Santa Secrets,
the titillating topic of this day's blogpost as it snows and NPR is confirming my sense that Bowling for Columbine is truly a movie I never need to sit through. Well, actually, I have a difficult time sitting still through any movie for ninety or so minutes.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of getting into the head of a man who doesn't simply play the role of Santa Claus, but Believes he is Santa, who has believed he is Santa for over three decades.
The man's real name is Scott and he was laden with silver and turquoise jewelry and had a small sense of humor. He bragged about having had friendships with several members of the glitterati, including John Denver. I asked several questions before I could get to the creamy nougat question:
So do you think he was loaded when he crashed his plane?
Santa's answer after a pause, pause, pause?
(hey, that makes me think of that Xmas tune:
Up on the rooftop the reindeer pause, out jumps good ol' Santa Claus. Down through the chimney with lots of toys, all for the little girls and boys.)
Ohabsolutelynot, he drank a lot, but not when flying.
Santa then went on to tell me how John Denver had a driver to chauffeur his drunk self about in his Porsche.
Santa let out a few of his own secrets.
He was frying-panned once while hearing toyly wishes of inner-city children.
I asked How was that possible, where did the kid get a frying pan?
The line of kids was at a community center which are all seemingly outfitted with kitchens. The kid had been beaten up by someone in a Santa suit so the kid seized the day, seized the op, seized the pan and let loose his hatred and fear upon poor Santa's head, sending him to the hospital for six stitches.
Similarly,
Santa Claus, this very Santa, was stabbed and he showed me the scar in his Santa jacket which he's patched with unmatching fur.
A drunk man, again a hater of Santa, attacked him instead of sitting upon his lap.
Oh, you wonder, Precious Perfect Nancy, why were you hanging with Santa?
Well, epinw readers, I enlisted myself for three hours of Santa time so little kids et al could have a non-suburban Santa experience - my idea. It was not publicized by the event producers but Santa and I rustled up some business.
Santa lives in a house on Abbott Road just outside the Middling City which is over 200 years old and is full of secret passageways that were used for the Underground RR. Faux walls, a ladder built into a wall and a ceiling over the true ceiling with large rooms for those en route to the big free north.
Santa painted this house bright red, of course.
Now put that all in your snowman's corncob pipe and smoke the shit out of it.
Secret Love.