Round the Dial
Wednesday 18 December @ 10:23:00 |
 by Tom Hallett
QUOTE OF THE WEEK: “The best things in life aren’t things.”
-—Art Buchwald
SONG OF THE WEEK: “Merry Christmas (I Don’t Want To Fight Tonite)”
-—Ramones
Can yer believe it’s already CHRISTMAS time again? What the hell happened to the last 11 months? My best guess is that Earth has entered some bizarre time warp, and that for the past few years time has been consistently speeding up—at least, that’s one way of trying to explain to myself how I’m gettin’ so old so fast, and how absolutely un-exciting that once-thrilling day in late December has become. I mean, even taking into consideration the fact that I’m almost positive a certain chubby dude in red from the North Pole doesn’t really exist and the shaky state of the world these days (rumours of war, pestilence, and other fun, armegeddon-type events), there just seems to be a lack of shine to the ol’ holiday season. You don’t really need anything, the kids are so spoiled that only the trendiest, most expensive gifts make ‘em sit up and take notice, other adults are just as burned-out on the whole charade, your boss is up your ass but you’re expected to grin and burst with holiday cheer, your family is pressuring you about the same mundane hoo-hah they do every year, and even your pets don’t really deserve any special treats. You might as well lock your door, take your phone off the hook, open a bottle, and start giving yourself a “Bah, Humbug” tattoo with a rusty safety pin, right?
Wrong! ‘Round The Dial is here to save the day! Well, maybe not THAT day (corporate America has pretty much done its job there), but any day you get to feelin’ down about how down that day makes you feel these days. In the spirit of the season, and to help remind you and I both how much worse off we could be, I’m listing my Top Five Worst Christmases for your perusal and enjoyment this week. Remember, just to put things in perspective, that I’m 38 years old, so to only have five really crappy Christmases means that I must’ve had at least 33 fair-to-middling, or even really great Christmases. At least, that’s what my addled, beer-soaked brain likes to have me believe. At any rate, my point here is not that I’ve had any more bad or good Christmases than anyone else, merely that if this Christmas is less than fulfilling for you, maybe you’ll find some solace in the fact that somebody’s been there and beyond and survived. If nothing else, perhaps somebody’ll have a larf at some of the idiotic situations I’ve put myself in over the years. Kids—don’t try this at home!
1 Christmas, 1974: My parents were in the beginning stages of their very long-suffering divorce, and we’d moved from a great house in the country to a shaky double-wide trailer house near town. My grandmother came to visit (and keep the peace), and spent several weeks hanging out with me; drinking beer, making me sandwiches, and schooling me on the music of Dean Martin. Despite her attentions, I was still angry at my parents for splitting up, so in a bold move of rebellion, I waited until granny was asleep (with the soothing strains of “Little Ole Wine Drinker Me” gently wafting through the trailer) and tore into every nook and cranny of that place in search of my presents, which I knew they’d already bought. When I found them, four of them were marked “From Santa.” Though I’d long suspected the jolly old elf was but a myth, this evidence proved once and for all that my parents, relatives, and teachers were all LIARS!! Between the divorce and the Santa incident, the innocence of childhood was pretty much over for me that year. It’s no wonder that, by Christmas 1976, I was crankin’ up Kiss records in my bedroom and puttin’ towels under the door to keep the smoke in...
2 Christmas, 1980: I was in rotten, awkward, pimply, stupid tenth grade, my dad had remarried a woman with four kids and now treated myself and my sister like Cinderellas, and I’d just found out that he’d been throwing away my mom’s gifts to us for the past three years out of spite. Toss in the fact that John Lennon had just been murdered, and my snagging a bunch of the old man’s liquor and getting loaded with my 12-year-old brother in the basement during Christmas dinner doesn’t seem such a stretch. Of course, we got caught and I got my ass beat, but hey, I did get Nazareth’s No Mean City album from my other grandma, who thought Nazareth was some Christian rock band. Take that, Jebus! Mwuah hah hah, hah!!
3 Christmas, 1983: I’d somehow managed to get through my teenage years alive, despite constant trauma and drama and a father who was some twisted cross between Pa Walton and Edward “Blackbeard” Teach, and made it into college. Not wanting to spend the holidays with the Angry One and his cadre of obedient zombies, I chose to stay in the dorms and have Christmas on my own. Once everyone else left for home, though, I realized the next week might not be as big of a thrill as I’d hoped. I was left alone with a huge, anti-social Nigerian guy named Roland, whose room was several doors down from mine. I didn’t mind the dirty looks when he passed me in the hallway, or the way he slammed his door really hard if I walked by his room, or even the fact that he spent 22 hours a day on the only telephone in the building, but when I awoke around 2 a.m. one night to ear-splitting, blood-curdling shrieks emanating from the hall, I knew I was in over my head. I spent a lot of long, lonely, boring evenings at the library, in the cafeteria, and wandering the tunnels underneath the dorms. When Spring Break rolled around that year, a pal and I took a wafer from Brother Leary and tripped our way to Florida. I never went back.
4 Christmas, 1984: Having quickly discovered that Southern Floridians don’t take kindly to out-of-work, broke Yankees hanging around the state after Spring Break is over, I’d taken a construction job in West Palm Beach. I shared a three bedroom rambler with two other guys (who were way older and both on the run from weird %@!#$& in their pasts) from the company, and our schedule went pretty much like this: Get up in the morning. Drink beer to kill hangover. Fire up fattie. Work ‘til noon. Eat sandwich, drink two beers to beat the heat. Go back to work until three thirty. Drink beer from case boss brings in back of his pickup truck (with John Anderson’s “Swingin” blasting outta the speakers), go to bar until nine or ten. Buy more beer, drink until four AM. Get up at six AM and repeat process. It hadn’t taken long for me to burn out on their hammer-down lifestyle, but I figured I’d stick it out through Christmas and then look at my options. On Christmas Eve, the temps dropped to 40 degrees in West Palm, a nearly unheard-of event. Orange groves froze, businesses closed, and three or four winos died of exposure on beachfront park benches. I spent Christmas Eve working on our furnace, which had probably never been used before. I got the pilot light lit at around midnight. When my roommates got back from the bar, they gave me a 12-pack of Budweiser for Christmas. I moved out right after the New Year.
5 Christmas, 1997: I’d just started proceedings on my own divorce (funny how the more things change the more they stay the same, huh?), and was trying desperately to have a Christmas for my own son that was completely different from my own 1974 Christmas. Unfortunately, he was just as smart, curious, and pissed-off as I’d been so many years before, and the groove just wasn’t there. Oh, he smiled and thanked me for the gifts I’d bought him, but I could tell that the innocence was gone. And he was only 8. I felt pretty lost that year, and promised myself I’d do everything in my power to make sure he didn’t have a Christmas like that with his own son one day—though I knew there’d be only so much I could do to protect him from the big bad world. After he left to have his second Christmas that day with his mom, I took a cab to a pal’s house, where I ate a convenience store sandwich, listened to Dean Martin records, and drank beer. Hey, if I turn out to be even half as cool as my granny was when I’m a codger, I just might be able to leave as good an impression as she did. And maybe, just maybe, now that I know what I know, someday I can help my son’s children keep their innocence just a little longer. I’ll probably be playing Neil Young or Beatles records, though...
So there ya go, kiddies. A little somethin’ to chew on when ya get down about that mean ole Xmas—remember, as that irritating aunt rags on ya about not bein’ married yet, or your old man bitches because you’re still chasing your dreams instead of “finding a real job,” or your boss gives you yet another unwanted gift certificate to Office Max when what you really want is a little respect (or at least a couple of round-trip tickets to Hawaii), things could always be a little worse. Unless, of course, you ended up living next door to Roland, in which case I recommend you take your own little sabbatical down South to beer-land. They can always use somebody who knows how to operate a furnace, eh? Happy Holidaze from Round The Dial! Until next time—make your own damn news.
If you have local music news/gigs/events, or you’d just like to fill my stocking with holiday cheer, send replies to: TMygunn777@aol.com.
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