Very bad Santa

This is the time of year I dread. It's not the fault of Christmas. It's that, you know, divorced, without the kid, and so on.

There are many more like me everywhere in various un-merry circumstances, depressed. So, I propose a few ways in which to alleviate the Xmas doldrums.

First, I suggest we dress up as Santa, approach strangers on the street, and whisper in their ear, "I'm not wearing any underwear."

I suggest that we all go shoplifting and give each other the things we steal.

I suggest we try to get 100,000 signatures to make playing "Little Drummer Boy" in any public place a felony.

I propose we leave Santa cookies laced with Viagra and cut Mrs. Santa's milk with Ambien.

I suggest we buy copies of "beloved" Christmas movies: Miracle on 34th Street, Love, Actually, A Christmas Carol and, of course, It's a Wonderful Life. Then we go outside, pour gasoline on them, and set them on fire.

I suggest we call up houses, ask for the kid, tell him he's Jewish, and hang up.

I propose we send "ten Lords a-leaping" to anyone in your community who is homophobic.

I propose that wherever it snows, we go to people's houses in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve and urinate, letter by letter, "BAH, HUMBUG," in the snow. Women can try this, if they like.

I suggest we complain to authorities that when Santa says, "Ho, ho, ho," he's actually asking for a prostitute.

I propose that we all get together on Christmas evening and watch the clock go past midnight and sigh collectively in relief.

Well? What do you say? Anybody want to join me?

                                                                               

       

John Waters: The Pope of Trash

A recent article in the New York Times about John Waters reminded me how much I dig this guy.

John Waters has always been himself. He doesn't give a good goddam what you think about what he does or says or what kind of movies he makes. He's not aggressive about it. He just is.

There are really two John Waters, at least as far as the movie-going public is concerned. The first is the John Waters of Pink Flamingos, Female Trouble and Desperate Living. The second is the John Waters of Hairspray. Pink Flamingos may be, to borrow a phrase used to describe its main character, the great transvestite actor, Divine, the filthiest movie ever made. Once, years ago, a good friend of mine, on my spirited recommendation, took his girlfriend to see Pink Flamingos. The ticket seller leaned toward them and whispered emphatically, "Do not see this movie!" There is a now-notorious scene at the end where Divine proves she is the filthiest person alive by scooping up some freshly deposited dog shit and taking a big mouthful. Just before she shoves the doggy poo into her mouth, she looks to the camera and mouths, "I'm so hungry!"
                                                                   

 Divine

Every movie John Waters made before Hairspray was rated X or R. Hairspray was rated PG. This to many Waters fans seemed a kind of betrayal. As Waters himself said, "After that, I thought I'd never work again." I love Hairspray. (No, not the Broadway musical or the movie musical.The original movie.) It's easy to think of Waters as pure camp, but I don't think of him that way at all. I think Hairspray, which, among other things, is about racial integration in 1962 Baltimore, is a truly great comic film. Divine plays Edna Turnblad, the housewife who just can't understand her daughter Tracy's obsession with the Corny Collins Dance Show (obviously patterned after American Bandstand). One of my favorite Edna Turnblad lines: "Now l've got nothin' but hampers of ironing to do...and my diet pill is wearing off." Every child should be required to see this movie.

Now, here's the best part. I went to see "A John Waters Christmas" here in New Orleans on Tuesday evening at the Civic Center. It was a live show with the pope of trash himself. It promised to be an incredible evening. I love bad taste. I mean, what's not to like? He was f-king hilarious. One example: he said, "If you go home with someone and they don't have any books, don't fuck them." He did seventy minutes without stopping, and never disappointed once. The place was packed. It was great to see how much New Orleans loves him. Merry Christmas, John Waters!
              

John Waters' 2006 Christmas card