Christmas Tree Boys?

[an open letter to Michelle Richmond, of salon.com, for article today.

Lady, where the fuck were you in July, when it was nothing but sweat and machetes?

Perhaps I should back up. You see, those perfect evergreen cones you folks put up aren't the free-range wonders you're infatuated with. That lovely cone is just the world's shoddiest topiary, brusquely hacked by those self-same Christmas Tree Boys in June and July - real trees, pruned to mimic the perfection of the faux Firs.

You know why we're gruff and wiry? You spend nine hours a day, stripped to the waist, sweating into your bandana, workboots, and industrial shin guards, and whatever tact or erudition you had going in gets slapped out of you pretty quickly. High-school dropouts and collegiate English majors alike look and sound the same at knocking-off time - reeking of sap and endurance and underpaid frustration.

Proficiency with a three foot machete isn't something that really has much place on a resume, you see.

There are no Christmas Tree Girls, no matter how fervently we'd hope.

Conjure up your archetypical loner, and throw him in a bucket of sawdust and Pine Sol - that was the reality. Not the kind of guy with a sock-hop debutante or dimpled cheerleader waiting with a cup of cocoa or an iced tea.

I'll bring my tree over to show you sometime. It's a tomato cage with a couple of bondage ornaments and Halloween garland.

I -hate- trees.

doggerel

[from City of Truth, by James Morrow]

I find you somewhat interesting,
You're not too short or all,
And if you'd be my Valentine,
I wouldn't mind at all.



Roses drop dead,
Violets do, too,
With each day life gets shorter,
Happy Birthday to you.