{"id":14294,"date":"2019-12-24T14:51:23","date_gmt":"2019-12-24T19:51:23","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/jimbovard.com\/blog\/?p=14294"},"modified":"2019-12-27T17:40:05","modified_gmt":"2019-12-27T22:40:05","slug":"daily-caller-spooky-laughs-lusty-moms-and-the-real-meaning-of-christmas","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jimbovard.com\/blog\/2019\/12\/24\/daily-caller-spooky-laughs-lusty-moms-and-the-real-meaning-of-christmas\/","title":{"rendered":"Daily Caller: Spooky Laughs, Lusty Moms, and the Real Meaning of Christmas"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Art by Tom Blanton, www.pnar.org<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

American Renewal <\/a>\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Fear And Loathing In A Mall Santa Uniform<\/a><\/h1>\n

Spooky Laughs, Lusty Moms, and the Real Meaning of Christmas<\/h3>\n

by James Bovard<\/p>\n

When I moved from the mountains of Virginia to Boston in 1977, it was just like the Beverly Hillbillies going to California except I didn\u2019t have $80 million<\/a>. I had dropped out of college and decided Boston was the place to pursue literary fame and fortune. I had sold one piece a few months earlier and naively presumed I could speedily sell enough articles to survive in the big city.<\/p>\n

No such luck. I struck out everywhere I submitted and was soon\u00a0 slicing the gravy extra thin. I took refuge in what is now almost a relic from a bygone era \u2014<\/span> the Help Wanted section of the Boston Globe<\/i>.<\/p>\n

Two days later, I reported for a Santa Claus training session run by Western Temporary Services. A motley crew showed up for that gig, including two guys who caterwauled about being summoned at such an ungodly hour. I was puzzled by their moaning since it was noon. The primary qualification for the job was not dropping a flask on the floor during the 28 minute training session.<\/p>\n

After a long subway ride and bus trip to a Filene\u2019s department store in the south suburbs, I met the Boss Lady from Hell. Her forehead was a Mississippi Delta of throbbing veins and her eyes bulged as if she\u2019d mainlined caffeine every day since Nixon resigned. She looked me over, grimaced, snorted, and growled: \u201cI hope you\u2019re not like those Santas that damn temp agency sent me last year.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy? What\u2019d they do?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe first one was a wino who drooled on kids while slurring the names of his reindeer. The second pranced around like Peter Pan. The third was the worst \u2014<\/span> he seemed perfectly normal till he dropped trousers with a hundred kids watching.\u201d<\/p>\n

I made a note to double check the belt on the Santa outfit.<\/p>\n

Boss Lady was only in her mid-40s but she was crotchety beyond her years. She greeted me everyday with the traditional Boston \u201cHowahya?\u2026.. LISTEN!!!! I thought I told you to shave that red beard. Stop eating so many potato chips. Now, get out there and look jolly gawddammit.\u201d Her management motto was, \u201cspare the cussing, spoil the underling.\u201d<\/p>\n

I worked as a restaurant Santa, circling the dining room and talking to kiddies as they munched their two-star cuisine. As a walk-around Santa, physical contact with the kids rarely extended beyond a pat on the head. That was also an excellent recipe for keeping the Santa outfit dry.<\/p>\n

Visiting Santa was a highlight of the holiday season for lots of kids, many of whom engaged in screaming contests to draw me to their tables. But that exuberance wasn\u2019t universal. I walked up to one agitated four-year old, blond-haired girl clutching her chair\u2019s arms rests like a life raft. I asked what she wanted for Christmas. She gritted her teeth and replied: \u201cI want you to leave.”<\/p>\n

I never aspired to fit the cookie cutter mold of Santa. My laugh has always been rambunctious and it became rowdier when I occasionally slammed down a beer before clocking in as Claus. One petrified seven-year-old boy who was clinging to his mother\u2019s skirt sputtered at me: \u201cSanta, you have a weird laugh.\u201d My Cheshire Cat grin failed to tamp down his fears. That same boisterous laugh got me evicted from the press box of the Supreme Court<\/a> almost 20 years later.<\/p>\n

There were a few youngsters each night who savored the chance to expose me as a fraud. After a few minutes\u2019 interrogation, such kids usually beamed after proving that I could not possibly exist. I would shrug and say, \u201cWell, if I\u2019m not Santa Claus, I guess I can\u2019t bring you any presents.\u201d The secular version of Pascal\u2019s famous wager<\/a>\u00a0 quickly hushed most hecklers. And for those who refused to recant, I gave \u2018em a wink and mosied merrily on my way.<\/p>\n

As I traipsed around the restaurant one night, a four-year-old, curly-haired Shirley Temple lookalike was yelping up a storm. When I stopped at her table, she went mum as a Greek statue. The more I implored her to speak, the tighter she pursued her lips and stared at me unblinking.<\/p>\n

So I asked her standard-issue suburban Mom \u2014<\/span> middlin\u2019 height, middlin\u2019 physique, dishwater brown hair \u2014<\/span> what she wanted for Christmas.<\/p>\n

\u201cNah \u2014<\/span> you don\u2019t want to hear what I want,\u201d she said sheepishly.<\/p>\n

\u201cSure I do \u2014<\/span> tell Santa what you want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFor Christmas, I want to be laid twice.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat shouldn\u2019t be difficult in Boston,\u201d I shrugged and moved on to the next challenge. I hustled away before she offered to show me her tattoos.<\/p>\n

Near closing time the following evening, I sauntered up to a large table with five kids and their genial mother. The children were well-dressed, enjoying a dinner out after putting up Christmas decorations at their church. Three of the kids were still \u201cbelievers.\u201d I got their wish lists while their older siblings behaved immaculately, not snickering once. <\/b>The mother \u2014<\/span> tall, lithe, late 30ish, wearing a long green skirt \u2014<\/span> leaned back contentedly puffing Virginia Slims. After her flock finished their recitals, and with five young faces peering on, she asked laconically, \u201cWhat time do you get off work, Santa Claus?\u201d<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t me, it was the uniform. The alternative explanation is downright unflattering: that women found me more attractive when the only part of me that was uncovered was the swath that the Lone Ranger hid.<\/p>\n

Towards the end of my final night on the job, the assistant manager summoned me to follow her to a nook in the restaurant far from the prevailing hubbub. As I readied the jollity, Boss Lady Jr. tapped me on the shoulder: \u201cThe little girl is blind.\u201d<\/p>\n

There sat two of the most tranquil people I had seen the entire holiday season. The mother was resting her left hand lightly on the shoulder of a little brown-haired girl. When her mom announced, \u201cAnd here comes Santa Claus,\u201d a gentle smile bloomed across that six-year-old\u2019s face.<\/p>\n

I encouraged the daughter to touch the fake Santa beard. Unlike some kids, she did not attempt to yank it off as if she was capturing the enemy\u2019s flag. I have forgotten what she requested for Christmas but it wasn\u2019t a pony or an Au Pair or anything else that would send her parents to bankruptcy court.<\/p>\n

Speaking softly, I described some of the Christmas decorations in the restaurant. She beamed so I rattled on about the meaning of Christmas. I had seen a lot of warmth between parents and children that season, but the bond between this mother and daughter was more precious than any other. There was such a radiance from her mother\u2019s love, I knew that girl would have a wonderful Christmas.<\/p>\n

Visiting with those two rejuvenated my holiday spirit in a way that a bowl of spiked egg nog never could. Many years down the road, when the Christmas season sometimes seems bleak, thinking back on that mother and daughter puts a sparkle back in my eyes. And I count my blessings that I no longer have to don a garish suit and false whiskers to pocket $3.50 an hour frightening children with my laugh.<\/p>\n

James Bovard<\/em> is the author of \u201c<\/em>Attention Deficit Democracy<\/em><\/a>,\u201d \u201c<\/em>The Bush Betrayal<\/em><\/a>,\u201d \u201c<\/em>Terrorism and Tyranny<\/em><\/a>,\u201d and other books. Bovard is on the\u00a0USA Today Board of Contributors. He is on Twitter at @jimbovard. His website is at <\/em>www.jimbovard.com<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  American Renewal Fear And Loathing In A Mall Santa Uniform Spooky Laughs, Lusty Moms, and the Real Meaning of Christmas by James Bovard When I moved from the mountains of Virginia to Boston in 1977, it was just like the Beverly Hillbillies going to California except I didn\u2019t have $80 million. I had dropped […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":14300,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[2222,144,2223,2220,232,2221,527,186],"class_list":["post-14294","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-blind","tag-boston","tag-disability","tag-filenes","tag-laughter","tag-lusty-moms","tag-memoir","tag-santa-claus"],"yoast_head":"\nDaily Caller: Spooky Laughs, Lusty Moms, and the Real Meaning of Christmas - James Bovard<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/jimbovard.com\/blog\/2019\/12\/24\/daily-caller-spooky-laughs-lusty-moms-and-the-real-meaning-of-christmas\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Daily Caller: Spooky Laughs, Lusty Moms, and the Real Meaning of Christmas - James Bovard\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"  American Renewal Fear And Loathing In A Mall Santa Uniform Spooky Laughs, Lusty Moms, and the Real Meaning of Christmas by James Bovard When I moved from the mountains of Virginia to Boston in 1977, it was just like the Beverly Hillbillies going to California except I didn\u2019t have $80 million. 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The Wall Street Journal called Bovard \"the roving inspector general of the modern state\" and Washington Post columnist George Will called him a \"one-man truth squad.\" His 1994 book, Lost Rights: The Destruction of American Liberty, received the Free Press Association\u2019s Mencken Award as Book of the Year. His Terrorism & Tyranny won the Lysander Spooner \"Best Book on Liberty in 2003\" award. He received the Thomas Szasz Award for Civil Liberties work, awarded by the Center for Independent Thought and the Freedom Fund Award from the Firearms Civil Rights Defense Fund of the National Rifle Association. 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