A tiny little Christmas tree graces our living room now, like a spectre of ancient Christmases passed (or past, either one works for me). It’s fake, hence the spectre crack. It’s not like I don’t respect arboreal artificialities. Okay, I don’t respect them, but neither will I sneer upon the one that sits in our living room. It has all the flaws you want in a tree–it’s the perfect trees you never remember from childhood. The trees that had a ginormous patch of brown needles or the giant hole in the branches near the top–those were the memorable ones. So it’s with some measure of pride and happiness that I noticed our little tree was flawed, synthetic though it is. There was a crack in the base, preventing one of the four plastic stabilizer doo-dads from staying in its designated slot. After a crack team of duct tape artists was mobilized to fix this, the tree still presented an unwieldy sight. The slightest gust of wind, or even an idea thought whilst standing too close in proximity to the tree might send it tumbling. So we tied some string about its plastic waist and secured it to the wall with a nail. Best bachelor Christmas tree EVAR. We even named it Alf.
Oh, and I shouldn’t have implied it is a tiny Christmas tree, at least not in that Eight Inch High Ceramic Job Your Grandparents Always Put Up In Their Chloroseptic Condominium way. It’s about six feet tall, though its base only maxes out at thirty-five inches, according to the box. I believe it strained at thirty-four.
It’s the first Christmas tree I’ve had in my own place since leaving the house back in 1998. I guess getting your own tree, if you’re a guy, is the equivalent to admitting you’re not a kid anymore. Girls can do it because they dig frou-frou things like hearts and angels and Christmas decorations. Then you’ve got guys, the most into the spirit of the season they will get involves watching Die Hard on a big screen and drinking Sam Adams’ Holiday Brew. I did all the shopping myself–I’ve come to expect that if I don’t do it, it just doesn’t get done. That’s an observation, not a judgment. So I went out Saturday night to purchase said tree and ornaments, and I resolved to keep Christmas in my heart always. It put me in a festive mood, something I’ve not felt this early in December in a long time. Feels good, this seasonal cheer thing. I should try it more often.
Coming up this week is the 20th Fringecast, a high-water mark for us, having never before achieved the 20th of anything. Even birthdays were fuzzy for everyone. 21, you know it’s your birthday because everyone buys you alcohol. 18, you can smoke. But no vice marks the 20th. It’s cold, lonely, sin-free, and boring. However, we aim to present the exact opposite, in an audio fashion that is likely to shake you to your very core. You thought you knew everything about vampires and the Santa Ana winds? Think again people.
See you tomorrow.