The thing is, I’ve known you’re not really real since I was like five (when Mom tried claiming you left wrapping-paper behind to aid ill-prepared parents). And yet, here were are. More years than I’d like to admit were carried by Dad saying that if we professed to disbelieve then we’d get correspondingly fewer presents. But even so, despite you being some gross conflation of marketing gimmicks, capitalist-greed-rendered-necessity by our so-very-consumeresque economy, Odin, Krampus, St. Nicholas (I guess), nostalgia, and more than a bit personified by the ravings on one Mr. Moore, there’s an endearing love. Not of you, per se, but of the abstraction. The idea of the Xmas* Spirit, which permeates Americana and beyond for a month-or-so of the year. In many ways, it’s marvelous. Hedonistic orgies of shopping aside, there is something I can’t help but support in a focus on the act of giving over receiving. A Hobbit’s birthday, of sorts, for a perhaps fictitious man, who, in practice, lends little but His name to the celebration. I can’t help but smile at our celebration of that moment when the encroaching darkness becomes instead a steady march towards light, and our pitiful-yet-somehow-marvelous displaying of so many little electrically heated wires casting pinpricks of light**.
Anyhoo. Merry Xmas sir, & Regards,
* Xmas, as a phrasing, preferred since X can equal whatever, and it evokes the horrific holiday season portrayed by Futurama & Zim.
** Shakes fist at LED lights.
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