Many and varied are the Ways of Walken: yea, from the leather-clad styles of Gabriel the Archangel to the bewigged walking nightmare which haunted Hairspray, he is Christopher Chameleon, the Nyarlathotep of the Silver Screen, instantly recognizable yet always different. Christopher Walken is, like the mythical river, never and always the same.
So it is at Christmas Time.
The First Day
The partridge, the pear tree. I trust both have arrived safely on this First Day of Christmas. The partridge, unfortunately, required mounting for shipping. Taxidermy. I had to strangle the poor bird with my own two hands. Sometimes small cruelties must be tolerated for the greater holiday good—in this case, pears.
The Second Day
May the two beautiful turtle doves, enclosed, enliven your Second Day of Christmas. I have recorded their mournful songs on a compact disc, also enclosed, so you will understand why I found it necessary to smother them. These birds—these birds could drive you fucking crazy.
and the rest…
As well, there are those who have grown up, but have yet to abandon the sweet rituals of childhood. Rituals like the annual Letter to Santa. But when you’re a thirty-five-year-old nightclub booker, you have to find an edgier recipient for the sake of your reputation, hence:
While Artist-in-Residence at Cornell’s arts dorm, I was expected to come up with stimulating art-related programs for the students to participate in. “Letters to Walken” allowed them the chance to write their yearly Christmas letter to Christopher Walken.