Red Tape, Holiday Cheer and learning to live with Second Place a three part series.

Part 1

As often happens in my life, way leads on to way and the screw or two I have loose upstairs keeps me moving from one topic to the next.  And so, after my last post, I found myself lost in reminiscence.   From this sleepy daydream I extracted a bit of the old and will endeavor to rehash it as something new for all you crazy kids out there.  I was reminded of a pair of presentations I gave while at the University and given recent events in my life I think they are due for a re-release.  In addition, I am going to add a short discussion on a topic I mentioned briefly in my last post.   It appears that we have a lot of ground to cover, so let’s get started.

It is that time of year again, a time for family and friends to gather in celebration of thanks.  Thanks to those that made our lives possible in the colonies and thanks to the one who gave his own life for our collective sins.  There is a certain gluttony, however, to this time of year.  An ugly dark undertone to the festive surface of candycanes and mistletoe.  I personally like to lump Halloween in and consider the three to be what I like to call the “Holiday Hat-trick”.   Somewhere in late October each year, we decide that it is time to lose our sense of self-control and begin a long journey of waist line expansion the likes of which I shudder to contemplate.  As Halloween approaches, the leaves begin to fall and a crisp freshness takes to the air.  Homes are decorated with the dead and kids gleefully banter about the goulish nature of their garb for their upcoming pilgrimage.  Streets are soon lined with the sweet smell of gooey caramel and the soft warm glow of candlelit faces adorning every porch.  In the distance, the howel of children laughing is a reminder that this night feels safer than the rest.  The romance of my childhood rest firmly on this particular eve.  Perhaps it is as they say . . . “the night belongs to the poets and the madmen”.  I could write pages of semi-eloquent prose about this particular holiday, but that isn’t why we are here.  It is the nights before and after this joyful evening that I want to focus on.  You know the one.  The moment when you realize that you are going to have to go back to the store before Halloween to re-stock your candy supply because you thoughtlessly consumed all the mini-snickers while watching Family Feud.  We begin our siege on the hoidays, dessert first.  We in fact consume so much that in the end, all we have to give the children are those crappy ass orange and black peanut butter things that have been recycled year after year to those who don’t have the will power to leave a bag of candy unmolested before Halloween.  Like fruit cake at Christmas, there must be a warehouse full of these peanut butter beauties simply awaiting the opportunity to disappoint a neighborhood full of children.  I am a firm believer that these items are no longer manufactured, but rather are warehoused in a mountainside bunker somewhere inside a no fly zone.  I am not certain that they are even from this planet as it would seem that their shelf life is infinite.  That being said, with teeth full of cavities, we bid Halloween fairwell and focus on the next stop in the Triple Crown of Holidays . . . Thanksgiving.

From a digestive standpoint, Thanksgiving is perhaps the King of this Royal Court.  The entire basis of this holiday is the feast and unfortunately our consumption knows no bounds in more ways than one.  Yes, these days, we try to rationalize and sugar coat the irony of the holiday by “giving thanks” for everything in our lives, but the truth is somewhat less attractive.  The origins of the holiday are innocent enough.  Giving thanks to God for allowing the pilgrims to survive their first year and the bounty of their harvest.  A harvest that was made possible with a little (no a lot) of help from their Indian friends.  We will turn a blind eye to the fact that we later captured and enslaved them as a follow up to the “thanks” we gave.  We consumed their corn, their land, and their souls.  Peachy, ain’t it?  Kind of makes you all warm and fuzzy inside.   


These days we lose sight of it all in favor of gravy laden “everything” and a massive nod to the god’s of commerce.  In truth, we seem to collectively consume and in the end waste enough food to feed the starving nations of the world for the coming year and then follow that up with a trip to the mall.  Black Friday, oh how I love thee.  It is on this day that we consummate our neverending downward spiral.  The name is appropriate enough, however, there is some conjecture as to its origins.  These days, it seems to commonly have an economic flair and refer to the day in which sufficient gains are made by retailers by which they transition from operating in the “red”, to actually making a profit.  That alone is a troublesome commentary on our economic strength, but you add to that the underlying commentary on our social order and it makes for an uncertain future.  The beginning of the Christmas shopping season is really the inspiration for this entry.  Over the weekend the wife and I gathered the kids to run to the city to make a few purchases of our own and we encountered the all too common theme one experiences in the days leading up to Christmas.  I will focus on how this plays out back home as I don’t have enough personal history here in France to make an educated assumption, however, it would appear that we have much in common.

If you are brave enough . . . no scratch that . . . dumb enough to remove yourself from your home at the crack of dawn to join the teaming masses waiting in line outside your local retailer here is how it will go.  You wake early and splash some cold water on your face to clear the cobwebs for you will need all of your mental faculties about you in order to get that “good deal” that is waiting for you on those store shelves.  Perhaps a cup of coffee and a warm scarf before you hit the road.  Its early.  You remark to yourself that you haven’t been up this early in ages.  The streets seem busier than you remember for this time of day.  As you make your way toward the MegaMart, you realize you should have left earlier.  The parking lot is full to the brim and people are circling like vultures looking to swoop in on the first available spot in sight.  Oooo, there’s one, and it’s close to the door . . . damn . . . handicapped.  As you pass it by, a minivan pulls into the spot and you watch in horror as the “handicapped” person waddles their way toward the door.  They appear to be terribly afflicted with the most common of American handicaps . . . obesity.  These days, most parking lots are equipped with so much blue zoned parking that it staggers the mind.  Sit in a parking lot on any given day and see how many of the patrons that utilize these spots are actually in wheelchairs due to a malady that wasn’t self-imposed by pounding down years of French Toaster sticks in a single setting.  You won’t be surprised to note that most of the residents of these spots are simply fat, NOT handicapped.  I believe there should be some beige (the color of pork fat) spots reserved for these folks at the back of the lot, for it appears they are the ones that could use the exercise.  And I bet ya they would use them too, if it entitled them to a coupon for a free scoop of Cherry Garcia.  Anyway, if you are persistent enough, perhaps you will be lucky enough to find a parking spot in the same postal code and begin the long march through the parking lot to wade into the mass of fat bodies waiting at the commercial feeding pen.  By now, you are already questioning your sanity and every car you pass that has opted for a make believe parking arrangement seems like a good candidate for a “keying”.  Keeping your lady like demeanor, you opt for the highroad as this is the season of giving and the sacrifices you make here will certainly pay dividends when you hand that perfect (read as reasonably priced or discounted) gift for that special someone in your life on Christmas day.

And so you wait patiently in line and slowly begin to become comfortable with the pork bellies around you, only to be trampled in a stampede the moment the doors open.  You would be amazed how quickly a fat person can move when there appears to be a bargain to be had on that deep fat fryer they have had their eye on.  Picking yourself up off the ground and clutching to the remaining scraps of the garments that have been torn from your body, you make your way inside.  Once inside you realize to your horror, that an even fatter set of people were sent a flyer letting them know that if they arrived at midnight on the night prior, they would get first dibs on all merchandise at twice the discount.  The shelves are empty.  That perfume you wanted to by your wife?  Gone.  All that is left is a gift box of Jovan Musk that has already been opened and fixed back together with duck tape.  A tear falls from your cheek.  All hope is lost and the holidays ruined.  With your tail tucked between your legs you return to your car, to find the paint thoroughly removed from the driver side door because they were all out of handicapped spots and someone was too fat to exit their vehicle without pressing their car door against yours and squeezing themselves through the narrow gap to the sound of a popping cork.  You are beyond being angry.  You simply shrug your shoulders and sink into your driver’s seat hoping against all hopes that maybe you will find what you are looking for at the store down the street.  This drama plays out for days on end, all the way to the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature is stirring . . . not even a mouse.  Oh well, all is well that ends well.  As it turns out, your wife didn’t get to the store any earlier than you did to pick up that thoughtful gift she had been planning and what you open on Christmas morning is a beautiful Real Tree Snuggie embossed with the words “I’d rather be fishin”.

So it goes with the holidays.  The meaning seems lost and the romance I once had for each seems to be waning.  I will always remember the smell of that beautiful spruce tree, covered in lights;  the warmth of the fire and the smell of fresh pumpkin pie; staying up past your bedtime to sort your sack of candy and the discomfort of that Pilgrim costume worn at the school play.  All punctuated by the hours spent listening for pattering reindeer hooves overhead.  In the end, that is what I want my holidays to be.  As my gift to you all this year, I will endeavor to put together an entry of what I remember these holidays to be and what I hope to share with my children before their father’s cynicism steals their childhood.  Part 2 will be along soon so stay tuned.