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Pierce, who, like my boyfriend in his youth, steadfastly refused to be stripped of her holiday spirit. Rescuing us from all of the banality and hideousness, once again, was a storyline centered on Brittany S. (Because everyone knows that if you really need money, the people to hit up are all those rich public high school teachers-not, like, the wealthiest 2 percent of the population who just received an extension of their grotesque Bush-era tax cuts.) Shue’s clearly confusing the Biblical story of Jesus’ birth with that of the Book of Job, resulting in his subjecting the kids to increasingly humiliating acts that included, but were not limited to: caroling in front of their peers, threading popcorn garlands, throwing popcorn garlands with feigned jouissance, wearing some of the ugliest sweater vests seen in any form of visual entertainment since the (thankful) demise of Andy Capp, and extorting monies from his colleagues on the teaching staff through another round of caroling. If you think of the holidays, like I do, as a steaming pile of fraught anticipation, compounded by desperation, and eventually engendering feelings of inadequacy, disappointment, and anomie, then you probably identified with much of “A Very Glee Christmas.” There was, as in all the least successful episodes, a needless focus on the adult characters.
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It was full of enforced expectation, senseless cruelty, joy predicated on the suffering of others, the deferment of that which is rightfully deserved, and the eventual realization that the true spirit of the season comes not from tramping down the naïve bliss of others, but from the pleasure-fount derived from pretending not to tramp down the naïve bliss of others. This week’s Christmas-themed episode of Glee was just like this. When he finally realized, he was crushed-the holiday was never the same for him. As the story goes, they all then woke up the next morning at a normal hour, gorged themselves on bacon and eggs and biscuits, and began exuberantly opening their gifts, while my BF laid in his room until well into morning’s double-digits, waiting for (false) dawn. So one fair Noel, his parents and siblings conspired to put a stop to this practice, sneaking into his room on Christmas Eve while he slumbered, and hanging thick swaths of black velvet over his windows.
But somehow this was too much of a restriction on his exuberant essence, and he would begin banging around in his room starting around 4:00 or 5:00 a.m., champing at the bit and waking up everyone else, thus Ruining Christmas by both disrupting his kin’s diurnal cycles, and interrupting their ability to sleep off their eggnog and tryptophan hangovers. To wit: there was a rule in his family that he and his two older siblings had to wait, at the very earliest, until the sun came up on December 25 before they could venture downstairs and begin tearing the wrappings off their be-conifered bundles of joy. But his emotional connection to the holiday was transcendent, bordering on troubling (or perhaps even annoying). He is an open and loving spirit in general, so this isn’t that surprising.
When my boyfriend was a kid, he loved Christmas.