So here I am, writing, eating cookies and drinking milk, and becoming more like Santa Claus every minute. That’s me up there in the picture. Not the little Santa, the big Santa in the background. Santa ornaments can’t write a blog about becoming Santa Claus. Santa ornaments also can’t wonder why their life became so strange, and how amazing and absurd it is to become a thirty-three year old professional real-bearded Santa Claus.

If you’ve ever been walking through the mall and wondered how the guy portraying Santa became that guy, I’m gonna try to provide some insight. I want to share stories from my past, things that shaped me into the man I am today. The type of man that bleaches his hair and beard six times in as many weeks, wears glasses to look older, a fat-suit to look less fit, and more makeup than a drag queen.

That might be a bit irreverent for a Santa. But hey, I’m not your Grandma’s Santa Claus.

I’m a good Santa, a damn good Santa, I’d say. And others say the same. I’m a young Santa, a fit Santa, a juggling Santa. I’m a handsome Santa. I’m a philosophical storytelling Santa. As Santa I talk to kids about science being indistinguishable from magic, how an understanding of the big bang and quantum entanglement allows Santa to teleport into houses without chimneys, about the elves mischievous antics and Mrs. Claus’ delicious baking, and how all matter, even you and me, is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration. I like to mix the traditional with the contemporary, a synthesis of Christmas past and future, to make a Christmas present.

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I just finished my milk and cookies. And now I’m having a glass of wine. Can I tell you a secret? I used to hate Christmas. I was super-Grinchy. I’d get depressed around mid-November and it’d last till January. My old roommate, Tom, pointed out the cycle after living with me for a few years. Once he pointed out the seasonal cycle, I was better able to deal with it. Sometimes I succeeded in warding off depression. But not usually. Usually I lost the battle, the black dogs won.

Sometimes, when I was down,  I got real fucked up, like blackout loser drunk.  But usually I just got stoned. Really fucking stoned. My kitchen mentor, Mike Gerlach, nicknamed me THC because, he said, “there’s so much THC in your blood, a person could get high from smoking it.”

I started smoking pot daily when I was seventeen, about three weeks before Christmas, around the time my little brother died from a brain tumor. His death was also at the root of my seasonal depression cycle, I think. Another reason I smoked a lot of pot was ’cause I had a lot of pot, ’cause I sold a lot of pot. I was good at selling pot, even though I was always really stoned. Maybe because I was always really stoned. That indicated I truly believed in the product. And that it obviously worked quite well, judging by the ridiculous stoner talk I engaged in constantly, like wondering if an alley cat’s still called an alley cat if you take it out of the alley. And other profound and important philosophical gems.

Selling pot was Santa-like, in a sense. Santa receives orders for things boys and girls want and then he fills a sack with goodies and delivers the goodies from house to house. That’s exactly what I did when I sold pot. Except when I was feeling lazy, then I just had people stop by my apartment. And that happened a lot. That was more like kids going to the North Pole to pick up their presents from Santa, and then staying to hang out for a while and smoke a joint. It was a fun gig, while it lasted. I made it fourteen years without getting busted. But I was happy to leave it behind me. I couldn’t have a story of redemption if I was still a criminal. But that part of the story makes for a good prologue. Then, when this blog’s published, on the book jacket I can include comments like,

“Great read…the story of a man who’s gone from slangin’ dope to slangin’ hope.” –Jay Z

“What a journey, from patron saint of cannabis to patron saint of Christmas.” –Bill Hicks

“If I knew Santa knew where to get the good stuff, I would have asked for a bag of Purple Urkle for Christmas.” –Doug Benson