Santa Don’t Wear Glasses

A long time ago, I was tickled to dress up as Santa Claus—the first and only occasion—and was given plenty of stuffing to fill out my thin frame. It was a mid-December morning in Baltimore’s Harborplace at the Inner Harbor—before that once-prosperous James Rouse project went to the dogs—and I was one of the local “celebrities” (as co-proprietor of the City Paper) to spend half an hour in a small booth greeting young kids and their parents (or babysitters) and listening to gift requests, some modest, others kind of on the greedy side.

It was before I had children of my own, and had only a vague idea of what toys were in demand that year—although my business partner Alan Hirsch, a father of two at that point, gave me some tips—so I tapped the imagination button and just ad-libbed with Shelly, Nate and Meredith on my lap. The results were mixed: when a product was named, I nodded and suggested that in addition maybe some Washington Irving, Robert Louis Stevenson or Charles Dickens books would make a lot of sense (the parents weren’t pleased, and one churlishly complained to the organizer), since there’s nothing better than reading! I wasn’t really sure what to do: the custom of meeting a fake Santa always struck me as kind of a scam that was really more about pulling whiskers than keeping commercial promises. As a six-year-old my mom took me to the Santa display at the Woolworth’s on Main Street in Huntington, and it was anti-climactic, even though I still believed in the North Pole Miracle. I was happier when Mom and I had hot dogs, fries and Cokes at the food counter.

Anyway, I did my best that morning in Baltimore, and prevaricated when a mischievous, and smart, boy said, “You can’t be Santa, since he don’t wear glasses!” John Ellsberry, who took the photo here, doubled over in laughter at that little nipper’s declaration, and it was all I could do not to say, “Well, would you rather have Art Carney and his wino stink making suggestions,” but gave into Joy to the World and kept my trap shut.

I’m not sure if it’s entirely germane, but earlier this week I read a thoughtful essay by David Samuel at UnHerd which suggested the Trump restoration might be positive for American culture regaining some of what it’s lost in the internet era. Samuels isn’t pro-Trump—it’s a non-partisan critique of the status quo—and it’s difficult to argue with his thesis.

One excerpt: “Name an American band, or an American director, or an American novelist, who has authentically captured the imaginations of even a small number of dedicated fans over the past decade. Instead, content producers of all races and genders, working under the censorious eyes of Ivy League race-class-and-gender twits, turned out indistinguishable widgets for zombie-like viewers who unsurprisingly seemed to have little idea of what they were watching or why they should care about it.”

Kind of a downcast message on Christmas Day, but does anyone disagree? I’ll skip to the enlightened Ebeneezer Scrooge and wish readers a Merry Christmas, healthy New Year and, as always, thanks for reading Splice Today.

Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Steve Erickson’s Rubicon Beach, Art Spiegelman’s Maus and Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter are published; The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame hasn’t yet been discredited; Boston’s Roger Clemens strikes out 20, the first to do that in a nine-inning game; Jonathan Pollard pleads guilty to selling intelligence to Israel; James Cameron beats the odds and makes a sequel on par or better than the original with Aliens; Prince releases Parade; Éric Rohmer's The Green Ray premieres; Shia LeBeouf is born and Donna Reed dies; Simple Minds’ “Alive and Kicking” charts on Billboard; and Greg LeMond is the first American to win the Tour de France.

—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023