Christmas Magic

How does a fat man get down a skinny chimney? Some of us barely fit through the front door! Well of course its Christmas magic. When you were a youngster anything was possible. The world was full of wonder, and excitement except when Aunt Gertrude came to town with her penchant for over-squeezing cheek pinching. The didn’t know her own strength vise grip was only outdone by the uncountable whiskers on her chin! Then, it was run for the nearest closet under the stairs and hope they didn’t miss you.

As far as the true magic of the season, it rests in all of our traditions. Who can get through it without a couple of good size turkeys making the ultimate sacrifice? This of course is so that we can sit our overstuffed carcasses in front of an oversized flat screen plasma TV and nod off, resting upon our oversized double chins during special football games. As usual the teams are a pair; one superior display of talent against a group that plays like a collection of women from the Red Hat Society. Nevertheless the whole family laying about the hovel like they were a bunch of tired basset hounds back after a long day’s hunt is pretty typical. It’s sort of a Norman Rockwell meets the Beverly Hillbillies; picturesque but not exactly inspiring of Christmas’ past.

The erosion of the true holiday’s message, giving each other gold and frankincense (no one can seem to find myrrh anymore), has been gradual, steady and to benefit of Mr. Claus’ celebrity status. Here’s a guy who invades your home (breaking and entering), dressed in a red furry suit (fashion disaster), and not only does he not take anything, but he leaves you stuff (insanity). Of course in our materialistic society, he’s going to be a right popular ol’ elf! His mode of transportation is also out of this world too (space alien). How does one get a gig like this? Imagine working one day a year, giving stuff away to the needy and the greedy, and being revered more than Brittany Spear’s silicone implanted trailer trash play humps: sounds like every youngsters dream!

As an adult of course things are a bit different. You become a bit more jaded, cynical and the closets are no longer big enough to hide from unwanted hairy-faced family. As a matter of fact people can get so swept up by the holiday that they actually sit and talk with Aunt Gertie now, pretending as if her face full of hair is not a good conversation starter. The magic may still be there and you can view it in the wonder-filled eyes of your snot-nosed children; they’re sort of just like you use to before adulthood transformed you into a neurotic shell-shocked whimpering remnant of your former self.

The traditions are still wonderful though a bit more varied, diluted, or disappointing. Stockings are still hung and by the chimney with care but mistletoe for instance, is something that’s missing. For countless Christmas’ as a child the “love bush” hung in the doorway so that when guests came over like Aunt Gertie with her face of stubble she could righteously expect a lip-smacking welcome. It was after all the closest she got to intimacy after Uncle Herbie up and perished in that mysterious backyard mineshaft disaster. All they ever found of him was his little black book, the one with five stars next to that mysterious girls name (Bambi) written in lipstick. However, today when you need decent noticeable size mistletoe vegetation, you can’t find the stuff to hang up anymore. Too bad because there are finally some good looking neighbors worth planting one on and you’re interested to see if they offer egg-nog induced tongue action..

Yet, despite it all we still find a quiet moment on Christmas Eve. Usually it is 3:00am after the last minute round of midnight madness shopping at the all night 7-11 (yeah, Slurpees and meat snacks for everyone’s stocking). When the wheezing from all of the rushing around has finally died down, we can reflect on the real meaning of the holiday; never getting what you really wanted!

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You see if you look hard enough some things don’t change throughout your entire life whether its prickly facial encounters or the roundness of a fat man in the room on Christmas - never mind that he is now your husband instead of your father. The presents may be smaller; the joy a bit more tempered yet there is magic just the same. The Christmas tree blinks its silent message in the stillness as you reach to place the last of the presents under the tree before Santa shows up.

Of course reaching under the tree with your face in the bottom branches sort of reminds you of kissing Aunt Gertrude and her pine needle whiskers. You may shudder, but it’s really the chill of an ol’ familiar feeling.

CARS FROM MARS

The powers that be could vote to change America’s car fleet fuel system at any time. In order to switch from dead dinosaur-goo powered propulsion to water, or air-driven engines to save the planet from the Abominable Global-Warming Monster, all Congress has to do is wave its petroleum soaked wand. Abracadabra! We could change into a gluttonous sweet-toothed, sugar-cane driven nation to fuel our cars. We would force ourselves to eat less too. Not only would it trim our waistlines but eliminating the foggy cloud resulting from fossil fuels would enable us to see angels smiling upon us and birds gleefully tweeting. Then living in such a Madison Avenue commercial could be in our future.

The only resistance Americans offer to such a dramatic economic transformation comes when examining futuristic car manufacturer offerings. The blazing trail of new vehicle creations, from the seemingly two-year-old mindset, appears to have been designed on the drawing board with crayons. Advancement in automotive technology today resembles the prototypes of the late 1970’s when America rumbled seriously about dealing with its dependence on foreign oil. Similar blueprints from then seem to be on today’s laptops of American Automotive genius’s! Why do they always want to create cars that look like they should be driven by E.T.? Do the clods at the drafting board ever step foot in a car? Are they the pencil necked geeks from grade-school that could readily offer the numerical sequence for Pi, yet not be able to color coordinate their clothes? These odd fellows always got a super-wedgie from the class bully while the rest of the student body cackled and egged-on such crack-challenging demonstrations. Can someone hanging from the highest yardarm by the elastic of their underwear really inspire any response other than the label “unimaginative Goober?”

The only auto ever to come close to acceptance appeared to be a bubble-mobile on steroids. The hideous design of the 1970’s AMC Pacer, much in the same vein as the new green friendly garbage they are trying to pass off as acceptable, was something akin to a pregnant VW bug that had spread out its hips and been adorned with more window space than a glass house. It was gas efficient however. Thus this notion that consumers will drive anything if it gets fifty miles to the gallon was born. These modern super sub- compact cars remind one of the glass enclosed phone booth that became known as the Pope-mobile.

The difference between the unsightly Pacer and today’s gruesome pod-sized atmosphere- friendly designs is that the Pacer seemed to be made out of metal. The modern death traps that the industry is offering a nervous public seem too lightweight. They could fly if each passenger put an arm out of a window at the same time. That might be necessary given the limited creature comforts, such as space, that these mechanized midgets present. They do not inspire safety, or an esthetically pleasing sense of taste. They completely ignore the cool factor.

Guys who thought being seen behind the wheel of a soccer-mom sporty van shudder when they see the Mork from Ork motor vehicles that salivating granola munching environmentalists seem to favor in the current crop of earth friendly autos. These cars from mars remind one of the Merry Melodies cartoons of ages past featuring Marvin the Martian. He was about as popular as the Edsel too! He didn’t drive a car, but in a turnabout with Bugs Bunny, Marvin would be the instigator of antics that the poor rabbit endured trying to save the Earth from the odd looking Martian. The zany antics come to mind when one views the designs of the “inventive offerings’ of modern earth-favorables from the auto industry. Like Marvin we might seek destruction of the earth rather than its salvation after we spend any time squished in one of these modern mechanical monstrosities. The feeling inspired by their appearance and performance is a desire to drive the ever so clean, fuel efficient, four-wheeler, off of the nearest cliff.

Muscle cars represented power and the zenith of American status. The whimpering, sniveling, fuel efficient, friendly-fueled, bug-sized design of the future needs an appropriate moniker that captures the essence of tomorrows driving experience. We won't have to refer to the car of the future as being the bug-eyed bubble-mobile we can simply refer to it as “The Marvin.”