Here Comes Santy Claus

Over the weekend, I did something I've not done in years, in fact swore I'd never do again {No, not that! For legal reasons, I can't even write a blog entry about that!}. I portrayed Santa Claus, for my church's Christmas party.

Actually, I tell a lie. I imitated [or at least attempted to imitate] said Mr. Claus while trying to get a gig for the Veterans' Day parade in the Town of Niagara, not far from where I live. I was on vacation at the time, and the Woman I Love saw an item in the paper that such a series of events [and don't ask me why the word unfortunate first entered my head] was to occur. I don't know how most fat people feel about the jolly resident of the North Pole, but I've always been a bit ambivilant about emulating Mr. Kringle. It's not that I don't want to make people happy by personifying the veritable personification of the holiday season. It's not even that I think I look just horrible in red velvet. It's that every time I play Santa Claus [I know, you thought there was going to be another convoluted way of saying that. Grow up...], the experience just turns out to be, well, unfortunate.

There was the time I got conned into it at a South Buffalo bar I deejayed at. If there's something more depressing than being Santa Claus in a room full of drunken revellers, I've yet to figure it out [I've always had a respectful demeanor when it comes to our beloved holiday icons. Don't even ask about my feelings towards the Easter Bunny...]. Anyway, I was given a shot or two to "loosen" me up, stuffed into the tavern's "house" suit, and pushed into the crowd. The alcohol I consumed actually made me tighter, as well as starting a veritable sweat-storm inside the fake hair and behind the fake beard. My glasses [I go virtually nowhere without them] started to fog up. Add to this the fact that the bar in question was dimly lit to begin with, and you have the makings of a truly ugly moment, especially if, as was the case here, your employers expect their Santa to be jolly, peppy and mobile. (Have I mentioned so far that this tavern was about 1-1/2 times the length of a typical home's living room, by the width of that same room? Including the deejay's booth and the dance floor? And that the bar, running great bargans for the event, was very full this night?)

Santa, without making any efforts, or even getting to enjoy the results, for that matter, was turned from a festive embodyment of the Christmas season into a disheveled serial fondler [Not on purpose, of course. Especially the guys {not that there's anything wrong with that...}]. After about 20 minutes, and nearly that many complaints, I was de-Santa-ed [at least the removal of my beard of office took place in private], and replaced by a bar regular. He turned out to be as ept at it as I was in-ept. My undying image of the night is that of Santa pouring bottles of schnapps down the throats of happy bar-goers [Remember, it was a different time; the bars in this State faced a different degree of responsibility for the post-visit actions of their patrons than they do now. And besides, that particular establishment is long gone...]. And that was actually one of the better results when I emulated the most famous permanent human resident of the North Pole!

It seems like this is turning into a shaggy-dog [shaggy Santa?] story of sorts. I think I'll take a break here, and in my next post tell the real story of my most-recent excursion into the world of Santa portrayal.

By the way, if you're enjoying [or disliking] any of this, please post and let me know. Or call me while I'm on-air. As was noted in the cult-classic film Brazil, "We're all in it together".

-Mike Riley