By T. Bennison

It must have been the turkey. I’d sure had enough of it; three helpings, to be exact. After our Thanksgiving feast had ended, I hobbled over to the couch, unbuckled my belt, and turned on the television. Just as Sean Connery was about to give Goldfinger’s karate guards the slip, an endless block of jingly-jangly commercials popped up. I’d barely digested my yam casserole and here they were shoving Christmas down my throat.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas, but I’m not into all the consumerism. Christmas for me is a sentimental affair, wrapped up in family traditions and childhood memories. As a lad, the season began when I opened the first door of our advent calendar and pulled out a little square of chocolate. The gifts were great, I admit, but my enduring memories are of those fleeting sensations: the anticipation, the smell of pine, the lights, and the decorations. That’s all pre-packaged nonsense now, and it seems Christmas has just become another reason to buy stuff. Would these ads never end? One after another breaking in at the best parts of the movie. I’d been sitting there for an hour and they still hadn’t got to the laser-between-the-legs part. It was during the eleventh car commercial that the tryptophan kicked in and I slipped off to sleep...

I dreamt I was trudging through the tundra of the North Pole on Resident business in search of Santa Claus and the roots of Christmas tradition. So this was it: that winter wonderland of good cheer; that busy little burg of lanterned cottages where green-clad elves toil all through the year in preparation for the big night on December 24th, when Santa loads up his goodies to disperse them to children all over the world. I looked out over the desolate vista and saw igloos fallen into disrepair, rotting stumps of candy cane trees, the buzzing neon “vacancy” marquee of the Silent Nites Motel, and beyond, a refinery gurgling smoke, its gleaming pipeline arching over the hills like a thirsty serpent.

An emaciated elf sidled next to me and asked for some change. “What happened to everything?” I asked. Shivering in his tattered evergreen tunic, he explained that after vast stores of oil had been discovered, the workshop had been razed, its gingerbread siding scavenged to make an elven shanty town. He indicated a pathetic cluster of hovels nearby and scores of tiny men huddled together over weak fires. “What could we do?” he mourned. “They gave us watches and some worthless stock. We do some occasional refinery work, but rarely make enough to save anything. They’ve got us by the...ahem...bells.”
“But what about Santa Claus? What happened to him?” I inquired. “Santa? That cat? He’s long gone. Last I heard, he was living on Marlon Brando’s estate in Tahiti.” Was he alright? Was he still jolly? “He’d damn well better be with all the royalties he’s receiving,” he laughed. “They set him up nicely.” He walked me toward an imposing office highrise. “It’s all about Xmz!™ now, buddy. They’ll tell you what’s up.” I slipped him a few bucks and strode through the doors in search of some answers.

Once inside, I met with an Xmz!™ director who guided me through a bustling maze of cubicles. “This isn’t our main office, you understand, our headquarters are in Bermuda. We also have satellite offices in Mexico, China, and Zurich, as well as a busy call center in Ahmadnagar, India.” He then went into a long soliloquy describing the vision of Xmz!™:

“We recently purchased rights to the holiday to cater to a new generation of consumers. We’re currently in negotiations to acquire Kwanzaa and Hannukah as well, which itself will feature microwaveable gefilte fish Ranch Wrapz™ and MP3-compatible dreidles. Xmz!™ goes beyond traditional marketing platforms and takes the holiday to the next level. Multi-branding is key to our success, as are our team member Elvz™ who field calls and fill orders around the clock.”


“‘Christmas,’ as we knew it, is oudated, musty,” he continued. “People want something slicker and more reflective of their modern tastes. Xmz!™ fits the bill. It’s edgy and in your face. In fact, this year sees the emergence of an even edgier Xmz!™, something we like to call XtremeXmz!™, or X2!™, as they’re calling it on the streets.” In keeping with this “wilder” version of the holiday, he told me that in an American Idol/Survivor-type search for the new face of X2!™, a panel of corporate judges settled on 25-year-old snowboarder Dylan Gingerlake of Boulder, CO. “We were looking for someone young, hip, and streetwise,” he explained. “That he’d gone prematurely grey only strengthened our decision. That and his excellent dancing skills. In conjunction with the release of a new album, Frost-E N’ Fresh, with his band the Lil’ Drummr Boyz, a lead role in the upcoming remake of ‘Casablanca,’ ‘Herez Lookin’ At Ya!,’ co-starring Carmen Electra and Sir Ian McKellen, and the introduction of a line of holiday-inspired thongs, D-Gee is poised to saturate all manner of media until, at least, mid-January.”

I asked him if their vision retained any of the old traditional elements, naughty kids getting coal in their stockings and such. He was shocked. “‘Naughty’? Naughty is the new nice. We don’t judge at Xmz!™. We do sell stockings for pre-teen girls that read ‘My boyfriend’s out of town’ down the leg, and coal is a popular seller in the beleaguered Georgian city of Tblisi.”

Dejected, I walked across the street to a place called Blitzen’s Lounge for some clarity. It was packed to the gills with elves, some playing cards, some passed out under tables, a few shooting craps against the jukebox. One climbed the stool next to me and introduced himself as Sparkle Snowflake, an out-of-work wooden train maker. I wondered how he felt about this new Xmz!™ and his obsolescence. “Look pal,” he trilled, “I didn’t fall off a toadstool. Times are changing. And have you seen D-Gee’s dance moves? The guy’s a magician!” and he shuffled his snow-caked slippers in a drunken moonwalk. “All I care about now is this,” he said, hoisting a tumbler of Peppermint schnapps. “It makes me sprightly. We pick up a few things here and there. I’m proud to say that myself and a few comrades were routinely humiliated for a recent ‘Girls Gone Wild’ video. That brought in some extra scratch.”

Yet small tears belied his pain. “We were geniuses at making toys. But iPods and those Blueberry thingamajigs, forget it. You know how complicated those are to make? Give me a bundle of twigs and some glue and in one hour I’ll give you back a shiny choo-choo train. Can it store 5 gigs of RAM and organize your business meetings for the year? No, not exactly. But the wheels roll and everything.” He waved to some elves in a nearby booth and rattled off their old trades. “Poppins over there made kites, Bumbly made cars and toy soldiers, Wombles made hobby horses, and Jasper made little dolls with nice dresses and everything...he’s a little odd, Jasper.” Overcome, he trundled away to play a bluesy number on a small flute in the corner. A scuffle the end of the bar broke out over the last pretzel and before I knew it, a tinselled barstool cracked me over the head.

I awoke to my daughter tugging at my pant leg, her giggles drowned out by the overzealous yelps of some hipster raving about the “outrageous deals” at Best Buy. I vowed then and there that her first Christmas would be a great one - a real one. I’d remind her that Christmas is something ineffable; it’s a little spring in one’s step; it’s Jimmy Stewart helping an old woman across the street; it’s Scrooge’s smile and Charlie Brown’s raggedy tree; it’s waking up and finding a bite taken out of the oatmeal cookie you left for Santa. The material gifts are so much dross. You’ll lose them or they’ll go out of style; they’ll break or they’ll go through batteries like no one’s business.

By this time, Bond had thwarted Goldfinger’s Fort Knox heist, and I knew that my mission to save my daughter from the clutches of corporate Christmas wouldn’t be easy. My ’92 Nissan wasn’t equipped with an ejection seat or missile launcher, but I was ready to drive to Hollywood and eliminate that Dylan Gingerlake guy. I can dance better than him any day.