After two weeks of skiing over weeds and rocks and logs and small dead wood varmints I have decided to move the holidays to the end of January. With global weirding really heating up, it doesn’t make sense for Christmas to stay where it is. Especially if you are dreaming of a white one.
When you think about it, it makes sense. From what I understand Jesus was born in April. December 25th is actually some pagan day that the church usurped for its own ends a long time ago when nobody really cared about skiing.
So let’s move it. It will seem weird at first. But I’m guessing after two or so years, the way our brains are these days, nobody will remember it being in December for very long.
Now, about the Christmas tree. I think we should get rid of this as well. The evergreen tree was originally chosen for its symbolism. Primarily the fact that it never loses its leaves and never dies, symbolizing “eternal life.” Unless, of course, we lop it’s head off and cart it into our home. Then it certainly dies. It slowly, as we drape things off of it and shove things under it, loses its lifeblood.
Then, once the new year is upon us, we unceremoniously toss the lifeless thing out into the street. As I sit here writing this, there are thousands of tree bodies tossed carelessly into alleys, bulging out of garbage cans, their branched hacked and splintered. Some are grouped on street corners like little tree families, large and small alike, their needles falling off and blowing in the wind.
New Year’s. Who needs it? Really. To me it’s a miserable holiday. People try so hard to have fun and celebrate it that they often end up vomiting in strange people’s utility closets, or soil themselves in the coat room of an ill-conceived house party. I know of one person, who shall remain nameless, who managed to confuse the washing machine for a toilet. At least he made an effort. In cities, people, almost all of them overly drunk, go out and set things on fire. Then there’s the whole kissing thing. There’s no end of bad ideas that transpire from the desire to “kiss someone on New Year’s.”
So let’s bag it. Dick Clark is dead, after all. And Waterford Crystal can survive not making that silly Times Square ball every year.
