I'm going to start a new New Year's tradition.
It's called the "New Year's Admonition."
The first one comes courtesy of my all-time favorite piece of public-service literature, something I picked up ten years ago from the lobby of the administrative offices of good old Jasper County, S.C.:
Awesome.
I'm thinking I'm going to use my no-interest-finance card to bankroll an animated feature film starring Brrr-nard.
It would be wacky and fun.
You want to know why Santa Claus can suck it?
Other than because he's a gluttonous, sanctimonious, judgmental, materialistic slave driver who gives more to rich kids than poor kids even though he's supposed to give kids stuff because they're good?
Other than the fact that he's our children's first -- and fraudulent and shallow and unreliable -- introduction to faith in a higher power, during a time when parents are trying to teach children the spiritual nature of things only for them to find out it was all a big trick to satisfy their parents' desire to provide for their children as they'd like a higher power to?
Other than another million reasons why?
Here's reason 2008:
"Daddy, can I have a Hannah Montana bicycle for Christmas?"
"Well, sweetie, I lost my job last month and we just can't afford one right now, but I'm going to get you a little something to have under the tree."
"Thanks, Daddy ... but you don't have to worry ... I'll just ask Santa Claus for one."
Anyone who wants to dine on Santa Claus' freshly strewn entrails with me as his fat ass is stuck in the chimney, bring a pair of pliers and a blow torch.
The nights would seem like snow on a hot summer's day -- except for the fact that they weren't entirely that foreign to one another.
On Friday, I took my older son to WWE "Smackdown!" at the arena. The evening started with basketball practice, then eating at a taproom.
The following night, my youngest boy and I dressed up and went downtown to the concert hall to see "The Nutcracker." The evening started at a coffee shop, sharing an apple muffin and sipping hot chocolate and a latte.
The choice of entertainment is emblematic of their personalities.
My third-grader is a sports disciple, whether he's playing it or watching it or reading about it or dreaming about it. Balls were his teddy bears. He's uncomfortable with girls. Fiction frustrates him. And he told me flat out today that he doesn't listen to music for the lyrics.
My kindergartner is an actor. An ebullient type who will entertain anyone who will pay attention. He doesn't play t-ball, he acts like a player playing tee ball. He couldn't catch a cold if you threw it to him. He'd rather live in a world of his own making -- or of someone else's making as long as it's interesting.
My oldest wears faded sports jerseys on his nights out; my youngest wears knitted sweaters.
I can genuinely identify with both my children's interests. It's not in me to be interested in one in spite of the other.
If I had to choose one, I might say I would have chosen the pro wrestling -- but only because I'd seen "The Nutcracker" before.
Yet, while I identify with both, I don't feel completely in place with either.
I find myself deconstructing the scene -- the theater of it, the scripted acrobatics, the choreographed attempts to evoke emotion.
Which one of them? Both.
I cheer the bad guys in wrestling because I enjoy the sardonic wit of what they do. Staring down children as they walk to the ring. Running from the good guys, then kicking them in the balls when they're not looking. I like that they say they hate your town.
In theater, I'm envious of those who can enter a state of consciousness combined with an empathy to share what's inside toto inspire others to feel a sense of magic. It's the kind of thing we bother living for.
Yet, in both, I feel a little detached.
Is there something strange in wishing that you could see Triple H smash a trash can over the Russian's head ... but watch it from a luxury box so that you don't have to suffer the masses who obviously think it's realer than it is?
Is it odd for me to admire the elegant flourish of a ballet dancer ... but amuse myself, at least quietly, that dancers and wrestlers aren't so different when they both wear tights that accentuate their penises?
It's not so a strange, I guess.
I can see my sons growing up and understanding one another's interests and appreciating both the synergy and the dissonance between things.
And if not ... well, is obsessive meta-cognition the worst thing you could avoid?
