Little Drummer Boy

At the gym this morning I was happy to be among my own kind as we grown-ups fought fiercely to beat back the tide of holiday blubber recently launched into orbit around our expanding equatorial region.  It's useless I realize to even attempt a return to moderation at this point when New Year 2014 calories are waiting to ambush us with the sobering realities of adipose tissue, but I try.   

Gone are the days when two or three pieces of Christmas pie didn't mandate a next morning shoe horn for pulling on pants. These days every delicious morsel of good time dining packs its bags to find a home in the dunes of my jeans.  Exercise is required if I want to be around to celebrate a 66th Christmas and make ready for an attack on 2015.  It's a slap in the face from Father Time.

This year I was treated to the look on the face of daughter Katie and her husband Doug as their boy found a new drum kit from his Aunt Kelly and Uncle Pavol under their tree.  Danny kicked off what promises to be an especially noisy new year around their house with an impromptu concert on the new skins.  I predict the kid will be the next Buddy Rich, but then I did get to leave early.

Let there be drums!

Santa was good to my one and only grandson.  He's a lucky lad who,  I'm proud to say,  remains remarkably unspoiled.  

Today we are set to play in the snow at Legoland.  Snow, to a kid from Southern California is something to get excited about.  My Midwestern memories of snowsuits, mittens, boots, and runny noses have no meaning for Dan and he can barely wait to hit the slush pile of machine groomed white stuff at his favorite theme park.

So, if you need me today, I'm afraid I'll be "on the slopes" at Mt. Lego attempting to re-think my attitude about frozen rain and its capacity to entertain.  Perhaps a four year-old can turn around a snow grump of more than sixty years.  To my surprise, this grandpa gig gets better every day.  It's an opportunity that doesn't knock on every man's door.  In my case, it leans on the doorbell.  I'll bet I won't even need gloves.

"I'm ready grandpa.   Let's GO!"

The Best Gift

When my brother and I were kids Christmas was a time of no school and almost palpable anticipation.  Were we going to get cool stuff that we wanted or was it going to be one of those Christmases where our deportment earned us little more than things we "needed" along with the traditional Boys Life subscription and stupid board game from Aunt Shirley and Uncle Louie.  Fortunately, we usually avoided the holiday doghouse and would get fun things like a new bike, wagon or a Hopalong Cassidy cap gun.  Christmas was dandy and a return to school a couple of weeks away.

It's easy to forget what a kid's Christmas is like as we grow older and have children of our own.  Christmas becomes, like it or not, more of a chore and something to get through.  Jean Shepherd's book and movie, "A Christmas Story" captures this dichotomy superbly.  Ralphie, excited for the BB gun that will revolutionize his very existence and the "you'll put your eye out" protective rationality of his mom is there in technicolor for all of us to nod knowingly.

This year, as a grandparent, I have the rare opportunity to be a kid again at Christmas.  At four, our grandson Dan is completely in thrall of Santa, his elves, jingle bells and the baby Jesus.  For the first time it is all there on the big screen of his life.  He got to be one of the wise men in the church children's pageant and didn't mess it up.  The elf on the shelf has come to life at his house and Dan's behaviour has earned him high marks--so far.    He saw Santa at the Mission Bay Yacht Club where the jolly fat man can be found every Christmas in San Diego.  Dan greeted the old boy like a long lost friend and it was obvious that Santa and his Mrs. remembered the lad well.  (He got a candy cane to prove it.)

Who knows how long this Christmas magic will last?  I recall my guttersnipe pal, Bob Chamberlain, hipping me to the "Santa is your mom and dad" deal when I was about six or seven and I, in turn, wrecking my brother's faith at the tender age of five.  

So, this Christmas my wife and I will be at Daniel's house and will experience the day in all its majesty and wonder.  I think it's going to be a good year for him as I see a pile of presents under the tree that say "to Daniel", and Santa knows his address too.

The best gift of all this year comes with no box and no name.  It's for grandma and grandpa as we, for the second time in our lives, see Christmas through four year-old eyes.  Hands down the best gift, ever.

An actor prepares.

"Go ahead, guess what's in the box."

Nailed it!

Dan hangin' with Santa and Mrs. Claus

Santa Will Stick Around A While Longer

Senator Blutarski takes a break from his senate duties.

My Uncle Bob, a son of Illinois, always voted a straight Republican ticket until the day he died.  After that he pretty much voted Democratic.  

It used to be that once the detritus of December 25th was swept away there were no more presents until maybe your birthday.  That, my fellow Americans, is no longer the case.  Now that the bloodsucking leeches of our professional political class have discovered that it's possible to retain their status as privileged characters entitled to the public trough,  Santa is on the job 24/7 all year long. Whatever you need is within easy reach just as long as you keep voting for Representative Santa or Senator Santa of (your state or district here).  

Money is no problem for the punch drunk Palookas of  D.C,

 they'll do whatever it takes to buy your vote with your very own money.

Have a business?  Collect a decent paycheck?  Well, you my friend, have more than you need!  Send your dough to Washington so that it can be redistributed to those who can't be bothered with showing up for a job or are too lazy to steal.  Oh, by the way, when we run out of your money, we'll simply print some of our own.  NOT at problem.  Your kids and grandkids will pick up the tab.

In fact it may well be a good idea to see if your children can secure federal jobs.  That way they'll be certain to be first in line for decent seats on the lifeboat when the USS Democracy hits that iceberg of massive debt that is guaranteed to take it down faster than Bill Clinton's pants at a womens' prison.

Representative Blowhard is unavailable for comment.

Think of about this as you get ready for next year's tax shakedown.  Are you a taker or a maker?  If you are the former, rest assured that the ride can't last forever.  If you actually contribute more than you take from your country, God bless you!  If we stick together, demand reform and educate our children about the bear trap being set for them, then the greatest country the world has ever produced has a chance to continue.  If not, get ready to say "hello"to the ash heap of history where the bones of morally and fiscally corrupt civilizations lie bleaching in the noonday sun.  

Some citizens are catching on.  Max Baucus, the democratic dolt from Montana, deduced that his days of living large on the public arm are over.  He knows the collective IQ of the state of Montana could not possibly sink low enough to insure his re-election;  so he has chosen to "retire".  (For politicians retirement means taking a fat pension, continuing to live in Washington D.C. as a lobbyist and attending the same freeload cocktail parties.)  At least we won't be subjected to any more drunken rants by Montana's no longer favorite political pantload.

"Chivas neat…make it a double!"

 

Aw Come On…It's Still Fun

We started doing it because, well, our parents always did.  Later it became the perfect way to let longtime friends know where we were as the Gypsy existence that is the radio business bounced us through seven or eight states and seventeen sets of call letters in forty years of broadcast bacchanal.  Christmas cards used to epitomise the season and, though it was always tough to get them sent,  the incoming tide of reciprocal greetings made it worthwhile.  The memories of good friends, their triumphs and disappointments experienced during the year rapidly coming to an end was as warming as any yuletide hearth.  Coming home from work to check the day's mail for new cards loaded with annual updates was nearly as good as Christmas Eve.  

Sadly. the whole Christmas card deal seems to have gone the way of, well, radio.  My kids don't send them nor do most of the people we still consider good friends.  I'm sure the Internet has had an impact, though getting an "e-greet" from someone just isn't the same.  Time constraints are profound but probably no greater than they were fifty years ago and, sorry, the "it's too expensive" kiss-off doesn't cut it in the age of $5 lattes and $4 gas.

Nope, this year I will once again send a newsy missive to old pals and relatives (who damn well better read them!) just to let them know we are still above ground and grousing about even more topics than last year.  We won't send any "in town" greetings as it always seems idiotic to mail something to folks you see frequently, however, if you're out of sight, a "not out of mind" card is on the way. 

I promise to continue to inflict all Copper Christmas card recipients with news of kids and grandkids, provided they continue to perform up to my slightly subjective bragging standards.  Also, this gives me an opportunity to catch up on neighborhood gossip as I hand my news stuffed letters to mailman Russ who is the pride of the U.S. Postal Service.  (The preceding has been a paid political announcement.)

So, please give it some thought this Christmas and join me in keeping the tradition of the Christmas card going.  It would make your mom happy. Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time we have.  Catch up with some old pals this year.  

You may get back some award winning dandies like these:

I have no idea who these people are.

"Sit on grandpa's lap?  No way!"

Christmas, it's all about family.

Some people do not fear self criticism.