The Santa cause

I never imagined I’d be scouring the internet in search of a Santa Claus costume. Then again, I never imagined having a son.

Well, I’ve got one now. A son, not a Santa costume. And he is singlehandedly, without a doubt, hands down, the cutest flippin’ baby who ever drew a breath, and if you dispute me on that score, I’m throwing down the gauntlet and you and I are engaging in gladiator-style fisticuffs that only end in submission or death.

Whoa. I think some weird paternal instinct just kicked in.

Anyway, yeah, he’s got limbs and a head and everything. I tend to only mention family stuff in the most abstract terms, and only then to illustrate a larger point, ’cause this isn’t a diary and nobody cares about my Aunt Mildred’s debilitating addiction to horse tranquilizers. Full disclosure: There is no Aunt Mildred.

Having a son, though, means humiliating myself for the sake of his enjoyment, and that’s where the Santa getup comes in. I knew months ago, when I first held him in my arms, that I’d be one of those corny dads who dresses up like St. Nick every Christmas, until the boy stops believing or until I regain some semblance of self-respect. That’s why I’ve just spent an hour online trying to track down a beard that doesn’t scratch, a pair of red pants that won’t tear at the crotch, and a fake belly that shakes like a bowlful of jelly.

Keep in mind I’m doing this for a person who smiles and giggles while peeing on his Dumbo lamp.

Faking the existence of a big bearded elf isn’t exactly a new trick in a parent’s repertoire. My own parents would leave out milk and cookies on Christmas Eve and, in classic fashion, my father would wait until I went to bed and take a big bite of one. I never thought to ask why Santa would only take a single bite of a cookie, but in a way I’m glad it never came up. My parents’ explanations for these things tended toward the bizarre. When I asked how Santa got into the house despite our lack of a fireplace, my mother replied that he simply liquified himself and slipped into the house through the plumbing in the basement. That made the Chris Kringle of my imagination a weird cross between a jolly demigod and a shape-shifting swamp creature. I’ll admit it was a creative response. I appreciated it, sort of. I think.

Actually dressing up as Santa is the next, and last, logical step. And I have to do it now. By next Christmas my son may be smart enough to tell that it’s just daddy playing make-believe; this year he might still be fooled. He probably won’t form a permanent memory of his first face-to-face with Santa, but I can at least provide a little temporary magic for him. Besides, there’s bound to be a ton of pictures, and years from now we can show them to him as a reminder that daddy was once willing to suit up like a total ass.

Which isn’t as easy as you’d think. The problem with Santa suits, I’ve come to find, is that there isn’t much middle ground. Judging from online reviews, the cheap costumes last about as long as a Taylor Swift song before they evaporate like the sweat on a beer coaster. Meanwhile, the higher-end getups are just way too expensive, commanding prices I could only afford if I started a drug cartel specializing in the distribution of black tar heroin.

And look, nothing against mall Santas, but I was kinda hoping to snag something with a little more pizazz than your average Yuletide freelancer. I’ve seen a couple of mall Santas with quality duds -- a fellow with a genuine white beard made quite the impression on me when I was 6 -- but they’re generally the exception. Most of these “Santa’s helpers” wear clothes that look like they were salvaged from an attic fire. I don’t know if the malls provide these suits or if the actors have to buy them themselves, but someone should inform the powers that be that Father Christmas is meant to evoke merriment, not concern about his lax laundry routine.

There are also a lot of decisions I have to make about the little bells and whistles. Your basic Santa suit has certain ingredients that don’t change -- red hat, coat and pants, white beard, black boots -- but the smaller details and accouterments are largely a matter of taste. Green mittens or white gloves? Holly on the hat, or no holly? How red should the cheeks be? There are almost too many interpretations from which to choose. I could go with the polished Classic Coke take, the regal “Polar Express” interpretation or whatever the hell Billy Bob Thornton was doing in “Bad Santa.” It would be easier to design a robot for SpaceX than to pick a final look for this thing.

But pick one I will, ’cause a little guy’s first Christmas experience is riding on it. You know it’s funny, sometimes people give me grief for romanticizing my own childhood. But in a way, maintaining that connection to the boy of yesteryear has been good preparation for connecting to the boy of right now. I remember Christmas as a time of impossible magic and moments of joy so perfectly tuned it hurt. Gifted with a long memory, I remember what made it that way. With a chance now to re-live that time of life through someone else’s eyes, I can think of no better way to revive those old feelings than by inspiring them in someone else -- someone so wide-eyed and fresh that his joy will be unencumbered by the cynicism of later life. I don’t want my son’s Christmases to be as good as mine. I want them to be better. Because I love him. That’s what the holidays are all about.

Well, that and fake Santa tummies. But one thing at a time.

Me me media

One of my Facebook friends used the term “mainstream media” in a derogatory context recently and I just about flipped my freakin’ lid.

Perhaps acting against my better judgement, I jumped into the fray, laying out a case for the importance of journalism in a missive so long it came with a complimentary Garfield bookmark. Pragmatism and reason were the predominant tones I tried to strike, and I was more or less successful; the online exchange ended in mutual “likes” of each others’ final comments. So while no minds were permanently changed, this friend and I at least came away from the conversation with a better understanding of where the other person was coming from.

Still, his initial comment -- and my decision to respond to it -- fly in the face of conventional wisdom. Said wisdom tells us it’s bad form to talk about politics in mixed company, and there are certainly instances in which this advice should be followed diligently. Nobody wants to tick off Uncle Mort over squash and pie at Thanksgiving, unless of course they want to stagger out to their car with a rolled-up Ted Cruz bumper sticker jutting out of their eye. Likewise, the first person to ask “Who follows politics?” at her niece’s wedding reception should be thrown onto the dance floor and kept there ’till the very last note of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.” People don’t want to deal with that scene.

Social media is interesting in that it doesn’t seem to fit into the bounds of that conventional wisdom. If you’re burning to know what your lab partner from eighth-grade chemistry thinks about Trump, Sanders, the National Anthem and Robert E. Lee, just log onto Facebook. He’ll tell you within hours. He’ll post a link to an article, or respond to someone else’s comment, and before long you’ll be seething at his perceived cluelessness and neglecting important work. You’ll be laboring over a thank-you card to your grandmother and write, “Dear Grandma, thank you for the wonderful birthday gift and oh my God I can’t believe Kevin Berkman actually likes Trump WHAT AN IDIOT! Love, your dearest Jeffrey.”

So the internet, it seems, is immune to this particular brand of tact. I used to ignore the maelstrom, thinking it better to avoid confrontation altogether and just post pictures of me posing with baseball mascots. I’m doing this less and less. I’m speaking up, and I’m doing it for two reasons.

First off, there’s stuff out there that’s just a flat-out affront to basic logic and common sense. I’m not talking about base ideological differences; Person A favors a strong central government, Person B thinks states should have more power, and neither is wrong, necessarily -- they just have different visions for the kind of country they want to live in. OK, fine. But when someone claims without evidence that Senator X is secretly a space alien who’s using cell towers to brainwash people into wearing American flag underwear … well, I feel some level-headed intervention is necessary. It’s a dirty job, but someone needs to gently remove the tinfoil hat.

There’s a more important reason, though. People who use the term “mainstream media” in a derogatory sense (or the odious abbreviation “MSM”) typically get their news from fringe media sources, and those are the sources spewing the content that’s truly skewed; these outlets are in the business of reinforcing worldviews, not reporting news. I’m talking the Breitbarts, the Drudge Reports and their slimy ilk. Getting one’s news from these sources is like buying a fake Rolex from the inside of some sleazeball’s trench coat.

But the obvious bias coming from these outlets, while problematic, isn’t their most pernicious quality. It’s that they tell people, often falsely or in exaggerated fashion, what those on the opposite end of the political spectrum are supposedly thinking.

Here’s a hypothetical example: Your old chum Tommy Tickletoes, a political conservative, posts a link to a Breitbart article about a GOP Senator who authored a bill that would protect shelter dogs from being euthanized. Based on what I’ve seen just on my own Facebook feed, the comments below the article would read something like this: “About time! You know the snowflake liberals want all dogs to die.” “Way to stick it to the libtards! A rEaL AmErIcAn hero!!!!!” “libruls r hypocrites, tey want 2 kill puppies & r stupid.”

You, a proud liberal, have spoken with your liberal friends about the issue. Not one of them wants dogs to die. So where do these commenters get the notion that liberals are dog-haters? From their safe, comfy media sources, of course. Oh, and if you’re reading this and you’re politically conservative, go ahead and flip the situation around and make Tommy a Democrat. The logic still doesn’t hold up.

You don’t get to know someone, or reach any kind of understanding, by reading about their opinions on opposition websites. You get to know someone by talking to them. So I speak out. I speak out because the means of conquering division is not to retreat into your corner and start throwing grenades; it’s to walk out onto the battlefield with a hand extended. And you know what? It’s hard. When passions run deep, it can be tough to keep emotions in check, and I’d be lying if I said I had a perfect record in this regard. The endeavor, though, is too important to give up. If we’re going to start building bridges, we need to start with the foundation.

This opinion, of course, is being shared in the dreaded mainstream media, so doubters may be wary. If they can at least receive it without donning their boxing gloves, though, that’s a pretty good start.