Santa wears white gloves

It is that time of year when being a fat man with a flowing white beard becomes fashionable again.  You see them everywhere it seems.  Some are pretenders.  Weak spirits that don’t have the fortitude to really take on the persona.  They stuff their coats with pillows and affix doll hair to their face in an effort to pull one over on the kids.  There are an intrepid few out there that actually take this shit VERY seriously.  Those that truly live the life.  Those that follow a strict dietary regime of pot pies and pork rinds while growing a bushy load of facial hair that would make ZZ Top green with envy.  Cover him from head to toe in red velvet and synthetic white fur and you indeed have a “sharp dressed man”.  Pere Noel we now call him.   Haven’t done the research yet, but internationally, “Father Christmas” seems a bit more popular than the “Santa Clause” moniker.  Funny how the little things still capture my imagination.  

We ran into one of the imposter types at a local toy store recently and he was handing out candy to the youngsters exclaiming “BO BO BO”.  I don’t know if that is a French thing or if this fucker was just drunk.  I was going to take issue with the mis-pronunciation, but I didn’t think my kids would take kindly to their father verbally abusing and ultimately kicking the shit out of Old Man Christmas.  I decided to keep my mouth shut.  We have been taking great joy in soaking up some of the differences in our cultures during this, the most joyous, time of year.  I have personally taken it upon myself to torment the other members of my family by screaming “BO BO BO, Joyeux Noel!” at completely inappropriate moments . . . like at the grocery store.  I am not even sure that Joyeux Noel is correct.  I have seen signage that reads Bonne Fetes and Joyeuses Fetes which I presume to be the French equivalent of Happy Holidays.  Literally translated it seems to me to read as Good Party or Happy Festival, but I am not going to split hairs.  I prefer to stick to my “Joyeux Noel” as it has a much bigger impact when I pair it with my best Michael Buffer impression.  


I really feel for Michael by the way.  Let’s be honest, becoming a ring announcer is an eclectic career choice.  He had to think that he had a lock on that corner of the market.  I mean, how many of them can there really be in the world?  Then to have your half-brother come in and make a mockery of the dedication you have given to your craft?  That just sucks.  Bruce can go to hell.  I know, I know . . . they are supposed to be partners and all, but I still bet there is some tension at family functions.  I imagine they are always trying to talk over each other at the dinner table.  When it comes time to say grace I wonder who gets to use their tag line?  “Thank you God for this meal and thank you for all the blessings you have given us on this day . . . now let’s get ready to rumble!”  This would surely be followed by half-brother’s “It’s Time!”  Then I like to think that the two of them jump up from the table and have it out pugilist style on the dining room carpet.  I imagine Michael to have better hands and a more traditional fighting stance while Bruce would be constantly looking to take the fight to the ground.  Sorry for the detour,  I have ADHD moments.

With Christmas looming on the horizon, even the usual homework assignments become a bit more festive.  The eldest brought home some art work depicting Santa on his sleigh.  As he finished his mural he asked a profound question for which I didn’t have a good answer.  “Dad, what color are Santa’s gloves”.  Now you can take this inquiry in one of two ways.  One is full of childish whimsy, while the other is actually quite pragmatic.  I know my son, and the latter was his tone.  You see, he dispensed with the mystery behind Santa just about as fast as Tyson dispensed with Holyfield’s ear (trying to stay topical).  In fact, he destroyed all childhood fantasies in one shot very early on.  I am not in the habit of lying to my children, so when he stated that he had a theory that there really wasn’t a Santa Clause and that it was I who place the presents under the tree, I simply told him that I didn’t care for the variety of cookies he had been placing by the fireplace.  He wasn’t sad or or even slightly disappointed.  He simply smiled as though he had unlocked one of life’s great secrets and said “there isn’t an easter bunny either is there?”  Oh well, so much for the joys of childhood.  That Christmas I gave him a necktie and briefcase and told him to go get a job.  They grow up fast.  


No, the question about Santa’s gloves wasn’t filled with wonder and awe, it was simply a nod to his attention for detail in an effort to be as accurate as possible in his portrayal of the fictitious reindeer jockey.  Without pause I responded that his gloves are white.  The eldest immediately took issue with my response.  He was certain that they were green.  I told him he was full of shit and to never question his father.  We laughed and then went to the interweb in search of the answer.  I said white because all the Santas at the mall are wearing white gloves.  Come to think of it, that is exactly how ALL kids should know that these guys are imposters.  Really, how the hell does a guy shimmy down a chimney without soiling a pair of white gloves?  A darker color would certainly be more practical.  After a bit of pictorial reference, it would appear that Santa comes with white gloves, red gloves, black gloves, and yes . . . even green gloves.  “Huh, how about that” was about all I could remark to my young apprentice.  I then went back to being an artist at heart and told him to paint them whatever color he felt like.  I indicated that contrast is always nice and let him get back to his efforts.  Frankly I was just pleased that he was staying traditional and Santa wasn’t being portrayed with a semi-automatic firearm and battle fatigues.  Maybe next year.  On that bomb shell, I bid you all a good eve and will see you real soon.  R.