Santa Boulevard

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Santa got pulled over: 5:30 PM, December 24, Abernathy Boulevard across from the plaza.

The officers- Denzie and Fuller- got out of their car and approached the sleigh.

Santa, jolly: “Ho ho ho! Was I going too fast? You boys have to forgive me! I’m a very busy man tonight!” He smiled wide.

Denzie held the flashlight up to the reindeer.

Fuller, thumbs in his belt: “What’s in the bag, sir?”

Santa looked to the sack in the back, laughing. “Why, that’s just TOYS!!! Toys for every good boy and girl in the world! Merry Christmas!”

Denzie approached Santa from the other side. “What’s in the bag, sir?”

Santa chuckled, and then in a booming voice: “TOYS!!! I was just telling your partner! That’s a bag of TOYS!!!”

Fuller walked to the rear of the sleigh. “Can we take a look in the bag, sir?”

Santa laughed hearty. “Of course you can! It’s just a bag full of TOYS!” 

He swallowed hard. “Merry Christmas!”

Fuller pulled a duct-taped freezer bag out of the sack.

Santa watched, eyes going yo-yo. “TOYS!!!”

Sgt. Fuller cut the bag with his utility knife, dipping his finger into the white powder. Tasting it.

“This is PCP. Angel dust.”

“TOYS!!!” Santa bellowed.

Denzie shook his head. “Do you know what this stuff does to kids?”

“You don’t understand,” Santa said, “I was just holding it. For a friend.”

Denzie looked at Fuller.

“TOYS!!!”

Fuller smiled at Santa: "You're going away for a lot of years, you fat son of a bitch."

"But... TOYS!"

Denzie slipped the cuffs on as Fuller radioed in.

“You boys don’t understand! Christmas cheer! To the children! TOYS!!!”

A group of neighborhood kids gathered to watch the cops shove the old man in the squad car easy.

The children- hearts broke- turned away from Santa and headed home. But they heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all! And I’m not saying a motherfucking word without my lawyer!”

Some Spring Nights

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Some Spring nights- but not this one- you can easily misunderstand the signals. You can spot the dead rabbit in the shock of green grass, and the newborn baby in the branches of the budding oak tree. I did. I saw them both on the way home from work.

Life... death... do they still make Snapple? Stop at the pharmacy for a cigar because smoke is something, well it used to be, at one time, long story, sister... this parking lot used to be full with my friends. 

But now I’m just a guy, stranger in a home land, khaki pants and cash and maybe the kid behind the counter knows what it’s all about. Maybe he’ll have the answer in his eyes.

What are the odds.

Aisles of every of everything, things I didn’t know I’d need until this moment, product and solution as a cure for the cancer of the soul, a disease I contracted when the television commercials told me so and big thank you to everyone for the production. I blessed the rains down in Africa.

Nights like this... when I’m thinking too clearly. When I see too much. When I can be there for everyone. Make your day right. Set you on the trail. Heal your heart. Hold your hand. There is not enough of me, and for that I am sorry.

Summer candy on sale because nothing says summer like the melting of chocolate and the smell of chlorine. See, I took you here... to the pharmacy, and back, in my car, with your wanderlust, all for cling peaches, and now we're back on the road and heading home. My apologies for taking you out of space-time as you know it but you needed it, I know that you needed it and now you do too and now...

Now I want you to feel the grass underneath your feet. The grass is growing. The Earth is moving and you’re moving with it. The heat is inside you, waiting to come out, and you will be still with the rest. Just you wait for one of those magical nights in Spring because they happen- not tonight- but it will because it always does.

An Open Letter To The Progressive Girl...

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I met you as Stephanie Courtney, New Haven, in the year 2ooo- you were my partner in improv. We had fun. You made us all laugh with your sillyisms, your loser-girl gags, and your left-of-center profanity. I rarely say this about women, but Steph...

You were funny.

Then came the chance to do a national TV spot. You took it. All of us would. Well... most of us. Not me I’m Bryan Liberty. But you grabbed for the cash and oh, hell, it was cute... kooky... kind of. The first time.

Right now, by my watch, it’s half-past two thousand thirteen, going on the late 2o5o’s... half a decade and counting of the same claustrophobic character, the same scorched perm and false eyelashes, the same white-cyclorama & smock: comedic suicide on a national stage, the daily raping of your talent to push policies on your economically-oppressed countrymen.

Steph... enough with the car insurance.

You see, TV commercials are never funny. I’ll say it again so you don’t miss the hidden meaning: TV commercials are never funny. They are consumer propaganda designed to get inside your head, to shape your thinking, to squeeze out the sponge of your mind, leave you dry-rag, incapable of independent thought. These traits can then be passed down genetically to your offspring... just ask the monarch butterfly.

TV commercials are designed to destroy your sense of self and spirituality and convince you that the answers to the questions in your heart, mind & soul are in a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

Steph: the answers are not in a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

This little skit, this little skit, this little skit, on repeat- it’s lower than child pornography. It’s much worse- more perverse. It’s commerce.

I know, you’re in the machine now. It feels good. The paychecks cover lots of pimples but in the long run... in the long run... every month you’re losing eggs and inspiration and the cardboard cutouts of you are too sad for me to deface. Your fate, it’s been bundled, you’re a painted clown leading Jewish children into the toasty ovens of Auschwitz...

You’re a frigid logo mascot monster creature traitor to your species. You could have done so much better... you could have been in my movie. 

But I guess I’ll keep my mouth shut when my friends make chuckle at your pre-digested pantomime in the name of pushing discount auto insurance. You’ll understand if I don’t admit to having known you: as far as I’m concerned Steph Courtney died a long time ago.

All my best,

Bryan Liberty