FEATURE: Holiday Potpourri

By Scott Dickensheets

Twenty minutes early was way too late. We pulled into the Best Buy on Sunset at 5:40 a.m. on The Busiest Shopping Day of the Year. The store was going to open early, at 6, with a raft of early-bird specials, including the one I was interested in, $7.99 CDs. The parking lot was full, but only because hundreds of people were already there. The line snaked from the front door, around the side of the building, past the loading bay and out back, which is where the end of the line was when we arrived. A woman sprinted in from the parking lot. "You don't have a chance at the specials," one guy muttered to us, heading back to his car. Best Buy employees worked the crowd with clipboards, pre-selling the hot items. "I've got one 17-inch monitor left," one shouted.

"Samsung?" a guy in line asked excitedly.

"No," the employee replied. "[Some unintelligible but lower-grade brand name.]"

No deal, fella. The guy was 200 back in line but it was too soon on TBSDotY to give up on the good stuff.

OK, I said I was there for cheap CDs, which is true, but what's truer is that I was there for some cheap sociology, some nifty insights about herd behavior, gullibility, marketing mojo, conditioned consumers and sleep-deprivation—observations I could inevitably bundle into an ongoing thesis best summed up like this: People are strange.

And people are strange, thank God. "Three-thirty," a group of ladies—maybe 25 back from the front—answered when asked when they got in line. "They got here at 12:30," one said admiringly, indicating the people at the very front, who were then plunging through the newly opened door. You don't need me to tell you what to think about those people—not the crazy 3:30-ers or the stone-psycho 12:30-ers—but I will footnote your response with this thought: Not even for Springsteen tickets, but especially not for household appliances. It's a measure of how thoroughly we've been trained to drool when the bell rings.

It took just a few minutes for the butt end of the line to get through the door, the last few feet seeming like a perp walk as Best Buy workers lined up sholder to shoulder at the door, forming a human shield against latecomers hoping to take cuts.

Once inside, I realized I'd read the ad wrong—only select discs were eight bucks. Not a bad deal if you wanted Sting, but I was after the Shins, and that was full price. I looked around. The checkout line already snaked to the back of the store. Uh, not this dog, Pavlov. It was 6:11 when we left, defiantly empty-handed.

We drove past Toys R Us, where people were clustered out front, waiting to be allowed in, and ended up at Wal-Mart, in the raucous midst of what I like to think of as the Carnival of Cheap Plastic Stuff. Everyone in the world was there, elbow-to-elbow in a spending frenzy that surely bumped the economic indicators up a few points. The line at the layaway counter snaked through the store, nearly as long as the Best Buy line. No cheap Shins there, either, and nothing I didn't already know about human nature. Didn't stay long.

Later, I saw TV footage of scuffling shoppers in some other city and read about the Florida woman trampled in a rush for cheap DVD players, and I think my complete lack of surprise at those things is the truest insight I can offer.

By Kate Silver

My childhood pets—a list as long as it is disturbing—would throw complications into every holiday. Who would care for them when the family left town? There was (at differernt times) Rufus the dog, Jorje the lizard, Jezebel (I think) the snake, a few rabbits, frogs and turtles whose names have escaped me, and the many, many hamsters. Harry and Mortimer were the patriarchs of the lot, inbred or brain-damaged enough that they were inordinately dumb and slow and would peacefully rest in hand while my sister and I gently tossed them towards the ceiling and then caught them, screaming out their new, tossed names, Flapjack Sam and Pancake Fred.

Then there was Bitch, the miniature Siberian hamster/escape artist who consumed cigarettes and got out of every cage she was placed in. Eventually, we gave up on trying to contain her, and she roamed the house for years, running through the kitchen at night looking for crumbs and, on thirsty days, crawling on my dad's freshly showered feet and lapping up the beaded water. Then there was Mary, who birthed a few handfuls, and Buffy who birthed, well, we're getting to that.

One Christmas, when I was 12 (I think), we had plans to drive from Houston to St. Louis to visit grandparents. Usually, a neighbor kid or friend would be available to take care of the animals, but this year was different. It was impossible to leave the hamsters in the hands of an outsider, I pleaded with my parents, because Buffy was pregnant.

They relented. We piled into the car, Buffy and her gestating brood in tow. Her cage sat between my sister and I, and at some point the birthing came about. I want to say it happened at night in the hotel room, and not in the car when her cage was acting as a tray for our bags of Cheetos, but it's possible that I've blocked it out. The subsequent days are far clearer. Now there were three squirmy, eyeless-looking, shrunken-puppy-like babies back in the car with us, joining our annual trip to St. Louis. They were kind of cute, and the whole life process seemed kind of neat for a couple of hours. Then, Buffy started behaving strangely. She climbed up the wires of the cage to the top, and, monkey-bar-style, maneuvered herself from one bar to the other until she was dangling over the nesting area. Then she'd release, dropping on the babies. This process repeated a few times, until she found another way to busy herself: She picked up a baby and stuffed it into her cheek pouch. Then another. Then, the third, as though they were large kernels of dried corn. "Buffy, no!" my sister and I screamed, horrified, but also fascinated. "Don't eat the babies!"

Our words fell on deaf hamster ears. The trip, the birth, the drive through Arkansas, it was all too stressful for this little white hamster with beady eyes. She protected her young in the only way she knew how: consumption.

These days, my sister remembers the climbing/eating tragedy simply: "Pockets and pouncing, pockets and pouncing …" I remember it as the year of the cannibal hamster. Sadly, it never deterred my future pet purchases. Just made me wish that some of the pets of Christmas past could meet other pets of Christmas past. If only Buffy were still around the day that Jezebel (I think that was her name), the snake, escaped …

By Joe Schoenmann

This story is probably a little too John-Boy Walton for the hip Weekly set, but tough.

At 11, I discovered bicycles beyond the one I'd constructed out of scraps taken from the garbage heap that filled our backyard garage-barn in Wisconsin. For a few years, I thought my bike was the coolest. Sure, the wheels were solid rubber. Sure the frame, circa 1880, was a good 150 pounds of solid iron. And yes, the chain came off every 100 yards or so.

But I built it myself.

Then Shawn Riley let me ride his StingRay. The fat back tire. The brake-shift mechanism. Streamers from the handlebars. A chopper feel, with the back of the seat set low and the front raised high. Chicks dug it. You cruised like it was a car. And it was fast—at least it felt fast because peddling was completely effortless as compared to my Sherman tank.

Best of all, it was a bike. Not a house. Not a car. Not even a TV. Surely, my parents could afford a bike. For six months I dropped hints. In the home stretch, Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve, I made declarative orders. "I want a banana bike, preferably a Schwinn, for Christmas."

Mom would say we couldn't afford it. But didn't I detect a smile in that denial? Wasn't there a hint of possibility in the lilt of her voice?

On Christmas Eve, the seven of us would play cards, music, make up songs—real Waltons stuff— to avoid sleep. Around 4 a.m., we sent an emissary downstairs to see if Santa had visited yet. He reported back: "The room's full of stuff."

"Is there a bike?"

I was the youngest, so my questions carried no weight. They ignored it and flew downstairs to tear into the wrapping paper.

Five hours later. I'd gotten some socks, a couple shirts. Corduroys. Monopoly. My sister got what she desired, an Easy-Bake Oven. She was happily making little cakes in front of me, refusing to let me try. I still hadn't give up hope about the bike.

"Mom, is there anything else?"

"Oh, my gosh!" she said, laughing. "There is!"

She gave me the car keys and told me to look in the trunk. We had an old four-door Impala with just enough rusted holes in the bottom of the trunk that a bike just might fit.

I ran out to the car. I opened the trunk. I saw the wooden toboggan. I dragged it into the house.

"Thanks, mom," I said, and it was the first time I'd experienced that distinctly adult practice of saying things you don't feel to make someone else feel better. "I love it."

By Stacy J. Willis

Nothing says Christ is born like a life-sized camel with a 75-watt bulb in its hump. Park it in your front yard next to a Fiberglas penguin wearing a scarf and a 6-foot plastic candy cane and it should be clear to all who pass that you appreciate the meaning of the season: It's time to challenge the resolve of the homeowner's association.

Start at Wal-Mart. Greet the greeter—Merry Christmas, to you, too!—find the two-acre seasonal section. Lose your breath when you see the aisles upon aisles of miniature Santas and dancing reindeer and sparkly, stringy, hideous hunks of Christmas-shaped plastic. Think of The Graduate: Plastics! Scratch your head in awe. Ponder the significance of the collision of Christianity and consumerism. Get over it. Be grateful for the reckless imagination that somehow links all of this to the story of the Virgin Birth: Is that a giant inflatable Dalmation wearing a Santa hat? Christ is born! Feel momentarily sacrilegious. Get over it. Giant inflatable Dalmation! $24.74—Wal-Mart is knocking down prices! Will that fit in the car?

Slow down. Regain composure. Plan the overall aesthetic theme of your yard: Peace on Earth, or I Dare You to Complain. Opt for the latter. Shop strategically. The 5-foot singing Santa with pose-able arms and legs, whose "head turns and hips swing as mouth moves to sounds" is a bit pricey: $59.73. But it does come in Hispanic. Covet it. Worry about the money. Covet it some more. Ask the woman with the cart full of jingle bells what she thinks you should do. "My mother-in-law has it—it's great. There's a microphone, and you can sing into it and Santa's lips move to your words." Imagine making Santa say dirty things. Put him in your cart.

Feel sleazy, but in a merry way. Decide to offset guilt with the purchase of a plastic baby Jesus in a manger, $23.99. Note fine print on box: "Warning! Crib's small parts pose choking hazard for small children." Think of lawsuits. Put Jesus back on shelf.

Get a 14-inch illuminated lamb, $8.54. And the life-size camel: "Great for either indoor or outdoor use," $42.98. And a 6-foot inflatable Bart Simpson in a Santa Hat, $37.82. And a full nativity scene, "straw not included," $49.88. Become hysterical with seasonal joy. Wish you had a bigger yard. Plan to charitably decorate the neighbor's yard. And the street.

Get in line with a cart full of Christmas. Wait. Grow impatient. Wait. Try not to lose Christmas spirit. Wait. Think about the money you're about to lay down on a life-size foul-mouthed Santa and a camel. Grow weary. Wait. Look at watch. Abandon cart. Go home. Hang tasteful lights. Make cookies. Sing carols quietly. Love thy neighbor.

By Steve Bornfeld

Subject: Holiday horror story.


Circumstance: Working.


Job: Security guard.


Time: Graveyard shift, Christmas Eve/Christmas Day.


Duties: Patrol the grounds of a medical-science laboratory; deliver live lab rats; check on dogs about to be put down for medical experiments; and secure the morgue, containing the corpses of people who left their bodies to science, with organs to be harvested.


Result: The experience inspired the following yuletide poem, which we hope will become a Christmas tradition in your family and warm you for many holiday seasons to come:

'TWAS A minute past midnight, and I should've deloused, lots of rodents were stirring, all bigger than a friggin' mouse.

THE FORMALDEHYDE was hung by the corpses with care, in hopes that a coroner soon would be there.

THE DEAD dudes were rotting on stainless-steel beds, while visions of Poltergeist with Craig T. Nelson danced in my head.

AND MUTTS with their pitiful, heartbreaking yaps, were hours away from their tragic dirt naps.

WHEN OUT at the morgue there arose such a clatter, I lost bladder control wondering what was the matter.

AWAY TO the cadavers I flew with a flash, flung open the door and discovered the stash.

A SIX-PACK of Bud fallen free of the freezer, dislodged by a limb from a well-preserved geezer.

GENTLY I reached past some dead guy's iced kidney. Mr. Feinstein's, I think, set for some guy named Sidney.

POPPED OPEN the can, the Bud fizzled and drizzled; then I guzzled it down and watched televizzle. (Props to Snoop!)             

TO ANYONE'S wondering eyes it was clear, a hodgepodge of misfits and a shitload of beer.

AND SO went my Christmas, all snockered and stewed, with the rats and the dogs and the very dead dudes.  

I STARED at the canines and gazed at the rodents, then toasted the stiffs with an ode extra potent.

"NOW DASHER! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen! On Comet! On Cupid! C'mon, let's get blitzened!"

"WHAZZAT?" I slurred when I heard a strange sound, as I stumbled and bumbled and fumbled around.

THERE, ON his sleigh for a ride oh so annual, was a fat guy with red cheeks who reeked of Jack Daniels.

HE WAS chubby and plump, a right jolly ol' souse, and I belched when I saw him in spite of myself.

HE HAD a broad face and a gigantic belly that shook when he laughed like he'd swallowed a deli.

I LURCHED out the door and what should appear, not pink elephants, no, but eight tiny reindeer.

I KNEW I was sloshed as I fell in the slush, but I had more concerns when I saw he looked flushed.

HE SEEMED pretty harmless, this red-suited sap, but I worried he might catch a DUI rap.

I STRAIGHTENED my shoulders and mustered with pride, "Hey, YOU know that friends don't let friends drink and drive!"

I REACHED for the keys to the reindeer ignition, but Santa leapt forward and announced his ambition:

"NONSENSE, YOUNG man, I'm as fit as a fiddle. Why, when we're done tonight, me and the missus will diddle!"

I JUMPED in the seat next to jolly St. Nick, cracked open some JB's and we shared a nip.

THEN WE took off and flew through the crisp winter air, dropping our load with nary a care. 

WE BROUGHT much delight to the children that night, spreading presents and joy in our big yuletide flight.

AND THEY heard us exclaim ere we drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight!"

Epilogue: UPON OUR return, we were both promptly booked, for driving a sleigh while totally cooked.

AND AFTER a night in the Clark County jail, Santa and I are both out on bail.

By Maria Phelan

I've always been a little bit of a Grinch where the holidays are concerned. It's not that I don't like Christmas, I just find it a little more amusing with a bit of bah-humbug mixed in for effect. I have a feeling that at least part of this cheerful disdain has something to do with my dad. When my younger sister and I were little (little as in 2 or 3 years old), he used to tell us each year that there would be no Christmas because Santa was dead. When we protested that Santa was not dead, he would answer, "Oh, yes he is. I shot the fat bastard last year when I caught him on the roof."

The year my dad's best friend's son, Wayne, shot his first deer, they sent a picture of Wayne with his rifle in one hand, the other wrapped around the deer's antlers. My dad took a red marker, colored the deer's nose red, and called us into the living room to show us what Wayne had shot. Like most kids remember their parents asking what kind of cookies they wanted to make for Santa, I recall my dad asking, "You do know where venison comes from, don't you?"

But somehow my sister and I managed to come through it all with minimal psychiatric scarring, with a couple of possible exceptions. There was the year that my sister was put in charge of the Christmas cards and wrote a poem about how much Christmas sucked (and sent it out to all of the family and friends before showing our mom what she had written). And the year Mom made me put up Christmas lights, and I stapled them to the garage door in the shape of a hand giving the finger (Mom wasn't terribly amused, but Dad laughed before making me take it down).

Oh, and there's my personal tradition of torturing my sister by sleeping in until noon on Christmas Day—our parents won't allow any present opening until everyone is up. Even now (she's 22), it drives her crazy.

So maybe all this was why, last year, I was more curious than anything else about how Christmas—my first alone—would be. While I looked at a solo Christmas as one of those unavoidable rights of passage into adulthood, in the days leading up to the 25th, I couldn't help but wonder if it would all suddenly become terribly depressing on the big day. I did my best to prepare. On Christmas Eve I bought a couple gallons of mashed potatoes, a pie, an extra large bucket of cool whip and three bottles of wine. I also made sure I had enough movies to stay entertained for days and compiled a stack of CDs with music I was sure would encourage that you-are-not-a-huge-loser-even-though-you're-alone-on-Christmas vibe. As near as I could tell, I was set.

And then it was Christmas. I was alone, but it wasn't all that bad. My parents called to tell me that they had decided to postpone opening presents until I visited in January (which delighted me and nearly killed my sister), and I talked to friends and other family, made and ate dinner, watched movies—basically enjoyed myself. Then, friends and I saw Gangs of New York, a perfect Christmas movie for a slightly Grinchy person. And that was it. I went home, had one last glass of wine, admired the neighbors' Christmas lights, and went to sleep. Maybe it was just the visions of dead Santas and reindeer burgers dancing in my head, but Christmas alone wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it could be.

I'll be going home for Christmas this year, though.