My usual Xmas Anger ("Xmanger") is oddly quiescent this year. Indeed, I was possessed of an almost nostalgic longing for How The World Once Was. My world, that is. Before. Could be this is only because I'm getting old, and as we age the weaker among us lose conviction. Or it could be that I'm coming off what ought to have been the best year of my career, but was, instead, somehow, against all odds, possibly the shittiest. At least there was a little more money for my pain. Perhaps, if I expect it to be much, much worse, 2013 will, at least, only be as lousy as was 2012. No, I am not wallowing. I am reflecting, observing, engaging in unvarnished honesty.
Last night, Spooky and I prepared a feast of baked ham, with spicy roast potatoes and asparagus, which we complimented with a red zinfandel. And pecan pie. Like last year, she made jellyfish- and octopus-shaped sugar cookies. With green and pink sprinkles. Then we watched Badder Santa, as we try to do every Xmas Eve, in reverence of Consumer Jesus. Oh, and watched the original, animated The Grinch That Stole Xmas, despite it's cop-out ending. In fact, Badder Santa and The Grinch That Stole Xmas are pretty much the same story, when you think about it. I read Ian Thomas and Adam Bolton's Where's My Shoggoth. Later, we ate candy, and played Rift (I have a new High Elf named Théodwyn), then played a little of The Secret World, then switched back to Rift. Then I went to bed and began reading The Complete Bloom County Library, Volume Four 1986–87 until I could no longer keep my eyes open.
Selwyn was an asshole all day and night long. He excelled.
And thank you, Steven Lubold, our very own Badder Santa.
I have half an urge to work today. I have a bloody HUGE interview to do for Nightmare Magazine (though I'm not a horror writer). The answers are due by the fifth of January, I think. I have the two additional scenes to write for Black Helicopters – plus a few additional lines of dialogue for the final scene. And I have to start thinking about Sirenia Digest #85, and Alabaster: Boxcar Tales #6, and...you get the idea. Yeah, this is my "vacation." But it's too nasty to go anywhere, and nothing's open, anyway. We'd thought about driving out to Beavertail, but that's not going to happen. And I don't exactly "rest." Not under normal circumstances. I think I never learned how.
Okay. So, there you go. The token Xmas Day entry. Make of it what you will.
Christmas is an awfulness that compares favorably with the great London plague and fire of 1665-66. No one escapes the feelings of mortal dejection, inadequacy, frustration, loneliness, guilt and pity. No one escapes feeling used by society, by religion, by friends and relatives, by the utterly artifical responsiblities of extending false greetings, sending banal cards, reciprocating unsolicated gifts, going to dull parties, putting up with acquaintances and family one avoids all the rest of the year...in short, of being brutalized by a 'holiday' that has lost virtually all of its original meanings and has become a merchandising ploy for color tv set manufacturers and ravagers of the woodlands. ~ Harlan Ellison (1972)
Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Santa. ~ Mrs. Santa's Sister