folks wouldn't be so pitiful in spite of themselves were they not such walking clichés.
How many 80-year old men really NEED perfectly quaffed hair? And gleaming mani-pedis. Trust me, the ONLY reason that old men this rich wear sandals, is to show off pedicures. Yes, at that mere notion, the back of Santa's beard nearly became drenched with vomit.
Some of the women were no doubt sizzling mamasitas once, with their big bling and holiday-red cowboy booties. When Eisenhower was in office. Ma'am, Santa doesn't intentionally harbor rude thoughts, but what you've got below-neckline no longer qualifies as "cleavage," and should be covered up.
There was that time I waited for my entrance cue in utter darkness, in a parking garage, at the wheel of an idling tool cart draped with a ton of holiday lights, wreathery and other yuletide objects. Upon hearing my official introduction out on the event grounds, I gunned it and burned rubber around a long swoopy corner, from behind a giant hedge, and into triumphant view of a hundred cheering children.
One problem. Someone at the event wasn't aware that Santa was scheduled to appear that night. Tight on my butt around the swoop, honking horn, flashing highbeams, was some drunken James Bond wannabe, late for an orgy, aboard a thundering Hummer SUV. And in no patient mood for some guy in a Santa suit driving a tool cart between his Hummer's front grill and the exit gate he was aiming for.
Even pedal-to-metal, a weighed-down, maybe 12-horsepower tool cart can only – just barely – break a meager parking-lot speed limit. But, believe me – I know – it increases speed if rammed from behind by a Hummer. Enough "oomph" anyway to get THE DAMN THING CORNERING ON TWO WHEELS; wholly Mother Teresa on rubber crutches munchin' Snickers bars!!
Santa made quite an entrance that night, to be perfectly damned sure.
Another occasion, out on the walkway to the club, past the putting green, Santa gets ready for his entrance. Nearby, within shouting distance: Tub o' Lard. Super Golf McDude. $800 cowboy hat. $300 sunglasses. Rolex. Stuffing a silvery polished golf iron into a huge leather quiver already crammed solid with an arsenal of similar Back-9 Warrior's weaponry. "Hey Sanna," he burps! "You BLEW IT last year, I din't get anytheen I even wanned! You better shape up THIS YEAR, you (slurred, trailing-off) sonuvabitch."
And pray tell, what is it you possibly wanted last Christmas, that you don't already have, buddy? Another layer of blubber? A fatter head? 70 more golfclubs? 24-karat gold wheelrims for your SUV? A slobbery blowjob from Carrot Top? (Before he hit the gym and got all way-too manly, of course?)
How about if Santa uses his special Facebook status with God, to have your dead father claw himself out of the grave and sucker-punch some manners into you, like he should have in life, but obviously forgot? Santa's big red mitten shields your eyes from a stiffly-burdened middle finger, sir. Happy Holidays.
One thing I learned while doing country club Santa gigs, is that not all the traditional assumptions about moneyed-peeps are accurate, or at least not universal.
At the Pebble Beach Lodge (yes, I'll name names) I had one of the most gratifying experiences of my Santa career. A huge easychair by a fireplace, on the end of a long plush green carpet, and nearly 200 kids lined up to meet and greet – all well-mannered, all delightful – and those just old enough to know, were willing to play along that I was "really him" for the sake of the tiniest in line. I got kid-scribbled wish-lists, and warm, bright-eyed smiles. We sang a carol or two together. I found myself becoming genuinely jolly and merry, my Ho-Ho-Ho's increasingly heartfelt. And I was ushered away at the conclusion of the event by employee "helpers" who knew Santa had a schedule to keep, and needed to have the all-day crotch-huggers gently pried off – for the sake of their parents' – and Santa's – mental unease, embarrassment, and reputation.
A quick golfcart ride away, waited the Inn at Spanish Bay. Which rhymes with "night and day." What a different story.
It was there that I encountered Mr. Lardass Ingrate of the Fairways, mentioned above. What followed, I imagine, would cause even a soul as forgiving as St. Nicholas to pound his forehead against the nearest wall in a spontaneous meltdown of blazing Torrettes.
Here Santa was hired help, nothing more. I had to do what is known in the "Rentertainment" biz as a walk-around. You go from table to table attempting to grab someone's attention away from something else they'd rather be doing, and inflict your shtick on them. It is utterly degrading for the performer, annoying to the customer, and leaves everyone in general with a disturbed awkwardness which colors the memory of the evening for all involved, ever after.
Once is painful enough. But then those paying for your services insist you revisit the same tables twice, three and even four times – feeling not just uncomfortable, but like an enormous idiot-whore – plus royally pissing off the patrons you are now technically "stalking;" well, it's enough to make one quit the racket for good, no matter what the money is. Which is exactly what I did.
It went down thus...
First, the tables were crowded not with adults, but their self-distracted, snot-nosed blueblood spawn, who cared about as much for Santa's presence as they did for their own untied shoelaces. They already had everything at home that a crassly wealthy set of parents could dump on them. The fuzzy old man in red was probably an abstract concept, amid all the holiday indulgences lavished in their greedy little honor.
That year's toy-to-top was called the American Heritage Forever Doll. An assuredly expensive, life-size plastic neo-mannequin, customized to look exactly like the child who would own it. Imagine for Christmas receiving a mirror-image replica of your privileged self, for you and your parents to build an altar to. Even the janitor emptying the wastebaskets of a Psyche 101 class would spot the raging dysfunction at work there.
Other toys were present, sure. There were large stuffed animals, one of which each and every child in the official "holiday playroom," was given. The left-over stuffed animals – about ten of 'em – were locked back up securely in a metal cabinet, in plain view of three children who happened to be standing in an open doorway. Gazing longingly. Apparently not allowed in. Denied even toy left-overs, which were in such abundance, that three would hardly be missed.
Who were these poor kids?
Exactly. They were the poor kids. The kids of the custodial help. A cook's two. A busboy's one. Their parents weren't clubmembers.
Now Santa was getting pissed.
If that weren't enough, one of the other Rentertainers, a juggling, balloon-twisting elf, decided that he hated Santa, and made no attempt to hide it. I was informed, under his breath, that I could go "find a chimney to stuff myself into." Great. A merry'n to you too, freak.
In the years since, I've surmised that Bad Elf must've been up for the Santa job, and lost it to me. Well, they didn't invite me back the following year (and you're about to read why) – so I'll bet Chuckles eventually got his wish.
Then came the coup de grâce.
For what follows to make sense, I must first explain one of the foremost rules of Santa Clausing. When you are fully in Kringle gear, red fur, boots, beard and cap in place, and emerge from the dressing area with toy sack in tow, you are required to ASSUME CHARACTER. The very first set of eyes that witness your arrival, even if it's the coat-checker, must get a HO-HO-HO, and not in nasally practice mode.
If you give anyone an impression that you're just a hired Shmuck-In-A-Santa-Suit, it's over. Any pro-wrestler worth his paycheck knows exactly what I'm talking about; if you're billed as Santa Claus, or Chainsaw McGuirk, bro, that's who you BETTER BE when you hit the entrance to the gig. Even fellow performers who know it's just you, must see a transformation as soon as that beard is cinched. It's just a long-held rule of Santa School.
So you can imagine my utter, soul-crushing angst, as I finally encountered one of the world's rudest, most ill-informed event planners, mid-gig.
Two of the waiter staff, a man and young woman, brought Santa a small cup of cold water to sip. They then assured Santa that they knew his big fur coat might be a tad too warm in the climate-controlled environment, so they had adjusted the A/C just a tad. Santa thanked them in his cherubic, traditionally jolly fashion, and gave them a ho-ho-ho of approval. Enter Clipboard Bitch.
Clipboard Bitch, in perfect hair, nails, gold accessories and smart concierge's color-coordinated jacket and skirt, took Santa by the arm, led him aside and announced loudly, "Alright? Santaaaaa? I need you to FOCUS ON THE CHILDRENNNNN."
Need I spell out how woefully uncool this was?
You don't SCOLD SANTA. You especially don't SCOLD SANTA in front of kids, even hyper, mis-parented, over-indulged ones. Santa decided at that moment, that he didn't need the gig fee that bad.
I was doubly insulted, because as far as outward presentation goes, I approached these jobs as a pro. I knew exactly why I was there wearing that big red fur coat. I knew exactly who the "clients" were, and was still willing to turn the aforementioned blind eye to what they'd apparently felt comfortable revealing to a "nobody" in their world, like Santa Claus.
If this individual-of-importance accomplished anything meaningful in her – hopefully – very short career, it was to mark this indelible image into my memory. I still got paid. But if I could have done it to their faces, I'd have torn up their check into paper snowflakes. Instead I was shown the door, which slammed immediately after I exited through it. So I rode Rudolph to the bank. Again, that was The Inn at Spanish Bay, in case you'd like to take note for future reference.
No, not very Santa-like of me, either. One more testimony to my being done, to closure, with the Jolly Fatman. Just for the record, I never took issue with whether a parent allowed a Santa Claus to exist in a child's mind, or never at all. I refuse to call Santa a myth, because Saint Nicholas was indeed a real historical figure – the watered-down commercialized trappings that repackaged him in early America are hardly fodder for indignation. Santa is one way, in the past we provided, and in some ways still provide, children with a few joyous seasons of innocence before the real world's coldly calculated manipulation colors their lives – much faster now than when I was a kid – and technology jades them all too soon away from the wonders of their own imaginations. My opinion.
I'm past him now, anyway. Years later, I'm trimmed down, and greatly resemble Vincent Price. I'm looking for an agent.
Both are naturally roly-poly, sport real snowy beards, and make all or part of their respective livings portraying The Jolly Old Elf. A special breed of men who need nothing, save to dawn the red coat and cap, to create the illusion – no extra padding or fake facial hair required.
As well it so happens, though they may brighten the days of the children they encounter, they apparently hate each other's living guts the rest of the time.
"Patho-Santa" is one of those fellas written about or featured on the local news from time to time, who's turned it into a lifestyle. In Santa drag 24/7, living in an ornately festooned house – even his casual-wear is all reds and greens. And his wife rues the day she said her wedding vows unawares that she'd be drafted into "Mrs. Claus" duty, fleshing out the fantasy; powdering her hair, wearing wire-framed specs and baking gingerbread men for the next thirty years.
The other Saint Nick keeps his fetish in check, wearing normalized clothing on weekdays. He keeps a bag of candy treats or trinkish giveaways stashed in his car, however, in case he's, say, out grocery shopping and some kid "recognizes" him – in which case the astute tike wins a prize. Oh yes, this "Real Santa" has also unionized all the other Real Santas; men like himself, who stay fat, grow genuine Santa beards and earn money with it come the holidays.
Fulltime Santa, meanwhile, has come out as verbosely unimpressed by these organized "once-a-year" Bitch-Kringles, has bucked their union, and has so earned their collective ire.
It all brought back to mind a time years ago, when I too earned a little extra holiday cash as Big Red – though technically a minor-leaguer in false whiskers.
Portraying Santa, done long enough, can become a nerve-racking ordeal requiring steely patience and a willingness to turn a blind eye to candid, random evil. Santa is either highly revered, or utterly hated – and no one in either camp is willing to dampen their feelings simply for the sake of social grace. Both forms of attention can get scary. It's astonishing to me that a Mall Santa is a minimum wage gig, considering what they endure, and how strong the urge must be, for some, to go home, shooter an entire bottle of NyQuil, and leave a churlish suicide note written in crimson from a raggedly opened vein.
No wonder they unionized!
One year, working Fisherman's Wharf, dressed in the furry red-n'-whites, with a bag of peppermint candy, I met everyone that most people might assume would avoid hassling poor Santa.
... No, Santa doesn't want to pet your pit bull – especially when dogs aren't allowed on the wharf. If I don't pet him, you'll sic him on me? Fantastic! And if I do pet him, those strolling cops who've just spotted you will cuff me too? Awesome. Thanks for giving me options...
... Oh hi, ho ho ho, you work at the Wharf too? You're the stinky-pored rummy caricature cartoonist? You belong to what union?? No, I'm not a member. My name is SANTA CLAUS, and that's all the I.D. you get. My real name? Kris Kringle – there, happy? Your semi-drunk handshake is turning into a vice-grip. If you don't let go, Santa's free hand will drop the candy sack, become a fist, and make you spit your teeth out – all six of them...
... I mean it, pal. You'll find out why Santa wears RED. The stains don't show. That's right, go draw someone. Goodbye. And next bath, put some actual water in the tub, you smell like ranch dressing on ass...
... Hello. Santa's your "homie?" Is that right? Take a picture with you? And your posse... who all wanna flash their semi-automatics for the camera? You're kidding. No, you aren't. Holy muther of gawd. Quick, snap the damn thing before the coppers walk by – or a rival group who wants a picture too. Sure, hey, Santa loves everyone. I'm glad I'm loved back, at the moment. Red flannel doesn't do diddly-jack against a 9mm...
... Ma'am, will you please NOTICE that your 4-year-old won't leave me alone? Santa's getting really bugged. She wants to hug me continuously, but her head only comes to my waist, and well, yeah... it looks EXACTLY like THAT. Another few minutes and Old St. Nick will have a bunko squad tailing him with a video-cam. Here come those wharf cops again. Guys, I'm aware what this must LOOK like, but really it isn't – and no, I'm not enjoying this underneath the beard. I think her parents are glad Santa apparently has NOTHING ELSE TO DO and is willing to babysit their LITTLE PERVERT while they waddle, windowshop and slurp down fried squid...
... Whadda ya know, the fat kid who wants 17 peppermints is also a junior conspiracy buff – he's shouting that I'm NOT REALLY SANTA! Of course he waited until he got both sticky paws full of candies before he commenced tattling. That's right, tell everyone I'm punking them. What's wrong, can't cram your cheeks full fast enough and still yell? Spewing wet peppermint rubble every time you exhale? Right, move in closer, thinking you can snag another mit full – while I aim for your chubby little sausage toes with my size 13 boot. You'll tell your parents? But you ditched your parents back at The Lobster Mill stuffing their own gullets to bursting, so you could wolf free candy off of Santa...
Sometimes, you either have what it takes to be Santa, or you find out the hard way that you're ill-equipped emotionally. I had one of those, too.
One holiday, the company I worked for at the time, "adopted" an impoverished family for a surprise visit from Santa, along with a cadre of company elves, delivering a Christmas bounty of clothing, necessities, toys for ten children (all born a year apart in their parents' ten-year marriage), and a holiday feast with enough food to make leftovers until well past New Year's. I had Santa duty.
They were working-poor, in a house with no heat. Some windows had wooden planks to replace broken glass.
We were on a tight schedule, because we couldn't start until Dad left. According to Mom, he was yet still a man of overruling pride who would not have allowed us entrance. It would be easiest if everything were already in place, and we were gone, before he returned – thereby sidestepping any proud, knee-jerk anger – making rejection pointless. Yes, she was pulling one over on her husband, for his own good, and the good of her children. The oldest child of the ten would not come out of his room, overcome by a like sense of self-induced humiliation. Their mother told us not to worry, that he'd eventually get in the spirit and come out.
As Santa, I determined to play it to the hilt – go the extra mile. I set about to memorize all ten names, and what was on each of their wish-lists (Mom had secretly spilled the beans beforehand) so when I met each child in turn, I'd seem to "know" them, just like Santa Claus would – and that would clinch the deal for these kids to hang on to hope somehow, that the joy of the holidays was theirs as much as anyone else's. Yes, I was so darn noble!
Full of myself. Stupid. Still believing I made a difference by putting on a fake beard. Miracle on 34th Street! Tch.
Well, there's nothing that'll melt your heart and numb your senses quicker than kids who've spent their entire young lives in a state of "without" – who suddenly see SANTA CLAUS paying a personal visit to their run-down little shack of a house.
My "Santa voice" turned into a cross between Julia Child, and... Julia Child. The next-to-next-to littlest (3-years old?) hugged my knees and wouldn't let go. The 9 and 8-year old daughters were as smart as 20-somethings, and helped hand out toys. Mom never had to raise her voice once. Angels all. Little angels, I tell ya, every one of 'em. I'm misting up just writing about it, two decades later.
The oldest peaked through an ajar door. I saw it, and motioned for him to come out and join us. The door drew closed. I whispered to a company "elf" that they needed to get me out of there, because I was maybe two heartbeats away from dropping character – becoming very worthless very quickly. The kids didn't want me to go, but I had to. And Dad was due home soon, so we all had to scram anyway. It was too much. Back at work, I got out of that red get-up as quickly as I could – before I turned into a quivering lump.
In stark contrast, there were times I worked as a Renta Claus for various corporate holiday events, in the ritzy Carmel/Pebble Beach country club zip codes. Able to buy Santa's workshop a thousand times over, some of these well-off folks wouldn't be so pitiful in spite of themselves were they not such walking clichés.
How many 80-year old men really NEED perfectly quaffed hair? And gleaming mani-pedis. Trust me, the ONLY reason that old men this rich wear sandals, is to show off pedicures. Yes, at that mere notion, the back of Santa's beard nearly became drenched with vomit.
Some of the women were no doubt sizzling mamasitas once, with their big bling and holiday-red cowboy booties. When Eisenhower was in office. Ma'am, Santa doesn't intentionally harbor rude thoughts, but what you've got below-neckline no longer qualifies as "cleavage," and should be covered up.
There was that time I waited for my entrance cue in utter darkness, in a parking garage, at the wheel of an idling tool cart draped with a ton of holiday lights, wreathery and other yuletide objects. Upon hearing my official introduction out on the event grounds, I gunned it and burned rubber around a long swoopy corner, from behind a giant hedge, and into triumphant view of a hundred cheering children.
One problem. Someone at the event wasn't aware that Santa was scheduled to appear that night. Tight on my butt around the swoop, honking horn, flashing highbeams, was some drunken James Bond wannabe, late for an orgy, aboard a thundering Hummer SUV. And in no patient mood for some guy in a Santa suit driving a tool cart between his Hummer's front grill and the exit gate he was aiming for.
Even pedal-to-metal, a weighed-down, maybe 12-horsepower tool cart can only – just barely – break a meager parking-lot speed limit. But, believe me – I know – it increases speed if rammed from behind by a Hummer. Enough "oomph" anyway to get THE DAMN THING CORNERING ON TWO WHEELS; wholly Mother Teresa on rubber crutches munchin' Snickers bars!!
Santa made quite an entrance that night, to be perfectly damned sure.
Another occasion, out on the walkway to the club, past the putting green, Santa gets ready for his entrance. Nearby, within shouting distance: Tub o' Lard. Super Golf McDude. $800 cowboy hat. $300 sunglasses. Rolex. Stuffing a silvery polished golf iron into a huge leather quiver already crammed solid with an arsenal of similar Back-9 Warrior's weaponry. "Hey Sanna," he burps! "You BLEW IT last year, I din't get anytheen I even wanned! You better shape up THIS YEAR, you (slurred, trailing-off) sonuvabitch."
And pray tell, what is it you possibly wanted last Christmas, that you don't already have, buddy? Another layer of blubber? A fatter head? 70 more golfclubs? 24-karat gold wheelrims for your SUV? A slobbery blowjob from Carrot Top? (Before he hit the gym and got all way-too manly, of course?)
How about if Santa uses his special Facebook status with God, to have your dead father claw himself out of the grave and sucker-punch some manners into you, like he should have in life, but obviously forgot? Santa's big red mitten shields your eyes from a stiffly-burdened middle finger, sir. Happy Holidays.
One thing I learned while doing country club Santa gigs, is that not all the traditional assumptions about moneyed-peeps are accurate, or at least not universal.
At the Pebble Beach Lodge (yes, I'll name names) I had one of the most gratifying experiences of my Santa career. A huge easychair by a fireplace, on the end of a long plush green carpet, and nearly 200 kids lined up to meet and greet – all well-mannered, all delightful – and those just old enough to know, were willing to play along that I was "really him" for the sake of the tiniest in line. I got kid-scribbled wish-lists, and warm, bright-eyed smiles. We sang a carol or two together. I found myself becoming genuinely jolly and merry, my Ho-Ho-Ho's increasingly heartfelt. And I was ushered away at the conclusion of the event by employee "helpers" who knew Santa had a schedule to keep, and needed to have the all-day crotch-huggers gently pried off – for the sake of their parents' – and Santa's – mental unease, embarrassment, and reputation.
A quick golfcart ride away, waited the Inn at Spanish Bay. Which rhymes with "night and day." What a different story.
It was there that I encountered Mr. Lardass Ingrate of the Fairways, mentioned above. What followed, I imagine, would cause even a soul as forgiving as St. Nicholas to pound his forehead against the nearest wall in a spontaneous meltdown of blazing Torrettes.
Here Santa was hired help, nothing more. I had to do what is known in the "Rentertainment" biz as a walk-around. You go from table to table attempting to grab someone's attention away from something else they'd rather be doing, and inflict your shtick on them. It is utterly degrading for the performer, annoying to the customer, and leaves everyone in general with a disturbed awkwardness which colors the memory of the evening for all involved, ever after.
Once is painful enough. But then those paying for your services insist you revisit the same tables twice, three and even four times – feeling not just uncomfortable, but like an enormous idiot-whore – plus royally pissing off the patrons you are now technically "stalking;" well, it's enough to make one quit the racket for good, no matter what the money is. Which is exactly what I did.
It went down thus...
First, the tables were crowded not with adults, but their self-distracted, snot-nosed blueblood spawn, who cared about as much for Santa's presence as they did for their own untied shoelaces. They already had everything at home that a crassly wealthy set of parents could dump on them. The fuzzy old man in red was probably an abstract concept, amid all the holiday indulgences lavished in their greedy little honor.
That year's toy-to-top was called the American Heritage Forever Doll. An assuredly expensive, life-size plastic neo-mannequin, customized to look exactly like the child who would own it. Imagine for Christmas receiving a mirror-image replica of your privileged self, for you and your parents to build an altar to. Even the janitor emptying the wastebaskets of a Psyche 101 class would spot the raging dysfunction at work there.
Other toys were present, sure. There were large stuffed animals, one of which each and every child in the official "holiday playroom," was given. The left-over stuffed animals – about ten of 'em – were locked back up securely in a metal cabinet, in plain view of three children who happened to be standing in an open doorway. Gazing longingly. Apparently not allowed in. Denied even toy left-overs, which were in such abundance, that three would hardly be missed.
Who were these poor kids?
Exactly. They were the poor kids. The kids of the custodial help. A cook's two. A busboy's one. Their parents weren't clubmembers.
Now Santa was getting pissed.
If that weren't enough, one of the other Rentertainers, a juggling, balloon-twisting elf, decided that he hated Santa, and made no attempt to hide it. I was informed, under his breath, that I could go "find a chimney to stuff myself into." Great. A merry'n to you too, freak.
In the years since, I've surmised that Bad Elf must've been up for the Santa job, and lost it to me. Well, they didn't invite me back the following year (and you're about to read why) – so I'll bet Chuckles eventually got his wish.
Then came the coup de grâce.
For what follows to make sense, I must first explain one of the foremost rules of Santa Clausing. When you are fully in Kringle gear, red fur, boots, beard and cap in place, and emerge from the dressing area with toy sack in tow, you are required to ASSUME CHARACTER. The very first set of eyes that witness your arrival, even if it's the coat-checker, must get a HO-HO-HO, and not in nasally practice mode.
If you give anyone an impression that you're just a hired Shmuck-In-A-Santa-Suit, it's over. Any pro-wrestler worth his paycheck knows exactly what I'm talking about; if you're billed as Santa Claus, or Chainsaw McGuirk, bro, that's who you BETTER BE when you hit the entrance to the gig. Even fellow performers who know it's just you, must see a transformation as soon as that beard is cinched. It's just a long-held rule of Santa School.
So you can imagine my utter, soul-crushing angst, as I finally encountered one of the world's rudest, most ill-informed event planners, mid-gig.
Two of the waiter staff, a man and young woman, brought Santa a small cup of cold water to sip. They then assured Santa that they knew his big fur coat might be a tad too warm in the climate-controlled environment, so they had adjusted the A/C just a tad. Santa thanked them in his cherubic, traditionally jolly fashion, and gave them a ho-ho-ho of approval. Enter Clipboard Bitch.
Clipboard Bitch, in perfect hair, nails, gold accessories and smart concierge's color-coordinated jacket and skirt, took Santa by the arm, led him aside and announced loudly, "Alright? Santaaaaa? I need you to FOCUS ON THE CHILDRENNNNN."
Need I spell out how woefully uncool this was?
You don't SCOLD SANTA. You especially don't SCOLD SANTA in front of kids, even hyper, mis-parented, over-indulged ones. Santa decided at that moment, that he didn't need the gig fee that bad.
I was doubly insulted, because as far as outward presentation goes, I approached these jobs as a pro. I knew exactly why I was there wearing that big red fur coat. I knew exactly who the "clients" were, and was still willing to turn the aforementioned blind eye to what they'd apparently felt comfortable revealing to a "nobody" in their world, like Santa Claus.
If this individual-of-importance accomplished anything meaningful in her – hopefully – very short career, it was to mark this indelible image into my memory. I still got paid. But if I could have done it to their faces, I'd have torn up their check into paper snowflakes. Instead I was shown the door, which slammed immediately after I exited through it. So I rode Rudolph to the bank. Again, that was The Inn at Spanish Bay, in case you'd like to take note for future reference.
No, not very Santa-like of me, either. One more testimony to my being done, to closure, with the Jolly Fatman. Just for the record, I never took issue with whether a parent allowed a Santa Claus to exist in a child's mind, or never at all. I refuse to call Santa a myth, because Saint Nicholas was indeed a real historical figure – the watered-down commercialized trappings that repackaged him in early America are hardly fodder for indignation. Santa is one way, in the past we provided, and in some ways still provide, children with a few joyous seasons of innocence before the real world's coldly calculated manipulation colors their lives – much faster now than when I was a kid – and technology jades them all too soon away from the wonders of their own imaginations. My opinion.
I'm past him now, anyway. Years later, I'm trimmed down, and greatly resemble Vincent Price. I'm looking for an agent.
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