Archive for December 13th, 2012

Reindeer For Rent, v2.0

Last holiday season I offered the young’un cat to Santa Claus as a possible new or additional reindeer. This year I renew the offer, though it must be said that now his rates have gone up.

As can be seen in the photo below, the young’un cat’s eyes remain googlyextremely googly; they put out plenty of light, and are not bound by space or time. Paired with Rudolph, there at the head of the team pulling the sleigh, the young’un cat would guarantee that Santa would never get lost, no matter how much fog or liquor he might encounter.

It is apparent, at least to me, that the jello-bellied gift-spewer Needs the young’un cat.

Last year I additionally opined that employment would be good for the young’un cat, to absorb his excess energies; among the excess, then, was his intensive involvement in a sleep-deprivation experiment, with myself as the subject.

This is what he was then doing to me:

No matter when I try to sleep, he eventually turns against it. And then works diligently, until it cannot be. He has decided, for example, that whatever portions of my body are covered with hair, he may assault, as I sleep, with his claws. My scalp is now so routinely excavated that I am thinking of hiring him out as a miner.

Because his excavating is always accompanied by operatic wails, I think I may hire him out as a musical miner. I have not heard miners emit sounds with this volume and intensity since those Welshmen in How Green Was My Valley.

I have also begun referring to the young’un cat as The Dream Crusher. This is because of late I have been gifted with extraordinary dreams; while there is a method I use to pull dreams into the waking state, most often these days that process is derailed, when the young’un cat decrees that my skull should be employed as his dartboard, or elects to eagerly ride his tricycle across my forehead.

Fortunately, over the ensuing year we have come to an accommodation. He now understands what is a Sane hour to arise, and does not assault me with either claws or operas unless I attempt to slumber past said hour.

He has also gained much, in work experience. The Manor, as I believe I have previously referenced (I haven’t?), has become a vortex of four-legged welfare recipients, waves of deer flowing through each day to stare at me with those doe eyes that claim they will drop immediately dead unless I shovel vast quantities of feed their way. They all have names, on their little welfare-recipient name-tags: Yearling Pet, Mom, Cutie, The Other Fawn, Dark Doe, Big Buck, Billy Buck Naked, White Head, Mr. Spindly Horns, Mr. Broken Horn, No You Can’t Get Through The Hole In The Fence With Those Antlers You Big Oaf, etc.

Anyway, the young’un cat goes out every morning to attempt to bring order to the horde. He has been fully accepted by these deer as The Ruler, or at least as rug-rucking, curtain-shredding Hellsomething that should not be run off.

Through the day, he further observes their maneuvers, this time from inside the house. At times he is compelled to ruck rugs and shred curtains, in apparent attempts to communicate to them Vital Messages.

I find this carnage objectionable, but understand that there is nothing to be done: I will simply have to wait until he moves beyond it, as with the sleep-deprivation Horror.

The point is, the young’un cat now has much daily experience with deer. And reindeer are just deer with some rein in front of them. So he is highly qualified to rangle Santa’s people. And is willing to do so. So long as the frigid fat man forks over sufficient Money. Said funds are, after all, Needed, round this place. To replace that which the young’un cat, in his youthful zeal, Runs Amok.

Where Santas Crawl And Elves Chunder

“The word is world!” Orson shouted at her.
“I said world!” she shouted back.
“Speak as though you came from New York,” he told her.
“I did come from New York. How does one from New York speak?”
“Not the way you speak!”
“Why should I talk like someone special?”
“Because you are.”
“Yes, but I don’t want you to be conscious of it.”

—Orson Welles and Eartha Kitt, in rehearsal for Time Runs

Across many cultures, many times, humans ritually combine in groups to consume vast quantities of intoxicants, commonly entering states of no, this world isn't weird at allinebriation so pronounced and prolonged that they often, later, bring new meaning to such phrases as “I did WHAT?” or “how do you mean, there are ‘charges’?”

This is particularly true of American humans, marooned as they are in a nation where people have been awash in intoxicants since the Founding.

Various “reasons” are summoned to engage in these bacchanalian rites. In America, these “reasons” can range from viewing the spectacle of identically-dressed young men furiously battling over balls, to honoring a calendar passage like a birthday, or genuflecting before a totem like the clover.

In recent years, humans in New York City have increasingly combined to decide that the advent of the Christmas season is reason enough to dress up like a Santa person, or one of his assistants or associates, consume vast quantities, and then pour out onto the streets to wantonly hump and heave upon them.

These humans call themselves SantaCon, and maintain that: “We do not pout. We do not cry. We are Jolly.”

It is further asserted that “SantaCon is a non-denominational, non-commercial, non-political and non-sensical Santa Claus convention that occurs once a year for absolutely no reason.”

Finally, “Santa does not accept corporate sponsorship or speak to the press.”

As can be seen here, it is evident that, as is true of so many things, SantaCon has inevitably spread, like bedbugs or bad writing, from out of New York, and into the larger World.

This year, the world’s very first 2012 iteration of SantaCon shall commence, today, December 13, in some place called Macomb, Illinois. Over the next week or so, the event shall ride a giant tsunami of hormones and liquor through such international hot-spots as Modesto, California and Boise, Idaho. As well as wee sleepy hamlets like London, Paris, Hong Kong, and Vienna. The SantaCons in locales such as santa gets nekkidSan Francisco and Fort Lauderdale feature a pronounced nakedness component, something absent in the fests in, say, Winnipeg, Buffalo, or Oslo. At least among those who want to continue to live.

Ur-iterations of this event seem to include the 1994 “Santarchy” of Suicide Club in San Francisco, and a 2005 anti-commercialization shindig in Auckland, New Zealand, one that boiled over into “such criminal acts as looting stores, throwing bottles at passing cars, and assaulting security guards.” Novelist Chuck Palahniuk, meanwhile, several times penned mention of  a “Santa Rampage,” which subsequently got loose from out of his books, and poured out onto the pavement.

Dispatches from the 2011 Manhattan SantaCon may be found beyond the “furthur.” Know that as the 2012 version convulses the planet, I will feel it my Duty to first Monitor the madness, and then Report it.

furthur=>

Take The A Train

Last year round this time, while mooning about on YouTube, I discovered that a Criminal had posted therein the film Holiday Affair, and in its entirety.

This is of course Against All Laws.

But this Criminal had managed for some months to choo-choo goingcleverly evade the hapless Clem Kadiddlehopper II, the sadsack in charge, such as it is, of YouTube security.

Naturally I was compelled to share this joyous theft with red readers.

Here we are nearly a year later, and the thing is still up there.

Let us not wonder at the reasons why. Just enjoy, then, instead.

As I mentioned last year, my daughter, the well-known award-winning deviant, and I, are both keen appreciators of Christmas movies. Particularly old black-and-white Christmas movies. And one of the more obscure black-and-white holiday films of which we are fond, is this one: Holiday Affair, a 1947 effort featuring Janet Leigh, Robert Mitchum, Wendell Corey, and a toy train.

What I find most fascinating, in recent re-viewing, is the train. It opens the film, and also pretty much drives it. Towards the close of the thing, even some of the characters are beginning to notice, and then comment upon, how much this toy train is steering their lives. At film’s end the three principals unite, happy-ending time, on a full-size train, a New Year’s special, headed cross-country. Except the camera pulls back, and we learn that they are not on a full-size train at all. They are on that toy train, the one that opened and drove the story.

As they say: as above, so below. And vice versa.

It Came Upon A Cthulhu Quite Clear

(Another seasonal fave, originally posted in December 2009.)

A Redding, California substitute teacher has pronounced a crusade that will place before California voters a ballot initiative that would require state schools to teach students about Christmas carols, and then order them to either sing or listen to the things.

The teacher’s name—no, this is not a joke—is Merry Susan Hyatt.

Fretting that “we were having Christmas without Jesus,” Hyatt said of her initiative: “this is to make sure that we are allowed to have Christmas carols, and no school board member or principal is going to tell us, ‘no, you may not play ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’ in your classroom.”

Hyatt’s initiative would permit heathens to extract their children from these annual assemblages of the Godly. Said outcasts would be provided with an unspecified “appropriate alternative,” one that would hopefully not resemble too much the bastinado or the boot.

Hyatt believes that the failure of state schools to command children to intone “Silent Night” is responsible for schoolyard violence and other upbubblings from Hell.

“The kids don’t have a moral compass,” she said. “It’s not much, but I think it [Christmas carols] would help.”

Hyatt said she’s been surprised at the level of violence in many elementary school classrooms where she has taught, and she believes it’s because Jesus isn’t present in Christmas celebrations.

“You have to invite Jesus to have him work in your life,” she said, adding that if you have a Christmas party without Jesus, he won’t help. “He’s the prince of peace; he’s the only one who can get these kids to stop being so violent.”

Hyatt contends that once students are required to repeatedly recite “Good King Wenceslas,” then Good will reign.

“These kids, they need it,” she said. “They need to see that we believe in Jesus, and he is the Prince of Peace. That’s why we are the best country on Earth.”

At first I considered circulating a competing ballot initiative that would similarly require schoolchildren to sing such alternative Christmas carols as “Hark, Hear Shakti’s Bells They Ring,” “Good King Vlad The Impaler,” “Santeria Night,” “We Three Bodhisattvas Of Orient Are,” “Oh Come Allah’s Faithful,” “Carol of the Baal,” “Good Pagan Women Rejoice,” “What Cthulhu Is This,” “Thor Rest Ye Merry Mayhem Men,” “O Hopi Night,” and “He Came Across To Moses Quite Clear.”

Then I realized that it would be of greater benefit to such children, their parents, their heirs, and to all on earth, as it is in heaven, if, before leaving high school, every California child could be enabled to play the song offered below, with equivalent technique, and all the very spirit, heart and soul.


When I Worked

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