Where's Jesus? (There He Is! And There! And There!)

Well, in less than 24 hours it will be December, and I guess that means the grouchy pre-Christmas blogs can begin. I'm already pretty damn grumpy about the whole shebang, mainly because since about November 19th my mother has called me at least once a day, from Florida, asking me what I want for Christmas. I don't know what I want, actually I don't want anything. You know, it's an odd occurrence to have reached the point in one's life where one wants nothing, and I should be happy, I mean, doesn't wanting nothing mean one is happy? However, I'm not happy, because I'm being asked over and over what I want, and I guess my mother has to do something because she can't come over all the way from Florida to stare at me, and so instead she calls every day and says, "We're going to ______ [fill in the store]. Do you want anything from there?"

Now.

Now, I can't even come up with some sort of generic item, like a teapot or something, to tell her I'd like for Christmas, and she's asking me if I want something from a particular store. As if I could say, "Yeah, Mom. Target today? Well, there's a blouse on the right hand side of the store near the back, brown striped, on the second swirly rack from the underwear display. I want it." And the sad thing is that even if I could do that, she'd come back with the green polka dot sweater, the one that would raise my body temperature by 30% and make me look as big as all outdoors. "Well, you said left hand side of the store at the front, green polka dot, on the first straight rack from the light bulbs."

But that wasn't even what I was going to write about.

What I was going to write about was this. This is my friend's, the dishy Michelle's blog. She took the time, in an entry appropriately named, "Oh, Christ," to tell us this story here. If you don't want to follow the link and read, I'll fill you in with some background.

There is a Nativity Scene round about this time of year in Daley Plaza in Chicago (where Michelle resides), and they keep having to replace their Baby Jesuses because the little babe is apparently a target item for theft. Yes, he's been stolen a couple of times, and then there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth by the religious community, and people volunteer to police the area and make sure no one touches the Christ Child, which is sad, since he was in fact a Baby of the People. And finally, the Powers That Be just took to permanently affixing the little nipper down in his crib, a big black cable wrapped around his swaddling clothes. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in 2007 Baby Jesus is bolted into the manger.

Joseph: Mary, the baby won't stop wailing. This is supposed to be Silent Night, Holy Night, for cryin' out loud.
Mary: Sorry, dear, the wise men had to bolt him down because the townsfolk wouldn't keep their meat hooks off.

(I was going to add a line about getting used to those bolts, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it.)

Now, there's a lot to be said about this story. Mainly that there's a Nativity Scene in Daley Plaza in Chicago. To be honest, it damn-near boggled my mind. Michelle was a little dismayed that they kept referring to a small plastic doll as "The Baby Jesus," but that doesn't bother me so much. I'm from the south, where "Baby Jesus" is just as popular as "Jesus," and if you've seen the movie "Talladega Nights," you know what I'm talking about. (In what is probably the funniest scene in the film.) So, sure, he's a piece of plastic, but he's Jesus Plastic. Barbie's just plastic, but she's Barbie, right?

The people interviewed for the story, the self appointed "God Squad" who look out after plastic JC, wonder aloud what kind of a person would actually steal the Baby Jesus from his manger. Well, let's have a little Christ-theft profiling, shall we?

* People who really like the Baby Jesus.
* People who take the song "Just A Closer Walk With Thee" a little too seriously.
* Kleptomaniacs.
* People who like to kidnap garden gnomes and take them on cross-country trips, sending their owners postcards from various landmarks. (Which is, btw, the only reason I'd ever own a garden gnome.)
* Poor little Spanish boys who promise the Baby Jesus that if they get a new red wagon for Christmas, they will take him for a ride around town. (And if you've ever seen the Christmas episode of "Dragnet," you'll know exactly who I'm talking about, thank you.)
* People who really dislike the Baby Jesus.
* People who were also shocked there was a Nativity Scene in Daley Plaza in Chicago, and wanted concrete proof for their loved ones.
* Terrorists. (OK, so I don't personally see terrorists stealing the Baby Jesus, but they're on the suspect list for everything else, so we can't discount them here.)

By the way, the article linked above also contains this little nugget, which I absolutely cannot pass up quoting. If that's OK with Mr Gerry Smith, who wrote the article. "Last December, 32 plastic Baby Jesus dolls were stolen from Nativity scenes in people's front yards then lined up along the fence of a South Side woman's lawn." I can't help it, and I'm so sorry for the people who lost their Baby Jesuses, but I just love that story. I wonder about the woman who was the recipient of the 32 Baby Jesuses. What was she like? You know, it almost sounds like a Christmas Special. "Where's My Baby Jesus?" It could focus on all the families who've lost their respective Baby Jesuses, show the police trying to track down the thieves ("One last night on 16th Street! That means he should strike on Elm next!"), and finally, the lonely woman who wakes up on Christmas morning to find her yard awash in Baby Jesuses. Which are returned, and everyone ends up happy.

Of course, that special won't get made. Because it has the audacity to mention the Baby Jesus. And here's where my first grouchy Christmas blog shall end.

You know, I'd never consider myself a Christian, I'm not an atheist, I'm not really much of anything. I'm kind of a religious mutt. And Lord knows (I mean, really, He does) how I dispise me some bible-thumping Christians. But there's one small area in which I really hate to admit that they have a point. And that's in Christmas. Christmas is celebrated as Christ's birthday. One of my favorite Christmas specials growing up was "The Little Drummer Boy." For years and years it never made it back to TV because it was deemed "religious," and therefore not shown on Network TV every year like "Rudolph" and "Frosty." Well, you know what? Fuck you, networks. It's Christmas, for Baby Jesus' sake, and if you're so afraid of offending viewers by mentioning God and Jesus, then just forget the holiday even exists, pull all your specials, and lose the $117 billion dollars you make on advertising the crap out of the season.

I really think there's room for Rudolph, Frosty, Baby Jesus, the Wise Men, and Charlie Brown all at the Christmas table. Just not in the yard. Which is my pet peeve, you know. All the Christmas figures in the yard side by side. Frosty the snowman looking over into the manger at the Baby Jesus.

You don't suppose Frosty.....? Nah, he wouldn't.

Betland's Olympic Update
* A lunchtime blog. Help me think up an excuse why I was late coming back in.