Let's do the time warp again

Things move slowly this time of year. Christmas has long been a holiday that luxuriously stretches its arms and legs beyond the bounds of Dec. 25, seemingly because people can’t get enough of shiny ribbons and jolly snowmen who can somehow breathe through a carrot. For that reason, the days and nights that surround the holiday crawl languidly. Business grinds to a halt, and even a lot of the travel that takes place seems to have an unhurried quality, a slippers-and-hot-chocolate vibe that foreshadows deep rewards in warmly-lit living rooms and family dens. For the devout and the secular alike, it’s the time of year when we pause and take stock.

And it freaks me out.

Not in a bad way. I mean, it’s kinda nice, right? The sleepy pantomime of work, the welcome distraction of jangling silver bells and pudding-thick eggnog -- it’s nice, an old-timey bulwark against winter blues. Yet it’s so unnatural that this seven-to-12-day stretch is always disorienting, a time apart. It has the untethered quality of unexpected time off, with the added strangeness of reindeer with flashlights for noses. (A hallucinatory vision if ever there was one.)

My own particular theory as to why these days have such a specific aura: The warm reminiscences in which many of us indulge. Simply put, when your mind is moored to the past, the present can’t barrel forth with the same unrelenting velocity.

No observation, this one included, is universally applicable, of course. This theory works primarily when talking about those of us lucky enough to have fuzzy Christmases past on which to draw. People who lack this well of holiday cheer are likely more weirded out than I am, just biding their time until January, when relative normalcy resumes. I would like to offer these people a red-and-green sugar cookie and a cinnamon-infused craft beer. It’s not much, but it’s more feasible than my only other idea, which is to host a ’50s-style sock-hop in my living room. The space is too small, and besides, you can’t really dance to Anthrax.

If you’ve got a robust history of bustling yuletide bliss, though, then this out-of-time feeling you’re likely experiencing will be handy for inevitable trips down memory lane. Time folds in on itself during the last two weeks of December. We look back at the year that was and have our inevitable conversations: “I can’t believe so-and-so died! Remember in the spring when Aunt Margaret finally mastered the time-honored art of sword swallowing? And hey, I lost 10 pounds and can finally fit into that dress with the print pattern of burning pirate skulls!” These reflections feel like a way of solidifying experiences, of sealing them permanently in our own personal history books. It’s also a fun way to re-live some of the good times, like when you finally gathered up the courage to go sky-diving (and peed just a little during your jump).

At the same time, we tend to speculate on how the coming year will unfold, knowing our prognostications are probably wrong put peering intently into our crystal balls regardless. I’ll refrain from making forecasts about 2017 since I’m as bad at predicting this crap as anyone else, but I can guarantee you that the big shock-worthy moments and life-altering circumstances won’t be what we expect; they’ll come out of left field and gobsmack us, catch us unprepared. A lot of people are uneasy about what will transpire politically as the next few months unfold, but the top story of early 2017 will be something entirely random, like killer mutants taking over local government in Vancouver, or the Ku Klux Klan producing an off-Broadway musical about the history of turnip farming in western Europe.

Personally, Dec. 24 and 25 are the only days in which I find myself actually living in the moment. The fact that things grind to a halt during this period certainly helps in that regard. But even so, I can’t fully escape the weight of the past; it’s as though each Christmas is superimposed on top of all the others, a teetering pile of them, all conspiring to give the holiday a kind of outsized gravitas. I’m not just a mid-30s guy sharing gifts and laughs with my small family. I’m an 8-year-old boy fawning over his new Ghostbusters action figures; a 10-year-old singing carols by the fire with the extended clan in New Hampshire, back when there was one; a college kid coming to grips with burgeoning adulthood, mimicking grown-up behavior, poorly. I’m a first-grader who still believes in Santa, and whose heart aches at the thought of him taking flight from our snow-covered roof, gone for another year. And then another. And then forever.

I’m all of these things and none of them. I’m something new, something still in the process of being made, and it likely won’t be until next Christmas when I can look back on 2016 Jeff and give him any sort of label or definition. That’s the tricky nature of time. We can’t ever truly live in the moment, because by the time we’re able to make sense of whatever moment we’re in, it isn’t that moment anymore. FYI, when my thoughts get this convoluted, it’s time to hit the eggnog, and hard.

Oftentimes I wonder if the people who don’t celebrate Christmas still experience that end-of-year time-warp sensation. It’d be hard not to. The days-long slowdown of Western civilization is pretty inescapable, a feeling in the air that trumps religion or custom. It can be sweet, sad, joyous and melancholy, sometimes all at once, but rarely can it be ignored. It’s baked into the bread, as they say.

Say what you will about the holidays, but they take their sweet time. And that’s not necessarily  a bad thing.

Santa Claus walks into a bar...

Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are sitting at a bar. Both look dispirited. St. Nick is idly sipping a Sea Breeze; the rabbit’s nursing a whiskey and Coke, lost in thought as he stares in the general direction of a college football game being broadcast on a flat-screen TV. There’s also a horse at the bar, but nobody seems to know who he is or why he’s there. It should be noted that this is a very strange bar.

“So,” says the Easter Bunny to Santa, “what’s got you looking so blue?”

Claus expels a long, watery sigh. “It’s Christmas, man,” he says in between sips. “It’s really dragging me down this year. I mean, I should be happy right? It’s my busy time, with the toys and the malls and the ho-ho-hoing, and normally I look forward to it. Spreading goodwill and cheer and all that. But this year…”

Easter Bunny glances sideways at his red-clad compatriot. It’s the first time in half an hour he’s taken his eyes off Notre Dame. “What’s different this time around?” he asks, squinting as if bracing for the answer.

“Oh, you know. Everything. Look at the world, dude. Nobody can agree on anything. People bicker and argue and shout each other down over the stupidest things. They spend more time looking at their social media feeds than at each other. Meanwhile climate change is threatening their very existence, and the only people in a position to do anything about it deny it’s even happening. It’s like the human race is hardwired to self-destruct. Kinda hard to be jolly when the world is such a scary place.”

“And that’s why you’re drinking a Sea Breeze at three in the afternoon?”

Santa considers for a moment. “Well, I’ve also got this rash that’s bothering me. You spend all day walking around the North Pole’s toy factory and you start sweating a lot on the insides of your thighs.”

“For crying out loud, you really shouldn’t have told me that.”

“Sorry.”

A moment of silence passes. Santa Claus is twirling the remnants of his drink around the bottom of his glass, contemplating ordering a second round, but Easter Bunny has been eyeing him steadily, interested in something other than the game for the first time all day.

“I’m not buying it,” says Easter Bunny.

“Pardon me?”

“I’m not buying it.” Bunny shifts in his seat. “You’ve been doing this for a long time, right? Playing the whole ‘Christmas ambassador’ role? Generations have lived and died, and still you load up your sleigh and travel the globe and bring joy to millions. Think about all the crap that’s happened in the world since you first started doing your thing. A couple of World Wars, that whole Vietnam debacle, market crashes, military coups, terrorism this and that. The rise and fall of Pauly Shore. ‘Keeping Up with the Kardashians.’ It’s been one disaster after another. And that’s just in the last hundred years or so.”

“OK. So what’s your point?”

“My point,” said Easter Bunny, fully engaged now, “is that the world is always in crisis. Civilization is always on the verge of collapse. I’m a rabbit, so I’ve got sort of an outsider’s perspective on the human race, OK? Humans, as far as I can tell, are generally a self-destructive lot … to a point. It’s always two steps forward, one step back, two steps forward, one step back with these people. It’s frustrating, but they do eventually make progress. You just have to give them time. They can always be counted on to do the wrong thing. Until they do the right thing.”

Santa considers this for a moment. He slides his empty drink across the bar and taps on the glass. The bartender fills him up.

“I see what you’re saying,” says Santa. “I do. But it just feels like everything is coming to a head. Divisions are deeper. The stakes are higher. This past year…”

Easter Bunny nods. “Yeah, this past year was a stinker. Prince and David Bowie are dead and ISIS is still alive and kicking. It’s not what you’d call fair. But see, that’s exactly why we need you right now.” Bunny sticks out a paw and pokes Santa in his jelly belly. “You’re a powerful symbol, don’t you get it? Even people who don’t consider themselves Christians see your face and associate it with with good things -- family, friends, warm feelings, all that fuzzy stuff. The world is complicated. You’re not. That’s your appeal. You exist for one reason, and that’s giving. It’s a lesson we all could use right about now. You want my advice, you need to quit your whining and hop back on that sleigh. And tell Prancer to give me a call. Dude owes me 50 bucks, no pun intended.”

Santa nods and pushes his unfinished drink back across the bar. The beginning of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

“You know what, Bunny, you’re right. What am I doing here? I should be making toys, and lists, and hawking iPhones in TV commercials! I should be drinking bottles of Coca-Cola with the label facing outward! I should be gathering my sugarplums and roasting my--”

“Yeah, we get it.”

“Right. Well. Off I go to spread some Christmas cheer, then. Only a matter of days now. Happy Friday to all, and to all a good night!”

Santa leaves his barstool wobbling as he abruptly bounds for the door, letting in a draft of cold air as it opens to the pre-twilight world beyond. A few faintly shimmering motes -- pixie dust? -- are left in his wake, slowly settling on the bar and at Easter Bunny’s feet. He brushes some off his shoulder and smiles. His job is typically easy, just hide a few colored eggs in someone’s backyard (as if that even makes any sense), and so he puffs out his chest a little at the thought that he had a hand in a successful Christmas this year. It wasn’t in his job description, but darned if it didn’t make him feel good. Sometimes the holiday blues afflict the best of us. We just need a little push, thinks Bunny. Someone to reach out and let us know they care.

Feeling accomplished, Bunny turns his attention to the horse, who’s been at the end of the bar listening silently the whole time. He shoots his equine friend a smile and a wink.

“So,” says Bunny. “Why the long face?”

New-age Amazonians

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Soup that eats like a meal

Soup or salad? Some people have a tough time with this choice. They idly stroke the covers of their menus while vacillating back and forth, debating the relative merits of each. Meanwhile the server gets to stand there awkwardly with a pen in hand and a carefully neutral facial expression, hiding their impatience with dreams of knocking off work and playing Xbox with their roommate Willy. Naturally they’ve forgotten that Willy is giving a speech at the library tonight on the topic of sexually confused termites, but nevermind that for now. Soup or salad -- that’s the question.

And the answer should always be soup.

I know, I know. There are a lot of salad lovers out there, and look, I get it. A salad is a nice treat every once in awhile. It’s customizable and colorful and contains a lot of variety, not unlike a multi-layered cake, only salads have the distinct advantage of being made of actual food. Salads are sneaky, though. They are, in fact, a lie.

The lie is this: Salads like to present themselves as the healthy choice. “Look at all of this green!” they shout at you from their bowl. “Look at the splashes of red and orange! The crumbly croutons! Eat me and be thin and happy, friend!” If you hear your salad saying these things to you, do two things. First, be skeptical of its claims. Second, seek psychiatric care. Salads can’t talk, you freak.

If salad was just salad, that would be one thing. What makes it such a clandestine smuggler of unwanted calories is the dressing, a viscous stew of sugar and unmentionables that consistently thwarts a salad’s claims to healthfulness. You might as well be pouring chocolate syrup on your lettuce. That would probably be preferable, in fact, because not only is chocolate syrup more delicious than balsamic vinaigrette, but you know exactly what you’re getting -- an electric jolt from your tastebuds and a lot of extra wheezing while walking uphill.

We know this about salad dressing on some level, and yet we pour it on anyway, because when you get right down to it, most dry salad is gross. It’s like someone reached into their backyard garden, grabbed a fistful of whatever was handy, and dumped it into a bowl shaped like a half-head of cabbage (a bowl design that has never, ever been clever, by the way). A naked salad is like a naked congressman: frightening, a little fascinating, and regarded with disdain by almost everyone involved.

Consider the ingredients in a typical salad. Most contain cucumbers, which is a vegetable so bland it makes a rice cake taste like a Toblerone. Who’s idea was it to incorporate this culinary travesty into a dish? A cucumber is a pickle that isn’t done yet. Much like Pauly Shore, it has no place in a civilized society.

Tomatoes are also common, and that’s unfortunate, because they’re the most vile fruit this side of pineapple. Judging from the BLTs and tomato-tastic burgers everyone seems so fond of, I’m probably in the minority on this one, but I will maintain my anti-tomato crusade until I’ve rid the world of this evil scourge, or at least convinced the guy at the sandwich shop to remove it from my tuna melt. Indeed, some people are shocked that I hate tomatoes so much, and when they ask me why, they always try to guess the answer: “It’s the consistency, right?” Wrong. I mean sure, the consistency reminds me of those pig lungs my biology teacher brought in one day, and that doesn’t help their case. But the flavor is also highly offensive. They have no place on a salad, in a burger, in my apartment or on the planet Earth. Plus they look bad. Boom, epic tomato takedown complete.

Remove dressing, cucumbers and tomatoes, and there isn’t much left in your salad. Lettuce, mostly, which people think is more healthful than it actually is because it’s a shade of green that doesn’t glow in the dark. What a lot of people don’t realize is that lettuce, while not deleterious to one’s health in any way, actually doesn’t contain a whole lot of nutritional content; it’s mostly water. It’ll hydrate you, but it won’t make your biceps bulge like in a Popeye cartoon -- unless you lace it with protein and steroids, in which case you’re either a professional baseball player or certifiably insane.

For me, a salad’s true worth is in the extras, those added bits that give it its classification, be it Caesar, Greek, etc. Cheese cubes, ham, shaved carrots: That’s all good stuff. But you don’t need a salad in order to eat those things. You could add those ingredients to a roast turkey sandwich, skip the salad altogether, and eat a satisfying meal that won’t leave you hungry again in half an hour.

All of this runs through my head in a nanosecond. The server doesn’t even notice. I’m well-practiced at this, and I’ve eaten way too many salads to be duped by their false promises. Soup may not be as green -- in fact, most soup rather looks like a congealing pool of motor oil -- but at least you know what you’re getting. And if you’re lucky, you get noodles.

“Soup,” I say to the server, and in my head he walks away nodding his head slightly, thinking to himself, “Now that’s a guy who knows what he wants.” In reality he probably hasn’t given me a second thought, but it’s still nice to imagine sending someone off into the tingly embrace of a good mood. Besides, he’ll need that good mood. Once he finds out Willy’s at the library, he’s going to be pissed.

Tree's company

There’s an ornament I always place at the top of the tree. It’s a thin, faux-gold depiction of a boy about 6 years of age; he’s wearing those full-body pajamas with foot pads so thick they could deflect point-blank rock salt fired from a sawed-off shotgun. He’s holding a wrapped present in one hand and a teddy bear in the other, and the name “Jeff” is inscribed across his chest. He’s supposed to be me.

What a metaphor for the unique time-warp that is putting up a Christmas tree. For those lucky enough to enjoy this as a consistent tradition, setting up that wobbling pine is a trip inside Peabody’s Wayback Machine, a wormhole that connects us to holidays past. It would be more fun if there were an actual wormhole, because then we could make a detour into the 1930s to punch Hitler in the face and invest in Oreo stock. But lacking that, the tree is a nice stand-in.

Golden Boy is always the last ornament I place in the tree. There’s a reason for that.

Largely it’s because the rest of the process is a gigantic pain in the butt. I’m a firm believer that the tree should be erected as soon after Thanksgiving as possible -- otherwise you expend more energy than a deadsquatting coal miner, and for what? Two weeks of light and mirth? Forget that. Egyptians building the pyramids brick-by-laborious-brick had a less burdensome task than getting Christmas in order, and for my efforts I’d like my creation to stand as long as possible. Preferably through Easter.

By far the most tedious part of tree prep is stringing up the lights. In my years of doing this -- I’m the official Tree Guru -- there have been maybe two instances in which I got it right the first time. This is an exultant feeling; it’s like sinking a hole-in-one on the windmill course while blindfolded and balancing on a roller skate. Nine times out of 10, however, I take an initial stab at the lights, step back to assess my handiwork, and realize that all of the bulbs are in two knotted clusters. Or there’s a tangle in the middle that looks like an antelope mooning teenagers from the rear window of a Dodge station wagon. In these moments I marvel at how wonderful it would be to celebrate Hanukkah.

Surviving the process requires music. Lots of it. If I had my druthers I’d string the lights up to the sound of some hellion ripping buzz-saw guitar solos while screaming about werewolves, but there’s usually someone else in the room, so no heavy metal for this guy. I settle for Bing Crosby and lush orchestral classics, the kind of stuff they should play at the mall but never do. This gets me in the spirit. Hearing Kenny G blast out “Silver Bells” -- he’s got a decent Christmas album, don’t judge me -- ignites the necessary fire under my roasting chestnuts, and in this way I can get the lights straightened out without giving my animatronic Frosty a hat-shattering piledriver. You cope any way you can.

It would be easy, once the lights are settled, to climb into an easy chair and slip into semi-lucid consciousness in front of the 1000th broadcast of “Frosty Gets a Back Massage.” A nap is surely needed at this point. But the lights are only step one. Step two is hanging the ornaments, which becomes an increasingly complex challenge every year; the family is constantly adding new pieces to the ornament collection, while the old ones aren’t retired unless they’ve been cracked, smooshed, splintered or melted by the heat of an oil drum fire. That means more and more ornaments and less and less tree on which to place them. One more bear hugging a candy cane, or Santa riding on the back of a dolphin, and we’ll have to get a second tree -- a “kiddie” tree, if you will, for all the newcomers who are still too young to hang with the 30-year veterans. It would be similar to the kiddie table at Thanksgiving, only the kiddie tree would be quieter and require less cake. I’m still working out the details on this one.

Fitting all of the ornaments on the tree is one challenge. Age is another. I’ve been on ornament duty for about 25 years, and at the beginning it was easy, at least from a physical standpoint. When you’re young you can abuse your body in the most horrendous ways -- slam butt-first into a tree branch, do somersaults on nail beds, you name it -- and in two days you’re ready to rumble.

Those days were long ago. I have now officially reached the age of little annoying aches and pains, and while they’re mostly survivable, it makes ornament hanging a difficult endeavor, what with the ducking and bending and kneeling. It’s pathetic, really, because there are men my age still playing professional football and hurling themselves into people’s bodies like they’re trying to save them from an oncoming bus. Here I am, by contrast, wincing at my sore hip as I find just the right branch for the hand-knit Christmas booties I wore when I was 1. When I’m double my current age I’ll have to outsource this task entirely. Should make for an interesting entry in the Help Wanted section.

Despite all that, there’s one moment I get to experience each year which is perhaps the sweetest and most wistful part of my holidays: hanging up Golden Boy. He always gets the highest branch, and when I place him there, my hand lingers for a moment on his sharp, coin-thin curves. It may not be the oldest ornament we have, but it’s my favorite, has been for decades, and one of the most heart-wrenching aspects of Christmas is that I get to hold him only twice -- once when putting him up, once when taking him down -- and then it’s done. Off into a box, to be held and seen in another 11 months. The best and worst thing about this time of year is that it’s so fleeting.

Sure, I grumble and grouse. I’m a grumbler and a grouser. But a finished creation like that is always worth the effort.

Just don’t tell anyone I’m such a sap. It’d ruin my reputation.