Happy Holidays and all that crap.

So, anyways, it's the holidays again. But, we all know that it's really Christmas time. After all, Hanukka is one of the lesser Jewish holidays, kinda like President's Day or Jewish Groundhog Day, and Kwanzaa was made up by some former shoe salesmen or something, which makes it about as real as Festivus, the holiday for the rest of us.

Christmas is very big where I'm from. South Philadelphians continue their annual tradition of pissing off their neighbors by putting up as many lights and plastic things in front of their houses as they can, often spilling out onto the sidewalk. Sorry, Guido, the giant inflatable Santa in a Chimney is meant for someone with a big lawn, not a few feet of cement block. Everyone gets new leopard print clothing and extra cologne for their annual trip to Mass at midnight, where they spend most of the time watching old people, so they know when to kneel or sit. The old Italian ladies still make seven fish dinners on Christmas Eve, and the younger Italians still won't eat smelts. Afterwards, everyone exchanges gifts of gold chains and homemade Lemoncello, then goes home to watch Christmas Vacation or A Christmas Story. Ho ho ho, bitches.

Many of us have lost the meaning of Christmas in all the crass over-merchandising and rampant consumerism. I heard my first Christmas tune of the season the day after Halloween, for crying out loud. Really? I have candy corn stuck in my teeth and we're being bombarded by Yule logs. That sucks. The Christmas season begins the day after Thanksgiving. Seriously. Remember that holiday? Where we gather and eat turkey? No gifts, no pretensions. Just family and food, full bellies and for those who care, football. It's now the day you grab a bite before going to a midnight doorbuster sale or get some sleep because you're waking up at 2AM to beat the lines when WalMart opens at 4. But it used to be a real holiday. When I was a kid, it was the first day you took out the Sears Wishbook and starting wishing. The first time you saw Santa then was at the end of the parade, not two weeks prior at the mall.

I think what's most important is that we remember what this season is all about. Whether you believe it's the day Jesus was born or not. It's about family and friends, celebrating happiness, and giving from the heart, not the wallet.

I may sound like a Scrooge, but I'm not. I love this time of year. It brings people together. It warms the heart. It's a magical time that is best seen through the eyes of a child. I love the lights, the music, the joy. I will celebrate with family. I will watch A Christmas Story a dozen times. And I will remember what it was like when I was young.

Now, excuse me, I've got a crapload of shopping to do.

And for all of you, once again, here is my now infamous Christmas poem. Written about 15 years ago, it's been making the rounds ever since. Feel free to share, but please remember, it's copyrighted. Use it without the copyright line, and next Christmas, I'll have a lot more money to spend on gifts...


A Visit From Uncle Nick
or, “Christmas in South Philly”
or, “’Twas? What da hell kinda word is ‘Twas?”

By Steve DiMeo

‘Twas da night before Christmas,
You hear what I’m sayin’?
And all through South Philly,
Sinatra’s Christmas tunes was playin’.

Da sink was piled high,
Fulla dirty dishes,
From da big Italian meal
Of gravy and seven fishes.

Da brats were outta hand
From eatin’ too much candy.
We told them to go to bed
Or there wouldn’t be no Santy.

And me in my sweatpants,
Da wife’s hair fulla rollers,
Plopped our butts on the sofa
To fight over remote controllers.

When out in da shtreet,
There was all dis friggin’ noise.
It sounded like a mob hit,
Ya’ know, by Merlino and his boys.

I trew open da stormdoor
To look and see who’s who.
Like a nosy little old lady
Who’s got nuttin’ better to do.

In da windows of da rowhomes
Stood white tinsel trees.
And those stupid moving dolls
You get on sale at Kindy’s.

When what should I see,
Comin’ from afar.
But fat Uncle Nick
In his big ole Towne Car.

He was swervin’ and cursin’,
Givin’ all da gas he got;
As he barreled up the shtreet,
Looking for a spot.

More faster than Santa,
My drunk Uncle came;
Wit’ a car full of relatives,
All drunk just the same.

“Yo Angie! Ay Dino!
Vic, Gina, and Pete,”
He yelled out there names,
Then spit a loogee in da shtreet

“I can’t find no spot nowheres,”
Pissed off, he said.
So he double-parked the Lincoln,
And came in to hit da head.

As he hugged me, he burped,
And passed a loada gas.
It stunk up da house,
Like a rotten sea bass.

His coat was pure cashmere,
His pinky ring shined;
His toupee was all twisted,
The front was now behind.

He ran up to da bathroom,
Bangin’ pictures wit’ his hips.
Never lettin’ da smelly stogie
Fall from his lips.

With eyes oh so bloodshot,
And a butt, oh so flabby;
In walked Aunt Angie,
All dolled-up and crabby.

“D’jeat yet?” she asked,
As she thundered to da kitchen;
“All da calamari’s gone?”
Aunt Angie started bitchin’.

In came Cousin Gina,
In Guess jeans too tight.
She was bathed in Obsession,
Her hair reached new height.

In strut Cousins Dino,
Little Petey and Big Vic;
Shovin’ pizzelles down their throats,
It was makin’ me sick.

I said, “What da hell
Are all youse people doin?”
Not one of them answered,
They was too busy chewin’.

Uncle Nick came down at last.
His face was beet red.
“Sorry I missed da toilet.
I pissed in the bathtub instead.”

That was it, I had had it.
I yelled, “Get the hell out.”
Uncle Nick looked real puzzled.
Cousin Gina started to pout.

Wit’ that they mumbled curses,
And opened a Strawbridge’s bag.
And fumbled ‘round to find da gift
Wit’ our name on da tag.

I then felt kinda stupid,
As I thanked them for their gift.
But they stormed out da stormdoor,
All of them miffed.

We tore open da paper
That was taped on and on.
It was a bottle of Sambuca,
And half of it was gone.

But I heard him yelling
As he slammed on da gas.
“Merry Christmas, ya ingrate!
You can kiss my ass!”

Yo. Happy Holidays, a’ight?


© 2006 by Steve DiMeo