December 24, 2025
Dear Friends,
Nosiree, the spirit of (wink, wink) Xmas is alive and well inside these walls, where our Solstice Bush burns bright, the stockings are hung by the chimney with care (well, most of them, we had to turn the one with the angel on front around so she didn’t show), and the chestnuts roasting by an open fire go pop, pop, pop. (And, no, that’s NOT the sound of gunfire from the Second Amendment Shooting Range a few blocks away -- the only place guns are still allowed in California.)
In accordance with local and state ordinances requiring that we replace the venerable tree-top 
angel with a secular symbol, we chose a Cheshire Cat tree fairy this year (acceptable under the Anthropomorphized Representation of Divine Iconography Exception Act of 2021), and yes, that’s right, you DO see an image of Saint Nick on one of the stockings. We found out that childless couples, and empty nesters who can prove they are estranged from their grandchildren, can get a waiver for one Saint Nicholas each Winter Solstice season, and Tommy got his paperwork in just in time.
Our annual holiday card complied with federal regulations and featured the family pet(s), a tradition said to originate with The Father of Solstice, former President Barack Obama, (although it really dates back much further).
And, in keeping with the custom that every family gets to choose their own subject of seasonal veneration, 
(provided said subject is a secular, apolitical, deceased entertainer, sports figure, or obsolete object of note, taken from a list of approved venerates issued by the government each July 4th)), we chose Hank Williams, basically just because he’s dead and we’ve already gone through all of the approved venerates we actually gave a shit about. (Keith Richards 2019. Now that was a celebration!)
Our next door neighbor Mohammad, (He’s Muslim. Aren’t they all?), came by the other day while we were decorating the Solstice Bush, expressing concern that he’d heard Christmas carols wafting from our windows. When we assured him that what he heard were winter folk chants of the Celtic Isles, and thus representative of our heritage as white Anglo Americans, and that, in fact, this particular recording of them was made by an all-Lesbian choir, he feigned relief. Mohammad pretends to be our friend, but, personally, I suspect he’s an informant for the PC Ops.
When he saw the nativity scene on the entry table, I thought his turban was going to unravel, but once we produced the document certifying it as indigenous Haitian art, he seemed satisfied. However, just so there’s no misunderstanding, I replaced the baby Jesus with a hound dog puppy.
When I think back on Xmas past, I marvel at our naivete. Remember how we all laughed at Little Johnny when he asked Santa for an 'Army gun' so he could fight the godless heathen hordes when he grew up?
Well, as you probably know, we lost Little Johnny at the Battle of the North Pole when his entire company defected to the dark side and signed the pledge to replace Saint Nicholas (AKA Santa Claus, Saint Nick, Kris Kringle, Father Xmas, The Jolly Fat Man With The White Beard), with Frosty the Snowman. But then what can you expect from a generation of infidels educated in public schools that teach that intelligent design is only a ‘theory?’ Or maybe it was just so effing cold up there that he just wanted to get it the heck over with and come home. Whatever. Most people made the adjustment easily once it was a fait accompli; and once they realized it was just as easy to explain to kids why Frosty didn’t melt when he came down the chimney, as it was to convince them that reindeer could fly. Let’s face it, the little bastards don’t really care who’s driving the sleigh as long as they get presents.
When it comes right down to it, there are some definite positives to not celebrating Xmas. I’m not even Catholic, but who wouldn’t be relieved at not having to go to Midnight Mass on Xmas Eve (or sunrise services at Xaster, for that matter, which I can certainly attest to). And any of you who ever had to participate in an Xmas pageant at church or, back in the day, grammar school, knows what a pain it was to stand on your feet, or kneel, for Pup’s sake, for hours on end in a drafty auditorium while some fat kid from the second grade did a painful recitation of the what seemed like the entire second chapter of Luke. (Or in my case the life-changing injury I suffered from the tinsel halo that went with my angel costume. Damned thing rubbed my forehead raw, gave me a rash that lasted through the summer, and I’m almost certain it was responsible for my self-esteem issues later on; but that’s between my therapist and me.)
Oh, I used to miss going caroling, but after some deep soul searching, (Some say we sold out, but they don’t know this family!), Tommy and I joined a Solstice choral group. We perform at auto malls and Best Buy locations all over Southern California during the season, delighting secular humanists everywhere with our renditions of such winter classics as Sleigh Ride, Winter Wonderland, Over The River and Through the Woods to Grandmother’s House We Go, Jingle Bells, and, of course, the ever popular Solstice anthem, Frosty the Snowman. Mohammad claimed he could hook us up with an underground group who still sang the old songs in an undisclosed location out in the Mojave somewhere, but we decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
Tomorrow we will celebrate the Solstice feast with friends, toasting Hank Williams (and the 1965 Volkswagen Beetle – our friends had their first date in one) with French Champagne and enjoying a forbidden appetizer of Foie Gras, (illegal in the US since PETA instigated the web-footed fowl uprising of ’12), imported from somewhere in China. (Keep it quiet, but if you need a source, email me privately.) We will toast old friends and new, and those who are no longer present. It hasn’t been the best of years. It hasn’t been the worst of years. But the Solstice always comes, and we always celebrate, because that's just what we do.
May your holiday, whatever you call it, be merry and bright. May your new year be new, your troubles few, and your days sunny, funny and long. I love you all and wish you peace.
(Paying our respects to Father Winter, and Frosty, in Yosemite last year – a place where you can almost believe in Christmas again. SHHHH.)
