Once again it’s upon us, the annual month-long orgy of avarice and sentimentality commemorating the birth of Our Lord and Savior. The malls clog with anxious merrymakers, and the airwaves clog with the Scylla and Charybdis of Yuletide entertainment: Christmas specials and Christmas carols. Let me get my rant out about the specials first, and then in a week or two maybe I’ll get to the songs.
I should start by admitting that I’ve got a problem with the whole Santa Claus thing. As a kid I was one of those gullible idiots who believed in St. Nick for some time after everyone else in the neighborhood wised up. All these decades later the sense of betrayal still lingers. I believe it’s this very selfsame trauma that first makes children into skeptics and sets the more literate among them on the path to journalism. I’m not sure what similar primal scene leads to lawyers or car salesmen. If I figure that out, I’ll let you know.
The Santa thing made holiday television tough on me as a child, because just about every kid-friendly holiday special prominently featured the Jolly Fat Man, or the Jolly Big Fat Lie as I preferred to think of him. I liked the show where the Miser brothers tried to bake and/or freeze everyone, but most of the rest of the classic specials were more than a little too sappy for me.
The exception to the rule was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Mind you, we’re talking about the show. The song upon which it was based drove me nuts, at least until my playmates taught me the Rudolph the Six-Gun Cowboy lyrics. “Rudolph with your gun so bright, won’t you shoot my wife tonight?” That bit of youthful misogyny annoyed my TV-is-corrupting-my-child parents enough to make it worthwhile.
The Rankin-Bass animated special, however, seemed from the outset tailor-made to worm its way into my sour little heart. Its protagonists – a misfit deer with a mock-worthy nose and a misfit elf who wants to be a dentist – were all too easy to identify with. Their vindication in the end didn’t exactly match my own personal experience, but perhaps Christmas could at the very least be about hope.
Sadly, kids nowadays are being forced to grow up without the best part of the whole show: Elf Practice. Everyone in the neighborhood loved doing a lewd little dance to accompany the onscreen action, sort of a “We are Santa’s elves BOOM-BA-BOOM-BOOM” number. But in recent years broadcasters have cut the sequence, either because they were afraid Elf Practice was corrupting the morals of America’s youth or they just needed some more time during the show for commercials.
On the other hand, the part that got under my skin the worst was the dreaded Island of Misfit Toys. The concept as it’s explained to the audience is that there’s an island in the middle of the Arctic Ocean that serves as a refuge for toys with some kind of defect. We’re introduced to a handful of these dour denizens and given a minute’s worth of musical number to feast on their freakishness.
Or are we? Quick show of hands: who can name what was wrong with about half the toys? Sure, there’s a train with square wheels on its caboose. That’s not so good. There’s a bird that swims like a fish. Like penguins don’t. Still, I suppose that too would make a somewhat outré leaving under the ol’ tannenbaum.
But the rest of the crew? Malingerers, at least at first glance. We’ve got a squirt gun that squirts jelly. Squirt it out on some toast or bagels and reload the thing with water for cryin’ out loud. We have a doll and several other random gift-wannabes with absolute zero visible defects. And then we have the jack in the box that insists his name is actually Charlie. “Just keep your doofus mouth shut!” I wanted to scream at the television. “If you don’t tell anyone you’re actually a stupid Charlie in the Box, then you could pass for a real toy and you wouldn’t have to freeze your crank off on that miserable island!” It wasn’t until I got a bit older that I came to understand the whole “don’t ask, don’t tell” thing. He’s here. He’s Charlie. Get used to it.
Before our heroes leave the island, they’re treated to an earnest plea from King Moonracer begging them to tell Santa about the poor, unfortunate citizenry and their pathetic hopes for meaningful relationships with children. There must be kids in the projects somewhere that would be grateful for even the oddest playthings.
Now let’s stay on story here. Where do toys come from? Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. So where do defective toys come from? Think about it. The heartless Jolly Fat Man must already be fully aware of this gulag stuffed with the mutant spawn of elfin malfeasance. But hey, I’ve already admitted that I have it in for Santa. So don’t listen to me.
Then came the scene almost always cut from the broadcast. After the Island of Misfit Toys, the guys cruise over to the Island of Hangover-Victimized Toys. This island is very much like the last one, except all the toys here have two things in common. First, they all make – or at least made – some sort of noise louder than a bee sneeze. Second, they’ve all got big smashed spots just about the size of my dad’s right foot (or his left if he happened to catch one on the off-step). If you watch this scene closely you can catch a fleeting glimpse of my sister’s old Gnip Gnop flying past the backdrop.
But hey, it’s the holidays. So let me end this episode on a happier note. This year ABC appears to be getting copious air-use out of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special. Here’s one that gets me every time, even as cynical as I am. When Linus takes the stage and reminds us all of the real meaning of Christmas, there’s nary a dry eye in the house. And Santa doesn’t deliver a single line.
Most of this entry was originally printed as a column in the Kansas City Kansan.
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