The Saint of a Thousand Slightly Different Faces

There he is! Kris Kringle. Pere Noel. Sinterklaas. Santa Claus. Thomas Nast's illustration of Santa has become the stand-bearer of the modern representation. Nast's image was largely based on Clement Clark Moore's description in his poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas" even though Moore imagined Santa as an "elf" with eight "tiny reindeer" pulling his "miniature sled." When exactly he grew to his popular Wellesian proportions, I nae can say.

Artists embrace variations on a theme. As such, with snowflakes and fruit cakes, no two Santas are alike. This became apparent to me when Adam unleashed a tide of Yule, nay a tsunami of Yule, in the house, saturating the basement in the process. Oh, foy! (festive joy)! Holiday LPs, vintage greeting cards, plastic Noel candles, old super-hot Christmas bulbs...and everywhere, on everything -- Santa Clauses! No twins here. Few siblings. Mostly chubby guys with beards and even (God forbid) beards sans mustaches (the worst). Come on, have a look!

No mustache, really? You put all that effort into a four-foot beard and you don't top it off with a 'stache?

I had no idea Mrs. Clause was so beautiful! She isn't. Santa is having an affair with Betty Draper.

This one brings toys to the boy and girl 'squatches all over the world!

Santa? Mrs. Claus? The football coach from "Glee"? The real question is: Hot dogs and beans
for Christmas?

What do you think his breath smells like? Candy canes? I'm thinking sardines.
He's got walrus breath. I'm certain.

That branch couldn't hold up a plaster ornament, never mind a 400-pound toymaker.

Santa after his third 5-Hour Power of the evening. It's beginning to look a lot like an addiction.

He thinks he's trapped in a box, but I keep telling him there's not even any cellophane. Happi, my ass!

Der Jingle.

Santa's forearm is as black as a coal miner's lungs. Must've been a lot of naughty kids that year.
Yeah, I see that kid. Do I even need to say anything?

That's just a sampling of all the St. Nick-nacks festooning our little winter wonderland. So many Santas! And reindeer. And so many snowmen and weird little elves! And so many Baby Jesuses!

Nope. No Baby Jesus. Or Snowbaby Jesus. Which might be worse than no Baby Jesus. You know what I mean? Oh, boy, I gotta go -- there goes Linus dragging that filthy blanket into the spotlight...

Christmas in the Basement 1.0: Plastic? Fantastic!

Wait! Don't eat it -- it's fake! You shouldn't be eating holly berries anyway, knucklehead. Unless you're a dog. A dog named Jack. He's already slobbered on a vintage decoration or two. He's so dumb, he's adorable, as my pal Harry Carbohydrate used to say.

Of course, when I say fake, I don't mean fake decorations. They're real decorations. They're real old decorations. Even the dust on them is old. That's an old smell, too. There are smells down here that died out fifty years ago. The basement's a museum of extinct Christmas aromas. And this is not a complaint.

This is a complaint: Entenmann's crumb cakes are getting smaller!

No, it smells terrifically festive down here (that's what she said) and it's not even Thanksgiving yet! Take a look around -- and it's still in a state of disarray:

Ah, On-A-Lite Christmas light strings! Do they even make things in Peoria anymore? (I'm sure they do. Sorry, Peoria!)

Gene Autry sings everyone's favorite Christmas carol, "The Three Little Dwarfs." Hardrock, Coco and Joe annoy the crap out of Santa's reindeer. I believe in the second verse, a felony is committed.

Guess who? Yep, you got it. It's quite uncanny, really, the resemblance. They're so friggin' excited for Christmas. "Eeeeeeee!"

Wait until Adam brings out the other ninety percent of the Eisenhower-era decorations! Someone's plastic Christmas Past is our Christmas Yet-to-Come!