This may or may not come as a big surprise, but there isn’t a whole lot going on this weekend – at least not anything where you’d stand a snowball’s chance in hell of meeting someone and getting laid without paying for it. Maybe it has something to do with the blatant, unrepentant, in-your-face asexuality of Christmas’ two big poster boys, Jesus and Santa. Sure, Santa has Mrs. Claus, reindeer, toys, and all those elves running around – the kind of treasure trove of kinkiness found in few places save Amsterdam, but oddly, Santa’s only real fetish seems to be eating cookies, which may explain why Mrs. Claus never has a bun in the oven. Then there’s Jesus. Interesting that “God-made-flesh” never chose to indulge in any – a plausibility hole if there ever was one. In the Old Testament people were trying to get it on with everything that wasn’t nailed down. Genesis starts with God saying “Go forth and multiply,” and 19 chapters later two daughters are getting their dad drunk and taking advantage of him, to put it nicely. Then again, only one chapter before pops offered them up to the entire male population of Sodom and no one took the bait. You have to think they had some major self-esteem issues. Point is, from the Virgin Mary straight to Armageddon, no one is getting any in the New Testament. Despite all the Da Vinci Code hoopla, the Jesus that made it through the meat grinder of early Christian dogma is relentlessly straight-edge and, if existing artistic renderings are any indication, in serious need of a fluffer. The only penetration he ever experienced was when the centurion stabbed him with the spear – which, even by the loosest definition could only be considered necrophilia. Digressions notwithstanding, if you’re looking to bump uglies this time of year, the cards are seriously stacked against you. Not only that, but you probably have the added irritation of fending off annoying inquiries by relatives concerned that you might be a closeted lesbian because you didn’t bring a boyfriend home to rack on the parents’ couch. Yeah, it’s a pisser. You need to get out of the house. How about heading over to the Continental Club on Christmas Day (aka December 25 to the non-Christian world) for Dale Watson’s Annual Christmas Show and Dance. If you’re going to be depressed, why not do it with someone who could write a book about depression? In fact, Dale could write the book, but instead he writes songs … and sings them with the heart and humility so often missing during the holidays. Sad as that seems it’s a joyous thing to behold. You could do a whole lot worse than Dale Watson on Christmas Day. If you don’t get lucky you might just realize you already are.
This article appears in December 24 • 2004.
