Friday, December 01, 2006

'Tis the Season

To kill, kill, kill.

I originally intended to write a biting and incisive epistle about the Macy’s Christmas windows and how they piss me off in several undefinable ways, but Adam beat me to it, and his description of the windows and their requisite gawkers is way funny.

He did leave out mention of one window that is lined with suspiciously hallucinogenic-looking mushrooms. I can only hope Bob and Sue from Omaha have no problem explaining to little Janey and Timmy that the sweating and the shakes will pass, and they should hasten to drink up their orange juice.

Christmas is in full bloom in New York, despite the fact today’s high temp is a freakish 72 degrees. God knows this is not a new insight, but this season is so commercialized, especially in this Capital of Commerce, that I just can’t bring myself to give a damn.

When my landlords brought my mail to me after I got back from San Francisco, I had a stack of catalogues collectively as large as War and Peace, all exhorting me to buy useless crap for everyone I know as a mute yet lasting expression of my love. My friendship with those I hold near and dear can clearly best be encapsulated by wiener-dog shaped corn-cob holders. Now that we all know that, I feel better.

My mom, who hates both crowds and the cold, is coming up for the weekend. She has made a baffling request to go to Rockefeller Center to see the tree. Now, although it’s 70 degrees out now, the temperature is supposed to plummet tonight into the high 30s, and the weekend is looking to be ass cold. Additionally, every single tourist in New York has an atavistic desire to immediately go to Rockefeller Center and mill around like pre-leap lemmings, slack-jawed and gaping, while I try to elbow my way through their Midwestern Diabetes II goodness.

I am considering getting a mom-leash, as my mom is 5’1” on a good day, and if I lose her in that crowd, it’s all over.

Now that I work for the Man, and the Man owns 30 Rock, my mom is determined to go to the Top of the Rock just so we can use my discount card, which magically turns a $17 elevator ride to a scary high place into a $15 elevator ride to a scary high place. It’s a Christmas Miracle, Charlie Brown. Only one that activates my vertigo and makes me want a martini 78 stories up.
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