Bizarre pagan rituals, of sacrifice and blowtorches.
Nothing to laugh at, really.
Well, this explains a lot.
Happy ecksmas, I got you a present.
Three imaginary boys.
Most people I know would take this as a challenge. But yes, good stocking stuffer. Put one on your handlebars, or attach to your bike key.
Y’know, for kids.
I guess, what, you get to sit on Santa-Gavin’s lap? A gift of sorts to some of you, one supposes. And then you can feed your candycane to a goat in the petting zoo. What a merry holiday is this!
The Important Thing
is to get through the next two weeks without hearing the Wings Christmas song.
Good gift idea: a new identity. Surprise everyone and choose Utah.
Oh hello, Marlena’s. Every year, I say I hate—no, too strong, dislike is more correct— Christmas: I hate what it does to my evening wanders around Union Square; I hate what it does to shoppers, they become avaricious and wanton with their lusts (a henley for a cousin; a giftcard for the other cousin). I think I need to obtain something from a store that only exists at the intersection of crowded and busy: nope, I’ll wait until January.
Thing is, Christmas has ceased to mean stuff for me.
I don’t want anything, save a drink with friends, a home-made card, something salty and the opposite of cupcakes, the opposite of a season that thrives on forced memory and tradition. But somehow, Marlena’s manages to make it okay, their explosions of Santas like an elder bear convention, less like a mall and more like Truman Capote’s version of a holiday.
Thank you, Marlena’s. Everyone go there right now. They won’t make you a fancy drink, but it’ll be an honest drink.
Bystanders on the corner of O’Farrell and Stockton are rendered incapable of all but the simplest of vowel sounds.