Yes, they have the same birthday; it just seems so right, once you know it, doesn’t it?
And I was thinking of them both today, when I went out in this podunk town for a two-hour walk and, of all the people I passed, including the church group that was loudly praying to the empty downtown sidewalks, not one said, “Merry Christmas.”
Now, I may live in a pretty ratfuck part of the big city, but we always hear that small towns are frendlier. It’s a certain fact I couldn’t walk around the Downtown Eastside for two hours without hearing Merry Christmas repeatedly, and sometimes even from sober persons. Whichever PR firm small towns are hiring to spread this myth around, they’ve earned their money, cuz not one word of that claim is true. Hell, the only one who even looked me in the eye was the chocolate lab whose owner yanked him roughly away because for a second I looked like I might pet the doggy. Oh, perish the thought.
So, the following pair of videos and the following classic Christmas story (which I post every year, and you should read every time I post it, you’ll thank me) go out to those three men I saw sitting on the bar stools at the pub, staring into space with one carefully calibrated empty seat between each of them, presumably for Clarence. Or Harvey.
Happy Birthday, Jesus:
Happy Birthday, Shane:
This is simply the finest, most moving and remarkable Christmas story I have ever encountered, and I have, as I happened to have remarked recently, well over two dozen books of Christmas stories. Moving as it does from England to Saudi Arabia to the far eastern tip of Russia, it qualifies as multiculti, too! It is a unique jewel by an author who emerged from nowhere, left this small masterpiece for us, and vanished again into a swirling blizzard of obscurity. I’ll post it using the MORE tag, so that if you enjoy it you can read the rest. If you don’t enjoy it, I suggest you seek medical assistance promptly, for your brain matter must be leaking out your ears or something. Merry Christmas!