When I was a kid our Christmas tradition involved the basement.  I’d sit in front of the TV playing Zelda, -- we’re going back to the first Zelda, the premiere adventure of Link, bird’s eye view 8-bit Nintendo -- while my brother took over the couch to read Field & Stream, Guns & Ammo, and dream of being a soldier of fortune.  Our parents always happened to be there, seated at the old poker table, now the basement dining table.  They’d sip their respective drinks, Mom with wine then Seven and Seven, Dad armed with Old Style, watching us be kids, worrying it won’t last long.  I always lit as many candles as my parents would allow and play in the firelight, bathed in the glowing screen.  And we’d all just let the time go.  Then, eventually, it was bed time then Christmas morning.

Over time we all gravitated to our own pursuits.  My brother kept to his room in order to catalogue the many ads that would teach him to be a professional sniper.  Often he’d stack telephone books in his closet then from a perch on his bed fire into them with a BB gun.  Practice for his future.  Dad gave up drinking when he retired.  He worried that without work he’d devote himself too entirely to the hobby.  Mom got into cancer, felt it was best to involve herself completely, and died.  I stayed in the basement.  The next generation of Zelda had arrived, and I wanted to stick to something familiar. 

In a way that’s what traditions are for:  establishing familiarity.  The ritualized behaviors of a family become the inclusive ceremonies of new friends and lovers.  They give us something to look forward to, preplanned customs to make the holidays less hectic.  It’s the comfort of knowing what will be, which we rarely do, and the knowledge that we belong to something unique that can be shared.  The simplest example of this:  my Christmas story is my own, but everyone has one. 

They don’t always involve heartwarming memories, like camping down in the basement to make sure passing relatives never saw the lights on, but they tell us more about ourselves than we may want to admit.  Good Christmases in fucked up families are a way of accentuating what’s missing from the day to day, while bad Christmases in functional families are God’s way of saying, “It’s your turn.”  But the main point is at certain times of the year, no one points fingers.  We take it all on the chin because it’s Christmas, and there’s always next year.

Next year to get it right. 

And we will.  Because if Christmas is about anything, hope springs eternal.  Although, that brings me back to something I heard John Malkovich paraphrase, “Hope is what we’re left with when reality has left us nothing.”  Or maybe he was quoting, and I’m paraphrasing.  The point is still there.  We cling to the best outlook because it does no good to be miserable this time of the year… though it’s easy.

The holidays are about believing there is one time along the calendar we can dive into a bubble, an impermanent protective shell.  Here to dwell till the morning after when we have to reenter the world at large.  However, for a scant few hours we can believe there’s still something left to make us smile easily. 

Since there may very well be.

Don’t get me wrong.  There’s something to be said for holiday optimism, a time for prefab smiles.  The one occasion we can expect to feel good, no matter what life has thrown us.  And this hasn’t been the best year for many of us.  Money is tight, mortality is well in view, and Independence Day seems to be HBO’s sense of the season.  Yet, there’s still a reason to be jolly.

Because there’s always next year.

But this year, which matters now, is fresh in everyone’s mind.  So what’s to say?

It takes a certain kind of pessimism to hate Christmas.  Yes, it has become too commercialized.  Yes, most decorations look like proof Day Laborers have a Winter season.  Yes, it might not be what you wanted.  But when has it ever?

We all remember Christmas well.  It’s the beauty of childhood nostalgia.  However, it’s rarely what it seems.  In fact, as we get older, it should become more apparent what Christmas meant.

In my house, Giftmas always meant a month without certain amenities.  Call them the new petty luxuries, but kids notice when Dad refuses the casual trips to Blockbuster, or when Mom starts buying generic cereal, take-out becomes mythological, or the sudden influx of beer when credit card bills are due. 

It all gets obvious when we get older that we were too caught up in our own bullshit to realize just what our parents went through to give us a temporary smile.  Some toys you’ll love for a few months, but they know, as we might get now, those won’t satisfy for long.  Some game that you’ll finish in three days only to want something new.  The shirt you’ll wear till it isn’t cool anymore.  It all goes to show they understood, even if they didn’t understand.  “Why they want it, I don’t care.  They want it.  I got to get it.”  Money can’t buy your own happiness, but it can get someone else’s. 

I started with tradition, but I’m still there.  Christmas is about giving more than you can afford.  Sometimes that means buying bullets for a four hundred pound man to ensure he can still imagine being a sniper.  Sometimes it means buying a gift you can’t afford for the smile it garners, short as it lives.  Sometimes it means nothing at all till years later when someone understands it was the best you could offer.  Because Christmas isn’t about what you get, it’s about what the gifts mean.  And sometimes the gifts are just being together with the people you love.

The tradition is giving hope, and hoping you get a little back.  I hope you all get what you deserve… What you want, what you expect, what you are.  That’s the essence of Christmas.

Four years ago Congress approved the start of a radical new business.  Since then Posthumous Debt Solutions has been a constant source of outrage, debate, and hope for thousands of Americans.  

Described as grave robbers, slavers, and a host of other indictments, the polarizing enterprise began as a military endeavor.  Dr. Marlow Brinksfeld informed us, "Reanimating the dead has always been a military goal, going back as far as the Civil War.  Most American's don't know that Lincoln ordered, what can only be described as, voodoo experiments to bring soldiers back to life.  When the process my colleagues and I developed in 1983 proved successful the army thought they now had access to an inexhaustible supply of service men."  However, the procedure left the reanimated with limited cognitive functions.  Consequently, the revived individuals turned out to be useless as troops.  Dr. Brinksfeld's discovery would then languish in secrecy for the next twenty years.

In 2003 the defense contractor Laing Research and Development was facing bankruptcy.  Searching for any possible way to keep the company afloat, a young executive named Killian L. Reilly proposed taking Laing R. & D. in a radical new direction.  The Washington Post quoted Reilly in 2004, "I was looking through our canceled projects, things that had been successful but put aside for various reasons, when I came across the reanimation process.  And the solution to all our problems just hit me." 

What Reilly foresaw was a debt solution company utilizing cheap labor in the form of reanimated individuals.  Anyone with massive debt could volunteer to be reanimated after a natural demise and put to work.  Of course, the limits of the reanimated confined them to minimum wage jobs -- ones that didn't require higher education or much thought.  Reilly said, "They can only learn the simplest things, but the point is they can learn repetitive actions and simple patterns."  Laing R. & D. voted to go ahead with Reilly's proposal, though several members of the board quit in protest. 

Soon thereafter the revamped company launched a massive lobbying onslaught.  Attached to the Consumer Credit Protection Act, Laing R. & D. pushed through a bill permitting an "emergency escape" for individuals suffering from massive debt.  Recently impeached Illinois congressman Dale Hornauer said, "We slipped it in with some clever language, tied it around wage garnishing.  Basically, you die, P.D.S. reanimates you, and the corpse works wherever it's needed.  Its wages get split between maintenance of the corpse -- feeding it, sheltering it, and so forth -- and whatever creditor, creditors can provide a legitimate claim." 

Popularly known as the Zombie Bill, the public mostly ignored the topic, believing it to be a rumor or urban myth.  However, in 2007 the passing of the bill provoked immediate reaction.  Several politicians who'd been fighting the bill since it's proposal issued this statement, "We tried to warn you.  Now it's your own fault for not paying attention."  Despite a host of articles from various publications and a series of televised investigations into the subject, only a small percentage of the American public knew anything about the bill.  Congressman Hornauer said, "You tell me the last five bills that got passed and what they're about, and I'll {expletive deleted}." 

In 2008, 72 year old Alfred Helmansen became the first indentured corpse in American history.  He voluntarily agreed to be reanimated and put to work in order to keep his family from inheriting the $250 thousand debt he'd accrued over his lifetime.  His son, Nathan, said, "My Pops was a good man, but he didn't know a thing about money.  He just kept getting in over his head.  But this is what he chose to protect us from his mistakes." 

For many that's the crux of the dilemma.  P.D.S.'s services are voluntary.  In other words, people offer to be reanimated rather than being asked to be reanimated.  According to Killian Reilly, that's a crucial difference, "We don't make anyone use our services.  It's up to the individual."  But for some it still sounds like preying on the desperate.  Yet, opposition is dwindling. 

The increasing supply of inexpensive labor indentured corpses provide is making products around the country cheaper.  Already retailers such as Walmart are signing up for access to reanimated labor.  Whether stocking the shelves or manufacturing products, the reanimated are becoming a vital part of the workforce.  Gerald Spiegel, part of the Alliance for American Advancement, an economic think tank, said, "Like it or not the price of consumer products is dropping.  And since the economy hasn't been doing too well resistance to the indentured corpse is eroding.  The fact of the matter is people want low prices more than they want fair business practices.  Not to mention the conundrum that the reanimated are technically dead, so their rights are hard to nail down." 

Furthermore, for many American's Posthumous Debt Solutions is a chance to escape from a personal sword of Damocles.  Alan Cunningham recently signed up with P.D.S.  Since 1996 he's been sinking steadily deeper thanks largely to a hospital bill.  He said, "My wife and I had a kid, and I got a loan to pay for the hospital bills.  After that it was just like every year something got me deeper.  We had a kid, so we figured we needed a house.  So it's like loans, and mortgage, and interest.  It eats away.  But now I got this, so all my debts are gone." 

At age 33, it might seem like Alan won't be repaying anything for a long time.  However, Killian Reilly says, "A lot of the indentured corpses are elderly, but America's health isn't very good.  A significant portion of the reanimated are in their fifties, forties, or even younger thanks to cancer, obesity, drunk driving accidents, so their population has a diverse age range."

But age diversity is low on the list of concerns many have.  There is a constant worry the reanimated will turn into the shambling cannibals of the silver screen, though no event has given that concern any credence.  Such fears may just be a population adapting to a new social norm.  In any event, the European Union has begun debates on whether or not to allow Posthumous Debt Solutions to offer services across the pond.  Early signs seem to point to a tentative yes.  So, for the time being, the money is in the corpse. 

The old dog doesn't need
A new trick. 
The same ol'll do. 


Whoever
Saw
a two legged
Hound
up and
In a tuxedo? 
Metal tip
Shoes
to tap, tap,
tappity, tap... such a show. 


But tell none
how
It begun. 
A puppy
with
Four legs
Got gimped. 
The intent
is still
Debated
(i.e. too much
sour mash,
spite the wife,
a morbid
curiosity,
etc.) 

But the pup
Wouldn't die. 
It learned to
Slither-crawl,
and
Soon stood. 
That alone
Left most
Satisfied. 

However,
one night
at Bill Malort's,
the jukebox
kicked up
a tune
at random. 
And the dog started to howl,
hopping. 
People clapped. 
Pooch pranced from hand to hand --
pets complimenting. 

The dog's been around...
hell if it matters. 
Sits on his haunches,
panting in the corner,
till a tune
fires his feet. 

Sigh.  It's time to be a bit hypocritical.  Typically, I'm not a fan of top ten lists.  Emily Nussbaum once said, "They're to-do lists someone else wrote."  And I agree.  They're kindling for light debates and aimless speculation about who is the best this or that, or what show is tops, etc., etc.  The dubious authority with which they're put together makes me grind my teeth.  However, there's no denying the things are fucking popular.  Almost no blog or website exists that doesn't put together some form of a top ten, a person can honestly type in Top Ten (whatever you want) and find a germane list.  So, though I am not one for the practice, I feel a certain odd obligation to deposit my own Top Ten onto the global lap that is the internet.

First and foremost, there is no ranking here.  By Top I am simply suggesting a matrix of interesting historical facts.  And I do not use the term fact lightly.  Yet, keep in mind that matrix implies a connective tissue to the content.  What constitutes said tissue I'll leave to the reader to decipher.  I'll hint only this much:  human interactions are a type of cause and effect.


#10:  The Corpse of Cromwell.

For those who don't know, Oliver Cromwell overthrew the English monarchy in the mid 1600s.  This led to the execution of Charles I.  (This is a bit of an oversimplification, but it'll work for the time being.)  However, the republican commonwealth Cromwell helped establish did not last.  It collapsed shortly after his death in 1658. 

That being said, in 1661 his opponents had his body exhumed in order to execute him on the 12th anniversary of Charles I's death.  I'll say that again.  Cromwell's corpse was exhumed for a posthumous execution. 


#9:  Human Zoos.

Throughout history science has played a tragic part in the dehumanizing of other races.  No way is this more bizarre than the practice of human zoos.  A human zoo is essentially an exhibition of different races for amusement as well as proof of biological distinction.  And the practice goes back centuries.  During the Renaissance Cardinal Hippolytus Medici (of the famed Medici family) kept a menagerie of different races in the Vatican; In 1877 Jardin d'Acclimation de Paris doubled its visitors, reaching a million, by including Africans in ethnological displays; Madison Grant, a socialite and amateur anthropologist, who happened to be the head of the New York Zoological Society, put the famous Congolese pygmy Ota Benga on display in the Bronx Zoo... alongside other apes. 


#8:  Versailles n'a aucun toilettes.

The Palace of Versailles, a château belonging to the French royal family, was constructed without toilets.  None.  Zero.  Relieve yourself in this bucket and pitch it out the window.


#7:  Murder Act 1751.

In order to further deter murder, Britain's Parliament established the Murder Act 1751.  As such, Section II instructs that the bodies of executed murderers are to be delivered to surgeons for public dissection.  In no way is the executed individual to be buried.  If, for whatever reason, dissection is not an option, then the cadaver is to be hung from chains where it can be viewed till it is no more. 

Furthermore, any attempt to rescue such a corpse from either fate, as well as preventing an execution, would result in forced labor on His Majesty's plantations for no less than seven years in the most vile place the English aristocracy could imagine.  The Americas.


#6:  Booth Saves Lincoln.

Although he could not recall the year, Robert Lincoln never forgot the event.  In either 1863 or '64, Robert, son of President Abraham Lincoln, was trying to maneuver through a thick crowd at a train station in Jersey City.  At one point he lost his footing and fell, plunging towards the gap between the platform and a departing train.  The outcome of such a fall could only be grim.  However, a man behind Robert caught him by the coat collar and pulled him back to safety.  The man?  Edwin Booth, a famed actor at the time, on his way to visit a friend in Richmond, Virginia, a theater owner named John Ford. (And if you're wondering:  yes, the owner of Ford's Theater; no, it's not a coincidence, Edwin is John Wilkes' brother.)


#5:  The Bellamy Salute

Prior to 1942 most America's, particularly school children, pledged allegiance to the flag using a gesture known as the Bellamy Salute.  Developed by Francis Bellamy, the salute was meant to accompany the pledge.  Directed at the flag, it consisted of a raised right hand with a flat outstretched palm facing down.  (See for yourself:  http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/73/Students_pledging_allegiance_to_the_American_flag_with_the_Bellamy_salute.jpg)  The gesture was so inspirational Italian fascists and the Nazis adopted similar salutes of their own.  This obviously led to a bit of a controversy.  So on December 22nd, 1942, Congress amended the Flag Code, changing the salute to the hand over the heart people are familiar with today.


#4:  The Suicidal ACE

Alan Turing is a person most people don't know, but who we're all grateful existed.  His cryptography work during World War II more than justifies his place in history; Turing conceived the Bombe, a device utilized to break messages encoded by the German Enigma Machine, the most complex coding mechanism at the time.  More importantly Turing designed the ACE computer.  The ACE is the first stored-program computer.  Without it the personal computers most people take for granted would not exist. 

Perhaps the reason not many know about Alan Turing is the fact he died tragically.  In 1952 Alan Turing spent a weekend with a man he'd been meeting romantically.  The man, Arnold Murray, subsequently used the weekend as a means to case Turing's house which he later robbed.  Reporting the crime resulted in Turing admitting the nature of his relationship with Murray.  As a result, the two were convicted of gross indecency in accord with  Section 11 of the Criminal Law Amendment Act 1885.  Turing opted for probation rather than imprisonment.  This meant chemical castration.  Two years later Alan Turing committed suicide with cyanide. 


#3:  Mad as a Hatter

Mercury used to be a part of the production process for hats, particularly ones made with felt.  However, mercury poisoning leads to dementia.  Consequently, many hat makers tended to go, quite literally, mad making hats.  Hence the phrase mad as a hatter.


#2:  Prehistoric Phallus Preening 

According to the an article published in the December issue of The Journal of Urology, phallic decoration became a part of the Magdalenian culture of France and Spain.  Based on art from the era, roughly 12,000 years ago, researchers now believe prehistoric men may have augmented their genitals by adorning them with piercings, scars, and tattoos.  This conclusion is derived from the way penises are depicted in hand-held art.


#1:  You Can Trust me, I'm a Doctor.

World War II.  Nazis occupied France.  People desperate to flee the country, especially Jews, seek any means to escape.  According to rumors a man called Dr. Eugene has ties to the Resistance.  Furthermore, he can get you papers and safe passage to South America.  Almost 150 people went to him for help.  They were never heard from again.

Dr. Eugene was, in reality, Marcel Petiot.  He was an actual doctor, however, he had no ties to the French Resistance, let alone any means of escaping Vischy France.  At a charge of 25,000 francs he would take people to a secret location.  There he administer an inoculation all entrants to Argentina required.  But instead of inoculating against disease, he injected people with cyanide. 

For awhile he dumped the bodies in the Seine, but he soon moved on to using quicklime or fire.  Incineration would be his downfall.  Smelling a foul odor coming from his chimney, his neighbors called the authorities.  Firemen entered the house.  In the fire and around the building  they found human remains. 

It's a far cry from the usual hum-drum afternoon, but having fire rain down from the sky isn't exactly the change of pace I was looking for.  However, I suppose you make due -- when life gives you lemons... Mom always knew the right clichés.  She'd know what to say now.  Not like my wife.  She's running around the backyard, screaming to the kids, "Get inside!  Get inside!"  What good is that going to do anyone?  I'll just stand here, watch the burning.  There's nothing anyone can do.  Maybe I'll have a scotch.  Ugh, I hate scotch.  I think that's why my wife's asshole Father gets it for me every Christmas.  But I have a bottle here, and there's no way I'm going to make it to the liquor store.  
 
Not bad.  It could be worse.  The kids are just lying there, curled up in the fetal position, and Maggie doesn't have the strength to lift them.  I could.  I could haul the two in here under each arm.  Then what?  We sit in the house, probably down in the basement, waiting for the house to burn down around us.  That's right Maggie, why are you bringing the kids into a place that will burn?  Because you're a stupid cunt.  Ten years of my life wasted... that's not fair.  The first two were pretty good.  Before the kids.  Now...

My wife calls me Dad.  Or Daddy.  It's fucking creepy.  I'm not either.  I'm Jim.  Your husband, Jim.  Remember him?  The guy you used to give handjobs to at the movies; the man who ate your pussy while you watched fireworks on the fourth; the person you loved.  Dad.  I know some freaks like it called out during sex -- not me -- but I can't think of a more desexualizing word.  Dads don't fuck, don't get wasted (well, bad dads do, or so I've been told, but I'm thinking 50s mythical fathers.), don't do anything except care for the kids.  And that's the thing.  All of a sudden we aren't two people in love, but two people whose sole responsibility is taking care of two other people too stupid to survive.  Yeah, they'll get smarter, and that's about the time they turn into smartasses, talking shit all the time.  I know I did.  Fucking future bastards. 

Now she's just holding them, covering them with her body.  Great idea Maggie.  I'm sure their mother screaming in agonizing pain as she burns alive around them will not scar the kids for life.  And what are you protecting them for?  I've still got a feeling Brad is going to grow up to be a date rapist.  He's got that look.  He may be five now, but the future is grim.  And Mark is gay.  I don't care, he can suck all the cock he wants, but there's a whole rough time ahead I don't want to have to deal with.  The only thing I could tell him is, "You didn't do anything wrong, but it's a world full of assholes, son.  And they will always outnumber you.  Just remember, one day they'll all be dead."  That's not the kind of advice you can give a kid.  I mean, you can but people get pissed about it. 

Oh shit, her hair's on fire.  I should probably get the hose... I am actually getting used to the taste of this scotch.  No jokes.  I'm surprised.... the fire alarms are going off, and I can smell smoke.  Better to just let the family burn now.  No reason giving anyone a false sense of hope.

Jordan's tendency towards
glossolalia
always made
Sebastian's echolalia
More embarrassing.

J. would start,
"Noch furr daze shitz blicke el hal vort zu turmon,"
And Sebastian,
"Noch furr daze shitz blicke el hal vort zu turmon,"
Would echo perfect.

But as one pretends
To make the other act
As he intends
Sebastian is burning.
A double edge
Lack of choice.
No bastion
Where words are
Rarely spoken.

And those who know
The shape of the echo
Torment, chase, and
Hunt for
The chance to make
The boy reiterate.

Gibberish:
"Val sexts shue
ze dinnor port whorren. 
Speak!"
Crying:
"Val... sexts shue...
ze dinnor port... whorren... 
Speak!"

Sebastian
Can't hear a sound without
Repetition.
So he plans on
Deafening.

Mother's needles
Sewed a sweater
But can
Gift him better --
One for
each ear.

Yes, it hurt,
however,
You can't say
What will echo.