About this burning of our yearning

Being as the town had its big Christmas deal last night, I suppose it is officially the Christmas season in my little corner of the world. Although if one had asked about Christmas' official status last night about 6:30, townsfolk would have suggested that everyone's favorite holiday (except the Jews, I suppose) was cancelled. At that precise moment, statewide, perhaps even countrywide, there was one blob of green on the entire radar. Guess where it was? Fortunately, it didn't dampen things too much nor was it the biggest hurdle of the night to leap.

That honor went to Father Christmas himself, whose sleigh was slightly tardy in its arrival from the North Pole. By sleigh, I mean truck. And by North Pole, I mean the other side of town. Not exactly sure what part of "Santa will arrive at 6 p.m. by carriage" our particular Claus misunderstood. That a gaggle of excited kiddies with a median age of 6 had no trouble understanding said message is somewhat unfortunate on a couple of different levels. Nevertheless, after a brief tale to the kids that Santa's reindeer had run afoul of some poachers and a non-committal on Santa's eventual arrival, all was all right. Since all that Christmas-myth destroying had made me slightly hungry, Marisol and I headed for dinner.

As one does.

Upon our return to the festivities we found a queue heading out the door of Santa's crib. The furnishings of which, I regret to add, were a bit paltry this year with only a chair in front of a non-working fireplace upon which was placed a tattered copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and some other holiday-themed volume. The bright side being there was little point for impatient, disgruntled kids and their enraged parents to trash the joint; the decorators had beat them to it.

Somewhere in the midst of all the commotion, Mr. Claus apparently arrived. The cries of disappointed kids were replaced by the tears of Marisol. Tears of rage, that is; she takes her reporterette duties very seriously. Again, with no real property to damage, her rage was largely impotent. So much for documenting the grand arrival, but she did manage to snap a few photos for the local paper of kids begging at the St. Nicholas teat.

So to speak.

Bored with all the hoopla, I assumed my position behind the counter at the bake shop for the rest of the evening. My main duty therein being sure no one absconded with any rice krispies or brownies without doling out the cash. I thought of myself as a glorified bouncer, or cooler as we Roadhouse fans call them. In reality, I was just an assistant cashier who's primary duty was to 'reassure' the good folks that everything was indeed homemade. Clearly, all those years of schooling have paid off.

Aside from Santa and the rain, the big event of the night was the cash giveaway. Our original plan was to give away $1000, but when ticket sales didn't turn out quite as good as we'd hope (I sold two, thank you very much), the grand prize was reduced to $330 for some unknown reason. I considered adding $7.43 just so we'd have an even odder amount to give away, but decided against it.

Never did exactly understand all the rules of this particular game; apparently, they involved drawing numbers and removing them from a board. The difficulty of which I can only presume is immense. Sort of like a lottery for people who never play the lottery, I suppose. A v. big event, basically, with the lucky few getting more and more excited as fewer and fewer number remained. Unfortunately, since the 40 or tickets were scattered amongst 10 or so people there was little drama. In fact, I didn't even realize it all took place until, uh, it all took place. Oops.

Luckily the ensuing riot tipped me off to everything. If it's one thing we townsfolk hate more than Christmas giveaways, it's rigged Christmas giveaways. Out of all those tickets and all those people, the lucky winner was none other than the EPJ herself.* She purchased 4 tickets, 3 of which were winners.

Chairs were thrown. Molotov cocktails were mixed. Chaos ruled. Santa wondered why couldn't we all just get along and was promptly decked by the head of the Masonic Lodge. Blood mixed in with the rain flowing down the street, decorating the streets with a different, yet still festive, shade of red. It was utterly macabre.

Oh yeah, the other 'winner' got $20 which, considering the other results, probably seemed like awfully cheap hush money. But you know, $20 is $20.

In short, it was the best Christmas festival, pageant, celebration, bazaar, hootenanny, what have you ever. We're thinking of doing it again.

*We really did give away $330 and 3 of the EPJ's 4 tickets were winners. The EPJ took this to mean she's now got luck on her side and began planning a trip to Vegas. Downer that I am, I suggested that rather than having good fortune on her side, her luck, to put it bluntly, sucks. 3 out of 4 winning tickets? $330? Pencils out, matheletes; what are the odds? Though it indeed may have come in, her ship resembles the QEII not so much as a trash barge off the coast of Long Island drifting aimlessly. Selah.