Friday, December 24, 2004

Nearly four in the AM. Finally, finished wrapping the last of the gifts. I am watching a special about the Hollywood Palace Christmas specials and having a nice Christmas weep.

Bing Crosby's family may be saccharine and are most likely not as happy as they are coached to appear (Bing was apparently loathed and feared by is first wife and children) - but, fuck it - tonight I'm buying in to it. Oh, and Perry Como just seems to be such a pleasant fellow. Watching this, I'm pining for something I've never experienced. Maybe no one ever really experienced it. Picture perfect family Christmasses. Crooning family men who play golf and carry the Christmas tree in through the front door. Pretty wives and rubber-cheeked children in matching holiday garb. Who knows? When I look back on certain holidays past, I have to admit some of them seem pretty bloody ideal. "Ideal" is the key word I suppose. Ah, there's nothing wrong with buffing up a memory to a high sheen. Right?

Oh, wow. Bing Crosby singing "Silent Night". Excuse me, I must go fully indulge in a good old mascara-dissolving sob now.

Merry Christmas from the pile of slush to you and yours.


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