It’s Another Tequila Christmas...

Last year, we got smart. Bought a bunch of Heifer International vouchers, donated a goat or a bee hive or something in the names of loved ones. It's a much better gift than whatever I might've come up with. I expect we'll be doing it again this year. Not that we can afford much. From Wednesday, December 19, 2007

I used to sing. Not at opera-rank, but not simply for the shower, either. My high school choir went all over (and even out of) the state for performances, and we competed at a pretty lofty level. Madrigals, canons, airs, rounds, you name it, as long as it was archaic and fit only for old ladies to hear, we did it. I even did some choir-for-hire work at churches (my church choir leader rented a few of us out, not sure what he made off of it).

Christmas, of course, was the big season. And carols were the currency, in intricate four-part harmony and the original Latin. I can't hear the music this time of year without hearing my parts in my head. Which, naturally, were never the melody (I was a baritone, ocassional tenor when needed). So I can't sing along, or I'll be singing part of a harmony no one else hears, and it comes across as just out of tune. (Which may not be far off, it's been a number of years since I practiced. And by "a number of years" I mean before many of my friends today were alive.)

But that's not why I've never liked Christmas. Oh, sure, the commercialism and the pageantry and the hypocrisy, all that, same reason you hate Christmas, even those who love it. But it's also a yearly reminder of failure to me. It tells me, every December, what a bastard I am. There's not a commercial goes by that doesn't remind me that my wife will hate me forever if I don't buy her jewelry, or a car. Or, for that matter, remind my wife that if her husband really loved her, he'd buy her these things. (Who the hell buys cars for Christmas? To whom are they advertising, seriously? I'm reminded of that SNL bit about commercials for big red bows...)

Added to which, I'm almost always broke -- outside of Hollywood, there's really not much money in movie-making, and I get fewer jobs than some. My reaction has largely been to ignore not only the ads, but also the whole act of gift-giving, getting by with the most deliberately meager tokens of affection that I can. It's the thought that counts, you say? Well, that doesn't really mean that just thinking of buying a gift counts. I've gone whole years doing nothing but bake; or, one memorable year, create liqueurs. I can still taste that tequila-cinnamon schnapps. Hell, I can still see the stain on the rug...

I've been tempted, in years past, to give "limited edition" printings of my art work to close relatives. But the truth is, they all hate my work, or at best tolerate it, and I really couldn't bear to see that same polite smile (or worse, feined enthusiastic appreciation) applied to a DVD, manuscript, or canvas of my toil, the way it is to a pair of argyle socks with jingle bells sewn on.

And this is the first of the nightmare years for the boy, I fear. In years past, all he cared about was trains, but this year, he's pointing at the TV every break saying "I want, I want!" Still, when we took him to see Santa last night, he was so excited that all he could say when addressing the big man himself was "could you bring me a train?" It's a universal, isn't it? When startled into it, we always revert to the basic needs. Food, shelter, steam-powered locomotives.

Then he leaned back in, even as I was leading him away, Ralphie-and-his-BB-gun-like, to say, "can you make it a Polar Express?" Shit, that thing costs north of $200 at the train store...

But this year, while I'm not rich, I actually made a few bucks. So I'm putting some effort into the gift-giving. Still not spending over-much (sure as hell not buying him that particular train-set, not this late in the game), but I'm putting thought into the gifts, and finding what will I hope delight or pester (when appropriate). Everyone but my sister taken care of. My sister is always tough. She has no quirks, no vices, no sense of humor to speak of, and she's got the sort of mannered, genteel, Martha Stewart tastes that are far out of the range of either my wallet or stomach. May have to fall back again on the bath beads. Or come up with something I want her to take interest in -- a particular performer's music, say, or a coupon for tattoos and kickboxing lessons.

As for me... I could use an HD camera, if you're still looking for something to put in my stocking. Otherwise, world peace will do. And good booze.