I could have chosen — easily — a hundred good Christmas song titles for this column about a shocking turn of events at Christmastime, but I’m pretty sure I picked the best one.
Also I’m pretty sure I oversold the shocking part, but it’s a thing that’s on my mind and now I’m going to get it off my mind.
Here’s the story, which maybe has some relevance to you no matter how or what you celebrate, if you do (plus there’s a really great playlist related to it; two, actually).
Hang in there with me.
First, that particular song — one of my all-time favorite Christmas/Holiday songs, from The Flaming Lips — is also very apropos of our current times, engulfed in wars as we are. It’s a song that can mean different things at different Christmases (they’re all different, it seems, year to year) and it’s ultimately positive, even though it delves into the depressing existentialism that makes us all human.
I’ve long been on record — even right here at Ye Olde Substack — as saying that Christmas is my favorite holiday ever, despite the fact that one year when I was a kid my brother came home drunk when I was sitting alone in the dark in front of the tree, basking in the lights, dreaming of the packages, especially a really big tall one for me in the back, and he pretty much scarred me for life.
It was Christmas Eve. I was in my element — alone, as usual, the ever-hopeful latch key kid, lights out, basking in the glow of the tree, even though it was fake and I hated for many bitter years that it was fake.
My brother barged in the door, went to flip on the lights and fell into that now suddenly sacred fake plastic tree, knocking it over and smashing a bunch of presents in the process, plus kicking the wrap off the big present in the back as he tried to get his drunk ass up.
It was an epic pratfall. The drunken Christmas Eve Pratfall.
I cried.
I was very young.
I’m not seeking any sympathy; I just wanted to set the tone about how much I love Christmas. Once my brother set the tree back up and made fun of me for crying he said, given the damage done and the fact that it was Christmas Eve, I should just open the big tall box that now had half its wrap off.
“No!” I said, wiping the tears away. “It’s not Christmas!”
“It’s a BB gun,” he said, ruining it. “Karen got it for you.” That was my sister. “Let’s shoot it at the army men.”
“What army men?” I asked.
“I got you a bag of them. They’re in there somewhere.”
So, yeah, despite all of that, I love Christmas. Maybe because of that? Always trying to make it right.
Brief detour in the story to say that, oooh, you might know someone who could used a holiday gift of some sort. I’ve got a thing for you:
Through the years there were good Christmases and average ones; usually the highest of expectations made them seem like average ones if it was a year I was hoping for perfection and, still learning the world, didn’t find it.
I got married, had kids and wanted every one of those young-kid Christmases to be perfect.
And guess what? They were, in their own way.
Since then, the Christmases are what they are — I learned in the teenage years that teenagers really don’t care that much about Christmas and sometimes have zero interest in hanging ornaments and definitely not putting on the lights. But even in the teenage years, they still liked to go to the Christmas tree lot and pick out a tree — a real tree — whether or not they will swear to that now that they are in college.
But the point is this, in case the palm fell off the chin of this particular narrative: I don’t really care about Thanksgiving other than I love eating (and giving thanks). But if I missed it? No big deal. Kinda hate Halloween, I have to tell you. The rest? I don’t know. Whatever.
Christmas is it. The Holy Grail of fake holidays.
And for years now my partner Kabes and I have celebrated together and we’re both super into the season, the hygge of it, the lights, the presents, the love, the vibe and of course our multiple playlists we listen to, sipping wine and tea. We are simpatico on so many things, but Christmas is the ultimate pinkie-swear bond that it will forever be our thing.
Which makes 2023 a weird outlier.
Not into it.
Strange to even write that.
Too much going on. And, poetically, this is true for both of us. Kabes is in Texas, of all places, tending to a dying mother. I’m in Portland, about to do something bigger and riskier than I can comprehend at the moment, so distraction is ever-present in our holidays.
The difference? She got a tree. She put her lights up. Her house is hygge-fied. She started listening to our Christmas playlists as soon as we all ate her delicious Thanksgiving dinner. She’s all in (but yes, the long decline of her mom — oh so many complicated feelings there, by the way, but not mine to completely delve into — has certainly dampened things).
I just got off the phone with her. We talked about how odd things are this year. Knowing she was taking her kids to see their grandmother’s likely final days meant that she wasn’t going to be around, dovetailing nicely (if that word fits) with me going to Portland to do something maybe stupid to help someone in my family. We’d be away from each other in the formerly lovely in its consistency pre-Christmas build up, so the cheer was less; had to be, knew it would be.
My part of this outlier mood is that I knew, less than a year after I’d just moved (reluctantly) from a place I lived for a decade, to a place that, other than sucking the life out of me during the months-long move, was a pretty cool place, I’d be moving again.
That January 2023 start of the move — hey, no problem, didn’t have to be out of the old place until Feb. 15 so this should be a breeze — grinded down skilled movers; someone tore the seat of their pants, others cramped up; sweat and swears were common; more than once I was told that items that we moved downstairs would never see the light of day upstairs and out the door and if they did it wouldn’t be those guys doing the moving.
It was crushing. I made roughly 187 trips — and many of you remember that I wrote about the insanity of it all — hundreds of steps up and down the side of hill where the house was. Couches. A ping pong table. An insanely heavy cabinet that almost killed a man. Tons and tons of books. Then more books. Delicate expensive modern furniture that I fretted over. Boxes of junk. A nice refrigerator I bought during the pandemic that got held up in the supply chain madness. Precious gem! Actual weights from a gym. Metal platform beds. So many more books.
Yeah, let’s pack that shit back up — time to go! (Close up of people crying…)
Knowing I had to move — at one point possibly as early as January of 2024, though that since has faded — had my mind in a mess and clearly still does. As partners, we had always planned on moving in together some day; we loved our separate, distinct residences. There was no rush. It would happen — some day. We’re both divorced. We’re chill about stuff like that.
But that one year Oakland detour was only a good idea on paper — the place just never got used in the way I envisioned it. Nobody’s fault. That’s life. But it was — is — ridiculously expensive, especially for someone trying to write for a living (during a strike, an industry contraction, etc.) and that someone (hi) needing to finally, years into the process, pull his elder brother’s estate into some kind of order while that brother drifted into dementia while living in a failing body at a nursing home.
I have a strange family of origin. I’m the youngest — by a wide margin. I’m the only one in the family whose name doesn’t start with a K. They weren’t expecting me. And no wonder — pretty big gap.
Nobody before me ever had kids.
As all those New York Times stories about aging in America and the catastrophe of the unprepared elderly and their families and siblings (often dragged into caring for them, unexpectedly) attest, thing are pretty bleak in the Growing Old Industry of America. I know a lot of you are already in this mix, helping people you didn’t know you’d need to help; propping up people who couldn’t or wouldn’t plan out that long fade of their lives. If you’re not rich, the United States of America, a first world country, just as a reminder, is a pretty depressing place to get old and sick.
I know, I know: you thought this was a Christmas story.
And it is. Here it comes. It’s just not very dramatic, ultimately.
As a double negative, I wouldn’t say I wasn’t in the Christmas spirit. It just didn’t seem like a priority. I usually buy my Christmas tree right after Thanksgiving (I mean, if you’re going to pay those prices, you might as well enjoy it before it dies).
Not this year. Why buy a tree when you might be planning a move? Then soon after: why buy a tree when you’re going to Portland to get your wits about you and right before doing something (or trying to do something — it’s a long way from done) that is some kind of fiscal madness, although less mental than not doing anything?
So I didn’t get the tree. Kabes was disappointed.
Where was my spirit? Why wasn’t I playing my beloved playlists 24/7? Who are you?
This was before the timetable to rush back to see her mom got moved up — twice. I was scheduled to be in Portland from Dec. 1 to 18. She had to make plans that called for her to be in Houston until Dec. 23. With no tree to go home to and college kids who are, well, college kids about Christmas, I figured I would change my flight to just stay in Portland come back on Dec. 23, the same day as her.
After all I was (and am) decompressing quite well up here and chilling with my dog, doing some writing, making strategic plans, GSD (getting shit done), still dubiously and fatefully planning on doing that potentially dumb thing.
All things considered, I’d give myself a 7 on the Holding Up, Showing Up scale.
Before I left Oakland to come up here, I bought a fake tree and had it delivered to PDX. Maybe that was a way of telling myself the Christmas spirit was just late, not missing, and I’d get it back.
So, yeah, not getting a tree on any other year would have been a huge deal. Not this year. Other things on my mind. Getting “in the spirit” is just different this year — deferred.
(That fake tree? Still haven’t unboxed it. OK, so maybe I’m a 6.)
I know there are good arguments on both sides of the real/fake tree thing, so I’m not dipping into that. Blessed are those who stand by their opinions, or something like that. I used to hate fake trees (obviously scarred from childhood) and I’ve always loved real trees until, well, they are pretty damned expensive. Love the smell. Like them large. Can’t really rationalize that expense.
But I have, for weeks now, felt like a man out of time. Maybe getting a tree every year anchors me through December, instills positivity in me heading into a New Year where I will make New Year’s resolutions and be resolute about them.
I don’t know? Is it possible I’m unmoored because 2023 was just a fuck ton of waiting around for necessary adulting chores to be done and that pulled me off my path or is it that I veered away from a habit that grounds me in the season, and went mysteriously further out into the void, adrift, looking down at bright lights and colored packages, spinning slowly toward Grinchville?
At least start listening to your music, Kabes said. It will help you get into the spirit. Or it’s a starting point.
So I did. What I learned was that, yeah, those are great playlists, if I do say so myself.
I put on “I Was Thinking I Could Clean Up For Christmas,” the world’s greatest Christmas song about heroin, and smiled. I played 10 or 12 of my deepest, heartfelt favorites, most of them wonderful songs that just happen to be about Christmas or the myriad moods surrounding the holidays, most of them bleak but touching, and I felt… less disconnected.
Through music, I was kinda sorta coming back around.
(For a deeper dive on those playlists, here’s the backstory from last Christmas. And if you read that post, just know that the number of songs and the run times have only grown — they are also public on Spotify if you want to listen to Christmas music for like 20 days straight):
Has the mood held? A little bit.
But what I’m figuring out is that as weird as it feels to be in some liminal non-festive Christmas space (hey, listen, I’ve been in a liminal space all of 2023, so I’m used to it) wasn’t terrible. It’s not my preferred space. It’s life. I’m here to get something done. I’m also here to be happy, get centered, take a break from that overpriced Oakland rental house that feels very lonely and unconnected to people and stay for a long, cold, rainy winter in Portland, my happy place, in an uncluttered dream spot in the middle of a thoughtfully planned, walkable, high-density neighborhood, with a lovely old, nearly blind but happy dog.
So far, so fine.
I’ve lit some hygge candles. I’ve had some wine and tea. I’m reading and writing. I bought a few gifts. The fake tree remains boxed, but I might pull it out eventually. There’s no rush. I’m listening to the Christmas playlists, but not obsessively; I haven’t added many new songs.
Doesn’t matter. I may switch my flight back earlier — also might not. I might do this risky thing that I’m up here to do — but it could all fall through as well, creating a different kind of chaos. Kabes’ mom will likely pass, for the betterment of her and everyone. Or she won’t, and the struggle continues.
Life is strange. You don’t always get the Christmas you want. It’s all different. In change, we mostly recover.
If you made it this far, you lovely soul, I give you this gift for enduring my story and my confusion:
This was a lovely read. As someone who has found it unusually difficult to get into the Christmas mood this year myself, this was intriguing and introspective in the best way. I hope you have a peaceful end to a tumultuous year. And that your crazy thing works out for the best. Cheers.
Christmas is hard. None of my family are local and some are on other continents. I try to tell myself it’s fine because I see them at other times of the year, but I do miss the traditions we used to have. I’m glad my parents have friends that can be with them, but I know my mom misses us.
And this year my local friends will be gone so I’ll probably binge sad Nordic detective shows under my weighted blanket while burning one of my million Trader Joe’s candles.
Thanks for the playlists. They remain a staple. I think someone at Apple Music used yours to build their Jingle Bell Rock and Indie Christmas ones.