Refrain is A Beautiful Homonym when it comes to my new Christmas jingle

To the tune of Silver Bells, the children laughing part, and inspired by a flailing lawn-Santa down the street, my refrain – which I obviously can’t – goes like so…

Santa’s retching, Santa’s retching, come and see Santa retch

The Santa I’m talking about is one of those big blow-up things – do you know what I mean? – they come in snowmen, penguins, sleighs, I’ve seen Snoopy & Woodstock, Disney’s in on it, Santas galore, you fucking name it, Virginia.

And the lawns over which they tower, or at least should tower, look like crime scenes all day when the air’s out. Wonder what the kids think.

I’m glad when I was little we only had lig ts, every t ird one or so dead, a trad tion I effartlessly carry o

But if you’re gonna get one of those monstrosities, and one is rare, they must come with a quantity discount or a weird kind of addiction so you seldom see a Lone Ranger, Tonto, which reminds me – sorry we were doing pretty good there weren’t we – but when my eldest daughter was little, something came up about a Forest Ranger, I think her dad told her he had considered that as a career and the look on her face, like how could her very own dad want to be a Forest Stranger, one of those scary people skirting the green edges between safety and peril.

Still with me?

If you’re going to go this decor-route, and I strongly suggest you don’t, I’m a crack shot with a pellet gun, but if you must, you have to pay attention.

I mean you’ve at least gotta fill those motherfuckers up so they can be tall and festive and, you know, fucking jolly!

This one down at number 16 here must be punctured or severely hungover, wish I’d seen it last night, I don’t know, but Santa’s not doing too well. Maybe somebody should tie some balloons to his head or something give him a break.

He’s bent over at the waist, head down, like way down, and his long torso is steadily and repeatedly undulating like he’s on auto-retch

The soundtrack would go something like that time I took the ferry to Newfoundland with the seasick guy – did you know it’s a 24-hour ado? – after which I used the highly effective it’s not me it’s you breakup technique.

But that Santa’s hilarious – I’ll take my camera tonight see if I can post a video here – definitely one of the most entertaining seasonal attractions around, like anywhere, maybe with the brief exception of my house which is where, stop me if you’ve heard this before and good luck with that, but it’s where my kids invent the best drinking games I’ve ever heard of and they get better every year.

Really, along with the mince tarts and my new festive plaid pants which are unfortunately wool, it’s what Christmas is all about!

Last year they taped Charlie’s glasses to the TV screen and watched The Office and whenever anybody’s eyes fit into them. Another was in the summer Lynne and Anna were crazy about Hamilton the musical, you know, but Charlie hated it due to overkill – they’d done the play at school – but they were, in spite of Charlie’s cringing-out, watching Hamilton on TV and the game? Every time Charlie complained, they drank.

Christmas gets better when your kids get older what with jobs and money and everything I’ve been thinking of penning a new song as a tribute to this wonderful time, again to the tune of Silver Bells, soon it will be payback time.

Oh fuck just kidding c’mon

And yesterday I was cracking white ice on a walk and thought something about white ice would make a good story and I had a mostly awake night thinking about it and a few other things such as I have a mag cover to dream up today and also this blog, so anyway when that happens, when I think of things overnight you know in the morning it’s like shit writes itself so here’s a white ice story if you feel like reading one and if not, here it isn’t.

White Ice

I can feel when a story’s going to be too much and this is one of them. I don’t know. Some mornings I just wake up and it feels like Todd didn’t die.

There are privileges to being the youngest, mostly that nobody’s watching you so much as they did the others, but you get the lesser this and the ugly that and the worn out shoes and later, when you’re older, you know it was more serious than just nobody watching because there’s hardly any evidence of your existence, just a few school photographs all those faces like a jar of spilled buttons, no saved artwork not even that bird, no awards, no heroes.

Good thing we had Mary Pilgrim for a neighbour and her dog Em which looks weird on the page so I’ll try it another way.

Mary lived alone, her house had that smell, not exactly bad but significant. I’d stand just inside the door while she got M’s leash and off we’d go and no matter what every time I turned around she was at the window so I’d spin M around so he could see or I guess more so she could.

Funny how even when somebody’s smaller than a dot you still know they’re smiling.

And the smile kind of hung between us if you know what I mean, like when Todd her son was still alive we’d have the can-to-can line between our windows so we could talk in the night just like Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer.

Anyway me and M most times we’d be gone all day. I don’t know how much Mary knew about my house, that there wasn’t much to eat or a properly set table, but she’d always pack us a lunch and it was a feast including sandwiches, cheese in a red wax shell like an egg, carrots, apples and oranges all of which I shared 50-50 with M except he didn’t swallow the oranges so those I kept for myself.

People described our family as a broood, but I didn’t care about any of it, you know that? Didn’t give a hoot. I suppose I would have had I been hungry but what with Mary giving me all those lunches and quick snacks when I dropped M off so when I went back home, my brothers playing poker at the kitchen table my mother asleep on the couch my dad in bed with his stomach, I’d just go to my room, do homework or draw or maybe just moon out the window, look at those four black squares in Mary’s upstairs.

And I didn’t care about the boots or the shit coats or any of that, I think I knew it was all temporary, I used to have I just need to make it through today on repeat, but what got to me most is silly, I know, but it was all the white ice was always gone.

My brothers knew I liked it and the fucking brood of them would go out smash it all before I went to get M so it was a rare thing to find any fresh and I’d – well me and M – we’d go into the forest looking for it, and it’s not like it would just be there, no, you had to sort of plant it if you know what I mean, like you’d walk in nearly frozen mud so next time maybe there’d be a layer of it where your foot sank.

So sometimes me and M we’d come across perfect bubbles of it like a present, and I’d relish it, feel it under my boots, listen to the crackle fill the forest, watch M’s ears, and then always I’d leave – and this is where things get a little too much but it's how it went – I’d leave about half for Todd who liked it just as much as me if not more.