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Posts Tagged ‘memories’

Think it was the year 1982 or 1983. Around the time when Culture Club first tried to crack into the U.S. market with their first album ‘Kissing To Be Clever.’ I discovered Boy George and the rest of the crew thanks to a quick mention in People Magazine. One look at the black and white photograph, and I was intrigued. The next time I went with my mother to the Alexander’s department store on E. 59th street, my curiosity lead to the record section on the top floor. I was the first kid on the block to own a Culture Club record, and immediately outcast by my Queens junior high peers. The label of ‘freak‘ was slapped upon me. Back in those days, Boy George’s gender bending look was an assault on the American mainstream.

My parents didn’t understand my newfound fascination with Boy George. The good news was, unlike other parents, my parents gave me enough freedom to explore different types of music, art, etc. That turned out to be my saving grace. I was an only child caught in a dysfunctional family. A misfit among my school mates. Wasn’t fond of my neighborhood. Worse of all, I really hated my hairstyle. For some godawful reason, my mother insisted of getting my hair cut in a certain way. That haircut was completely unflattering. It was through my Culture Club fandom that I first discovered how ignorant people can be. Oh, and by the time high school rolled around, I took total control of my own look. I adopted a Siouxsie hairstyle, joining the mid/late ’80s Post Punk crowd. Everyone on my block was horrified about my Goth look. I reviled in it.

In the middle of all this, my parents decided to take a week vacation deep in Upstate NY. We took the bus to Lake George, NY. I should’ve known the trip wasn’t going to be pleasant. Right before we left, my cat Tiger scratched the shit out of my father. My father, of course, thought he knew how to handle cats. No he did not. After Tiger sunk his claws into my father’s hand, chomp went the cat fangs. Dad ended up getting a nasty infection. Thus set the tone for the entire week.

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In the midst of my father’s bad temper, and outcast status among tourists, I found refuge in a huge Upstate video arcade. It was the early ’80s after all. Games like Pac-Man, Tempest, Donkey Kong and so many others were at it’s peak. If there was one thing I was good at, it was video games. In-between I played some mean rounds of skeeball. I got so good at skeeball, there was enough tickets to fetch a prize. So while the vacation itself was miserable, these video games proved a worthy escape.

Fast forward to the year 2000. My ex-boyfriend decided to take me to see Ozzfest at Satatoga Springs. On the way back to NYC, we found ourselves in Lake George. Immediately I recognized the old arcade. It was still there. Walking inside, it was a time warp. It was a rare moment, where everything was exactly the way it was back in 1983.  I loved it. Even took a few photos. Walking through the rest of the main town, I discovered how pretty Lake George was. Gone was the annoying tourists. The entire area was empty. My second chance with Lake George was bliss.

It would be nice to visit Lake George a third time. Before doing this blog post, I did some quick research. Believe this might be the arcade in discussion, or it could be this one. Either way, I’m not too sure of the business name. It looks like there’s been some changes since my last visit in 2000. As of this post, the U.S. is in the middle of a pandemic. So it’ll be a long time before I’ll be going anywhere. Been stuck back in Queens, NY for a little over two months. It’s a good time as any to reminiscence.

In the meantime, enjoy this sketch done earlier this week. Hand drawn, pen, ink, and digitally colored.

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Video game memories. Hand drawn, pen and ink. Digitally colored. Michele Witchipoo. May 2020.

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Yes, I know. I’m reviewing a show dated way back from August 30th, 2019, in a blog dated February 2020. That’s what happens when you have a life. (Sighs)

Around Labor Day weekend 2019, I got tickets to see The Alarm and Modern English over at the St. George Theater. When I first started to seriously explore Post-Punk and imported music from the U.K., The Alarm was one of the first bands I brought an album of. The vinyl was brought at some shop on West. 8th street during the early to mid-’80s. It was a choice between an Canadian Punk band called D.O.A, or The Alarm. The Alarm won out. Imagine if I had brought that D.O.A. release? Fret not. For a while I attended the CBGB’s Hardcore matinee during its prime, where I saw bands like Government Issue and Corrosion of Conformity perform.

Now that I’ve seriously dated myself, back to The Alarm. While I loved the big hair and Welsh cowboy look, eventually I went further into more underground bands. It wasn’t until I heard The Alarm was playing at the landmark St. George Theater that I realized, I’ve never seen this band live. Looking for an excuse to visit the restored St. George Theater again, I invited my friend along, and off we went.

I’ve mentioned the St. George Theater in other posts. It’s a gorgeous piece of architectural history. First had a chance to check it out when I went to see The Psychedelic Furs for the third time back in 2018. (First time in 1986, second time they were opening for The B-52s and The Go-Gos, back in the early 2000s, somewhere in New Jersey.) It’s not far from the Staten Island ferry either. The venue sits on a cute block that had a bar, a decent Italian restaurant, and a comic book store with an old school collector’s vibe around the corner. (A shout out to HypnoTronic Comics – here’s their Instagram: hypnotroniccomics)

As my friend and I walked towards the venue, we accidentally ran into Mike Peters himself. The front man from The Alarm nodded and said hello to us. That’s when I should’ve known it was going to be a good night.

Usually the St. George Theater books acts for the Geritol or family crowd. That, and the fact that I live in Queens means I visit the venue very often. On the scorecard, two out of the three times I’ve had a good time at the St. George. Psychedelic Furs was great. Buster Pointdexter along with Southside Johnny and The Asbury Dukes, not so much. To be fair, I only went for Buster Pointdexter, aka David Johansen.

The opening act was Gene Loves Jezebel. Wow. Now that’s a band I haven’t heard of in years. I saw the original Gene Loves Jezebel line-up way back in 1986 at The Ritz, where Webster Hall stands now. Gene Loves Jezebel had some good songs back in the day, particularly with ‘Desire.’ The fact that they were good looking brothers didn’t hurt either. Suppose you can say that the Aston brothers could be considered Goth heartthrobs. My second time seeing Gene Loves Jezebel in 2019, it was just Jay Aston with a back-up band. Still just as good.

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Bad photo of Jay Aston with the reformed Gene Loves Jezebel at the St. George Theater, Staten Island, NY. Aug. 30th, 2019. 

After his set, my friend went to the ladies room. She came back to her seat saying Jay Aston was walking around meeting fans. We left our seats and like my friend, I ran into Jay as well. Just like him and his brother were back in 1986, Jay was still such a flirt! The old charm was still there. He even called me ‘beautiful’ even though I didn’t believe it for one second. Maybe if global warming wasn’t in full effect, then I wouldn’t be sweating so much. It was still endearing to see Jay work his natural charm.

A month or two after this gig, I ended up seeing Jay Aston live again. He was performing solo, doing new material. It wasn’t bad at all. He was opening for Theater of Hate and Chameleons Vox (Mark Burgess, from The Chameleons U.K.) over at St. Vitus. If you’re interested in what Jay is doing now, go to his SoundCloud page.

Back to the gig at the St. George. Next up was Modern English. They’re mostly known for that one big hit ‘Melt With You.’ That song was played so much during my youth, I got sick of hearing it. I remember another friend showing me photos of when Modern English first hit American shores, and she had taken back in the ’80s, when they were doing a signing, possibly at Tower Records. Now in 2020, I’m looking at the band behind the concession stand, signing again for fans.

So they get on stage. During the Modern English set, the lead singer, Robbie Gray had moments of that British sarcasm. Like when they played a song from a later album, and he acknowledged that maybe only ten people heard it. Grey quipped some more biting humor when he pointed out that the venue was only half full. He wasn’t wrong.

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Modern English live at the St. George Theater, Staten Island, NY. August 30, 2019. 

Next up was the headliners, The Alarm. By then the theater was a little more than half full. A mixture of fans, and Staten Island residents looking to do something on a Friday night. Despite not being sold out, there was still a bit of excitement in the air.

It also dawned on me that both The Alarm and Jay Aston were from Wales. Some years back, I had done illustrations for books about Welsh history. Plus my good friend lives in Wales. After the concert, my Welsh friend contacted me about The Alarm gig. He wanted to know how the concert went. He went on to explain that Mike Peters and his wife are cancer survivors. Which Peters did bring up during the course of the show.

During a few songs, Mike Peters jumped into the audience. As you can see with the video footage. Security was trying to get people to sit back down, but after all, it’s still a concert. Even if it’s a rock concert playing music from thirty years ago. One audience member kept on defying security, as he was dancing in the aisles during both Modern English and The Alarm. He would be told to sit back down, which he did. Eventually the music came over him, and the guy would start dancing in the aisles again. By this point, most of the locals left, and it was left up to the fans. The fans loved every moment.

The apex of the night was ‘Rain In The Summertime.’ One other guy sitting in orchestra got lost in the tune, and danced away. After that song, my friend simply said “that was epic.” Which it was. It was really an awesome night.

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View from the Staten Island ferry, Aug. 30th, 2019. On the way back to Manhattan. 

I’ll leave you with a sketch or illustration I did of The Alarm during their classic ’80s line-up. Now I can cross off The Alarm off my concert bucket list.

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The Alarm during their classic ’80s lineup. Illustration by Michele Witchipoo, Feb. 2020. 

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Another decade is about to wrap up. Lately I’ve been reminiscing about the oddest things. These memories are usually induced by something completely random. As with the case prior to this post. Tonight I wasn’t in the mood to go out. As I’m scrolling through Facebook, somebody on my feed posts an sex article. It was published on the Vice website. The content was really about why people get attached to someone after sexual relations. Particularly to those not normally considered. I read the entire article. What caught my attention was certain hormones released during mating, male v. female. As the rest of the article went on, I was reminded of an incident during the ’90s.

Around mid-’90’s, I worked six months at some fetish/sex shop. It was located in the West Village. When applying, I was informed that out of all the applicants, I gave the impression of being a sane person. All the others who applied seemed unbalanced. My mental stability got me hired. I took the job because it meant no dress code. I didn’t have to take out my nose ring, continue dying my hair that shade of Manic Panic Vampire Red, etc. Perfect for me! That’s all I cared about. So much for priorities. The pay was shit, off the books, and the hours long. I could, however, play whatever music I liked. My selections ranged from RuPaul to My Life With The Thrill Kill Kult. Got a crash course about fetishes 101. After that gig ended, I had knowledge about dark human sexuality.

One night, a friend dropped by my store. For her, the party never ended. She was always looking for an excuse to hang out at places like Coney Island High. In hindsight, we both may have graduated high school, but we still had that mentality. Eternal teenagers. We might as well been like Dante and Randal from Clerks. Anyway. She came by after she was finished her shift working at some vintage clothing store. Tagging with along was her co-worker. He was a generic ’90s sub-cultural male. The guy quietly observed his surroundings. Fetish wear, BDSM outfits, whips, floggers, bondage items, and trashy lingerie was sold in the front of the store. Sex toys and porn was displayed in the back.

As both the friend and her co-worker walked in, the store was unpacking newly arrived merchandise. I was in the back, nonchalantly arranging the latest products as if they were grocery items. Three months into this job, and comfortably numb. While the boxes were being unpacked, I picked up one of the new items. It was one of those weird pheromone colognes.  The sample bottle was placed on the counter along with assorted vibrators, lubes, and penis pumps. My friend and I look at the cologne bottle. The cologne looked cheap. The owner was hardly around. There were no customers in the store. This being the ’90s, we weren’t constantly video monitored. It was safe for me to loudly mock the product.  My friend makes some kind of sarcastic quip. I think my friend’s co-worker might have also made a snarky comment. As a joke, I sprayed the cologne all over the back room. Whoa – it totally stunk! We started laughing, cause we were that immature. After the initial gagging wore off, it was time to close up for the night. When the shop gate was pulled down, all three of us head over to the East Village to hang. As we usually did.

That night was nothing new. There might have been a party at the Flamingo East. Along the way, my friend and her co-worker started to get chummier. A few hours in, those two, who never had romantic intentions, mysteriously started to make out. I was used to my friend’s romantic shenanigans. Every week there was a new hookup. I was apathetic to her conquests. Just like how I was detached selling butt plugs.

At one point, my friend’s co-worker mentioned that pheromone cologne back at my job. He wondered loudly if the cologne had something to do with the impromptu tongue dance. They went back to smooching. It didn’t get any further than that.

The next day the friend’s coworker had second thoughts. He more or less disappeared. 

In recent years, millennials have given this practice a name. It’s now known as “ghosting.”

My friend also blamed the previous night on that cheap cologne. It’ll get you laid, but it won’t make the person stay.

Taking note, I stayed away from the cologne itself. While the product did sell, it also stunk. The store re-ordered poppers, the Sta-Hard creams and Anal-Ease, but not the cologne.

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Hit the fast forward button to 2019. Curiosity getting the best of me, I decided to look up pheromone colognes. Just to see if they were still on the market. Well hot dang. Pheromone products are more popular than ever. It’s an advertised ingredient in many items. There’s fragrances marketed for men and women. Even Dial got in on the act. They have a men’s pheromone infused body wash. If I was a guy, I would be buying cases of this stuff.

.But then I saw this. For those who are fans of the film Anchorman. Sex Panther cologne. ‘Cause 60% of the time it works. Every time. And it stings the nostrils.

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Where am I going with this post? I don’t even know myself. Memories are dangerous.

One of these days I’ll unwind more tales about my sex shop gig. Out of respect, I won’t reveal the name of the famous Broadway actress who I sold anal beads to. I will tell you of the time a customer raged into the store with a penis pump he brought the night before.  How he managed to burn the inside of the pump from fire engine red to pitch black – and how he demanded a refund. I’ll hold off for another time.

Below is a sketch done just for this blog post. Enjoy.

Human Sex Pheromones – Wikipedia Entry

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Sketch by Michele Witchipoo. Dec. 2019

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So once again Psycho Bunny is drunk and complaining. You would think he’d like St. Patrick’s Day. Nope. He considers it “amateur drinking day.”

Introducing the Psycho Bunny sketch of the week:

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Psycho Bunny considers St. Patrick’s Day to be Amateur Drinking Day. Based on the comic written and drawn by Michele Witchipoo. On WitchesBrewPress. March 2019. 

Personally I’m still not fond of the holiday. Don’t hate it as much as I used to, but still find many things wrong. There was no snakes in Ireland. St. Patrick ‘driving the snakes away’ is just simply a metaphor for converting people into Christian beliefs. Despite my half English ancestry, which can be traced back to Ireland and Scotland, I never connected with the holiday. Maybe it was due to people acting like drunken fools in the street. Don’t let my cynicism stop you. If you want to partake, that’s fine. This year, I learned about some of the ingredients of Irish soda bread. It goes along great with whiskey butter. Definitely not for amateurs.

However. Despite what I just stated above, I actually do have a lucky St. Paddy story.

The year was either 1987 or 1988. During the mid to late 80s, I was a Siouxsie Sioux clone. Everyday I would leave the house with huge teased black hair, after applying enough Aqua Net to penetrate the ozone layer. My makeup was a carbon copy of her style. However, because I was in the U.S. and not the U.K., people didn’t know what to make of me. The Goth subculture did not hit the mainstream as of yet. We’re talking before all the Tim Burton films were released. So most of the time I was called “Elvira” or simply “freak.”

That particular St. Paddy’s Day, I was walking down 2nd Avenue in the East Village. As I was heading towards 14th street, I passed an Irish bar. The bar entrance was wide open. Middle aged working class men were getting their drink on.  Commuters lived in either New Jersey or Long Island, but partied terribly in NYC. The type that would piss in your backyard, then head to their respectable suburban homes as if nothing happened.  As soon as they saw me, all the drunk working class men shouted insults towards me.

Walking by, I ignored the men. Still, by this point I was in a pissy mood. Out of nowhere, some young long haired guy jumps in front of me. He reeked of desperation.Not noticing how annoyed I already was, he opens a shoe box.

“Straight from London. Brand new…”

I took a peek. They were brand new creepers. They were smooth black leather, with a little more extra height on the platform soles. The silver design had zipper eye teeth, long thin spikes coming out in 3-D, and studded crosses in the middle. Not even Trash and Vaudeville sold these. They were gorgeous. They also looked majorly expensive.

Looking back at him, I said I only have either ten or twenty bucks. Showed him the money. He threw the shoes at me, snatched my money and ran. Guy obviously must’ve either stole this pair, needed money for drugs, or both. As he fled down the street I couldn’t believe it. The pair was a size too big but I loved them anyway. It was guaranteed nobody else had these shoes. Never saw another pair like them since. Wore them until they wore out.

That’s my lucky St. Patrick’s Day story.

Feeling lucky yourself? Check out these social media links…

Facebook: pages for Psycho Bunny and for Michele Witchipoo – WitchesBrewPress.

 Twitter: One account for me, and one for Psycho Bunny.

Tumblr: World Ov Witchipoo

Instagram: there’s WitchipooArt.

 

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Random Posting…

It’s been a while since I had posted a blog entry. Not by choice, mind you. Life has gotten pretty busy, so I’ve been slacking off in my blog related duties.

For some reason or another this morning, I had remembered this one kid. This was back in the 1990s, when I admittedly wasn’t doing much with my life. Many of the people I had associated with during that era were of toxic nature. People I shouldn’t have wasted my time with. My days consisted of various dead end jobs. My nights were spent wasting time hanging out around the lower Manhattan area. Did a lot of clubbing during that time. Went to a few ‘Raves’ and club parties, but was mostly lingering around small dives around the East Village/Lower East Side area. I regularly went to places like Mother and Coney Island High.

The ’90s was also when I first really gotten into tarot cards. Looking back, the tarot was my introduction to anything metaphysical. Walking around after an all night party, me and two friends were causally walking around the East Village. Somehow we started talking about Ouija boards. My friend said he had purchased one from a store called Enchantments. Since we were on East. 7th street anyway, we decided to browse inside the shop. On a lark, I brought my first ever deck of tarot cards. Going with my tastes, I chose the Art Nouveau deck. A deck which believe it or not, I still have to this day. To my surprise, I was really good with reading tarot. Started reading for friends and strangers alike. This is dating back to 1993. By the time the late 90s rolled around, I had already done professional tarot readings in clubs. It wasn’t too often. Mostly filling in for someone who couldn’t make it that night, and for a pal’s club party.

Anyway…during this time, I remember this kid who hung out at Coney Island High a lot. A short dude with a small black mohawk. Despite his attempts at networking inside Coney, reception to him was lukewarm. Me and him never truly spoke face to face. It wasn’t my choice; we just never had an opportunity to have an actual conversation. My observations were always from afar.

Over the course of the two years, I would see him hang around mostly at Coney Island High. One time he was drunk, his arm around some blond punky looking girl. My guess it was probably his girlfriend. They were living the Sid and Nancy dream, acting rowdy in the street. They were going to check out Texas Terri & The Stiff Ones around the corner at The Continental. Next time I saw him, he was flying solo again.

Why am I bringing this all up you ask. Okay, I’ll get to the point of this story.

Fast forward to either 2002 or 2003. I had long stopped crawling around downtown until the wee hours of the night. I was in a relationship that was going nowhere. Had begun involvement with someone else, also going nowhere. The early 2000s were ten years of experiencing a series of rough patches. My self esteem wasn’t that all that great. Constantly I was put down and discouraged from what I had really wanted to do. Put down for my interests at the time, etc. Meanwhile the main boyfriend was a hypocritical trust fund baby. A forty year old pothead going on seventeen. Looking back, I should’ve walked away from him a long, long time ago, but things happen for a reason. Everything is a learning experience.

Anyhow…this guy takes me to see Joan Jett and The Blackhearts in concert. Since he was the man with the van, we drove all the way to Asbury Park. We arrived at The Stone Pony, just in time to see the opening act.

The first band walks on stage. I immediately recognize one of the band members. The band member in question was the mohawk kid from back in the Coney Island High days. So in roughly seven years, this guy went from being an outcast desperately trying to fit in to the Coney club scene, to playing in a band that was opening up for the legend Joan Jett.

Don’t know whatever happened to that opening act after that night. Yet looking back at that night, that should’ve been a wake-up call. Proof that no matter how people can sometimes perceive you, you can still manage to accomplish anything. This mohawk kid didn’t care what people thought of him. Nah. He did what he set out to do, regardless. The result? He surpassed all the local band douchebags and scenesters, following his passion. He had a gig opening up for Joan Jett, one of my heroes.

As for all the people I used to hang out with back in the ’90s. Some I’m still friends with, most faded away from my life for one good reason or another. After 1999, I knew some changes had to take place in my life. After 2003 (although by accident for the most part), I set out to do what I had wanted to do. The result? While I admit I had made some poor judgement with whom I used to be associated with, executed some bad decisions, blah, blah, blah…for the most part I obtained some of my goals. I was snubbed, laughed at, rejected, slandered, sabotaged, back-stabbed…and still I managed to prove a good majority of people wrong. Still did what I had intended to do. Along the way, I changed and evolved into the person I am currently. I evolved. I learned from my mistakes. I’m still learning on a daily basis. Along the way, I also learned not to care too much about what others think. I stopped trying to constantly “fit in.” Instead, I’m living life on my own terms. Besides…how can I help others if I can’t help myself first?

Yeah, I should improve on my psycho/vampyric/liar/user radar more, but I’m getting a bit better. As I’ve said, I’m still learning on a regular basis. I’ve come a long way from the person I used to be back in the ’90s. I’ve come a long way from the person I was from back in the early 2000s. Quite possibly, I might be a completely different person in another ten years.

Which leads us to the moral of this blog entry. No matter how many times people may disregard you. No matter how many times you keep falling on your face…just get up, learn from your mistakes and try again. After all, at the end of the day, it’s your life. You only live once, so might as well make it the best way you can.

That is all.

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I’ve had enough. Enough of Christmas, Yule, Solstice, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, whatever.

Where did all this bah humbug spirit come from? Eh, not going to get into it…but I will tell you what exactly is wrong with many who celebrate Christmas. No wait, how about the whole “holiday” season in general. Yeah. Equal opportunity animosity, that’s what I say.

Christmas never bothered me too much in recent years. In fact, there’s some good memories attached. Back in the end of 2007, I had arrived back in New York City. Needed money asap, so took any job I could get. To my own horror, I got hired at Macy’s. The flagship store over at 34th street. It wasn’t a glamorous position, mind you. I was selling Christmas decorations over at Holiday Lane. Anyone who personally knows me, I’m the last one to exhume any sort of blatant holiday cheer. Also humiliating, cause it was something already done back in 1992.

To my surprise, that temp gig wasn’t as bad as previously thought. Some of my co-workers were some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. As it turned out, a few of us shared spiritual beliefs that wasn’t exactly ‘Christian.’ One co-worker in particular, she would point out the paganism/pre-Christian symbolism in a few holiday ornaments. Gradually I realized working at Macy’s had been a much needed relief. After my summer of hell in the Midwest, it was nice to be treated with respect. I got hired again the year after that, doing temporary visual display at Macy’s. A step up from basic retail, but it wasn’t the same.

The next three years I found myself getting into the holiday spirit. Yet some cynical observations crept in.

One of my main beefs regards the Christmas tree concept. Never, ever understood the need to cut down real trees just to decorate it for a few weeks. Always thought that was such a waste. Apparently, there’s been some debate about real trees vs fake. Whatever. Honestly, I don’t care. I’m not anti-earth, but I’m not one of these anal-retentive environmentalists either. Besides, I like the obvious falseness of the plastic trees. I like the tacky non natural colors. Give me a blue or white tree any day. ‘Cause if you’re gonna go for tacky, you might as well go all the way. Hell, recently I saw an all black Xmas tree for sale. If that’s not brilliant, I don’t know what is.

More piques about this season is the overt materialism, the illusion of piety, and the bullshit notion being ‘nice’ this time of year. Nothing is more irritating than people thinking they should be good and generous only during Christmas. Meanwhile they’re complete ass wipes the other 364. This is the same attitude of those who attend church, temple, mosque, whatever, but still find it okay to be a jerk for the rest of the week. Cause another of my observations is that judgmental people are usually also the most hypocritical. Hypocrisy’s not my thing.

As a whole, I now find the concept of Christmas to be a complete sham.

All venting aside, I do appreciate whenever someone sends me sincere holiday cheer. It’s appreciated because it comes from the heart. That’s where the real magic comes from. Recently I was asked to come back for a real quickie interview for a local radio show. It was a year end review, and it was nice to be asked back (as opposed to being blacklisted). A friend from my psychology class took the time to get me a holiday present. That warmed my little black cynical heart. Oh, and recently I re-visited Macy’s Holiday Lane. Said hello to someone who still works in that section year after year. That person instantly recognized me, giving me the biggest hug. When this person found out I was about to purchase this black ornament with the words BAH HUMBUG in bold text, she took it out of my hand, and brought it for me. She wanted to offer it as as a gift.

Those three recent incidents represent the true meaning of the holiday spirit. It’s remembering those who’s been cool throughout the year, and remembering those who’ve been good to you, period. True holiday spirit is not about how well your house is lit, or how much you spend, or whatever you believe in. It’s the small sincere gestures that counts. It’s the memories that’s shaped you. It’s spending it with people that matter in your life. Even if you dread spending time with your dysfunctional family, afterwards you can spend time with folks that actually care. Take that with your spiked eggnog.

Merry fucking Christmas everybody.

Charlie Brown Tree With Bah Humbug Ornament. December 25th, 2010. Photo by Michele Witchipoo.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magi

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chronography_of_354

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