![]() I’d sit through each sermon without really processing what the priest said, immersed and isolated in my utter boredom, the interminable dullness broken up periodically by a command to kneel down in the pew. To go meant to put on a stiff, scratchy collared shirt, hand-me-down dress pants so oversized they made me look like a white, six-year-old MC Hammer, and a pair of black derby shoes that felt like they were carved out of wood. I never got too into the whole “God” thing, and I always hated church. Jesus Christ, son of God, sings a verse of this song. The Walkmen song is about having “another one-night stand” with an ex-lover-perhaps, for instance, a high-school sweetheart, or some overly sensitive Paulie Bleeker type you only see when you come home for the holidays. On the 26th, I’ll be fighting off my demons with “New Year’s Eve,” a perfect comedown from the thrill and innocence of the day before. It’s not about how “Santa Claus is coming to town,” or how “soon it will be Christmas day”-it’s about capturing the essence of the season, while it’s here and after it’s gone, in all its messy glory. ![]() It descends upon me, like a vulture, for a variety of reasons-all the presents have been opened, and out with the wrapping paper and cardboard goes my excitement for the future my thoughts turn toward the obligations that will inevitably befall me once my vacation ends the glorious day I’d been anticipating for so many months is now a full year away-but mostly, I get morose because I can’t listen to Christmas music anymore. Once a year, on the day after Christmas, a heavy, desolate, unique kind of depression consumes me.
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