The (Hypothetical) Mathematics of Christmas

Making a study that spans a number of yearly cycles is nowhere near this author's forte, and to be quite honest, neither is Mathematics. As numerically challenged as this author is, an attempt at discovering the algorithms of Christmas is not entirely out of the question. It's not so much as an inquiry of why, or discovering the relevance of such an endeavor has in the grand scheme of things, but more or less a pursuit that can be best described as fueled by the need to do something other than slip into a catatonic state of inaction.

The theory goes that the age of a person is inversely proportional to the amount of phat lewt (or as celebrants of the birth of certain messianic infant, "gifts") one receives during these times of Yule. Granted, this could be an isolated case of one's upbringing and differs from person to person. Still, boredom dictates that formulation continues. To put it simply, as one’s purchasing power increases (bums and hobos not included) instead of your peers giving more gifts, it seems mightily absent. The reason is of course, lost in a pile of sweet and putrid fruit cake, meaning, it’s rather pointless to speculate further as the mind is already slipping due to the sheer stupidity of what’s been written so far.

However there seems to be a reverse of the trend when one sadly departs the domain of singledom and "settles down" to raise a family (How can anyone call it settling down when it's infinitely more chaotic than single life is simply mind boggling.). That is, if one was fortunate enough to have other poor souls to join in the procreation of the human species and suffer the responsibility of raising parasitical devices of devastation, or children, as they’re most often called. Yes, that’s the dumbest drivel to ever come off my fingertips, and the dumbassery can only get worse.

Ok, now the buzz has been killed, time to move back to contemplating the power of cheese with regards to celestial bodies and the destruction of the universe.

The Holidays Are a Mixed Bag

The eventuality of this post, as one can easily deduce, is well, for the lack of the better word, inevitable, ‘tis the season after all. It would be somewhat peculiar, strange even, to have no comments regarding the festivities this month of December. Even for those of different faiths, as well as the faithless.

Never mind the long standing debacle on the commercialism of the Christmas season. Such things are, and will always be, best left to people who have too much time on their hands and/or feel that their opinions matter on scale grander than their admittedly meager scope. The eternal question of whether or not the spirit of the season lives on or is in plugged into an iron lung, struggling on its death throes, waiting for someone to mercifully free it from its misery can best be answered by yours truly as such: Yes, the spirit is well and alive, and it comes in a mini skirt.

Chauvinistic jokes and internet memes aside, the best way to describe Christmas personally comes from two sources. Legendary comic Steve Martin, in his mildly entertaining Yuletide comedy Mixed Nuts, described it as the saddest part of the year, since it is when we look at the things we don't have or can't have. This was further emphasized by an old acquaintance, who, in one of our rare opportunities of dialog, described it as bittersweet. Before anyone busts out the proverbial small violin and ever-handy box of tissues, this is hardly a cry for help by some inconsolable bastard suffering from continuous Dashboard Confessional jam sessions and repeated viewings of Million Dollar Baby.

While those who are of the notion that the glass if half full or have internal rainbows with golden unicorns prancing around in their noggins would disagree, contesting the year-end self-evaluation of individuals is a common practice that some may deny doing, but in reality, the subconscious has no choice but acknowledge the need for such an appraisal, just like in birthdays. As utterly depressing as that sounds, free stuff and mini skirts are never a bad thing given the right circumstances, and to some, life this silly fool, enough to wipe away the cloud of despair and inadequacy.

The Great Weekend Crash of 12/10/07

The weekends, at least from my experience, feels a lot like the proverbial sugar rush.

Yes, that infernal product of nature. An occurrence that have adults who have the delightful misfortune of being responsible for walking weapons of mass destruction, otherwise known as children, cowering in sweet, sugary fear. Fortunately, Mother Nature still believes in balance. As if in answer to the lamentations of a million mothers, fathers and nannies, the sugar crash came into being, and all was good.

Overdramatization of glucose-related biochemistry aside, the weekend prior to today's post fits that description appropriately, if only in a metaphorical manner. The alcohol-charged euphoria was further heightened in the company of old, familiar faces, as well as a new breed of companions who's life stories remain sealed and untapped thanks to the limits of social interaction placed upon by everyone's dreadful enemy: time. Suffice to say, a resilient sphere of invincibility shrouded those basking in revelry, wherein tomorrow was just so distant that if felt non-existent.

And then, it was over.

While the forging of new bonds may or may not have happened, opportunities of expanding the social circle were present and were perhaps capitalized, the reality is that the weekdays has reared it's ugly head, significantly destroying the buzz that plucked many away from their comfort zones. A better understanding or appreciation of fellows who, once mere denizens haunting the area adjacent to the sacred workstation, are slowly realized. Still, that does not take away the crushing despair that the night (or nights) of careless frolicking and inebriation are over. Normalcy has never looked so dreadful, and sleep, has never felt so enticing.

I ask myself, would I ever do something like that again despite the painful crash back into mundane reality?

HELL.

YES.

Birthday Trifecta in Play

Today marks the beginning of a series of birthdays to be celebrated by three individuals who have the misfortune of knowing this author. That doesn't even count the other two who, despite being colleagues, were the lucky ones who have escaped the fate of ever coming into close contact with yours truly.

Birthdays are a peculiar thing. While I do subscribe to the fact that its one of those festivities that only gets worse as time goes by, it's something that we can never ever detach ourselves, unless you're part of certain religious orders who have the wisdom of totally ignoring the celebratory ritual of being one year closer to shedding one's mortal coil.

Still, the notion of recognizing another year gone by is surprisingly therapeutic. It allows as an avenue of reflection of what we are, what we've become, and what we could possibly be. While such evaluations can be done any time we please, attaching a certain time period puts a different and perhaps even more focused perspective in self-appraisal.

To end, I will shockingly share a few "personal"(I have no word that would go a level below affectionate) messages to the celebrants. For the one celebrating on this very day, thank you. Our past may very well qualify as an emotional rollercoaster, but it is how we cope with what is left that makes it truly worthwhile.

To the one celebrating on the 7th, your honesty has always been appreciated. While I would like to change our current social setup, having the privilege of your company dampens the bittersweetness of it all.

Finally, for the one celebrating on the 8th, you silly bastard. A decade of delightful dissonance and brotherhood we have shared, surviving through tough times and remembering (perhaps too much) the good. Here's hoping we have more decades to come you sick and twisted git.