Karl Klockars

I can make it. I can make it. I can make it. It’s only 6 hours. I’m more than 4 hours in. More than halfway. I’ve done worse and survived. I can make it. I can make it.

Oh, hi – sorry, let me explain. I’m currently smack dab in the center of just about every person’s hell. I’m buried deep in a grave of constant Christmas music. As has been mentioned previously in these screeds – I work in radio. And what does radio do on Christmas day? You betcha. Some poor slob gets to come in and spin them holiday hits for Hours…and Hours…and Hours.

Six hours, all told. And you know what? I practically asked for it. Time and a half, I get first dibs on the other days I want off, and there’s damn near no one here to get in my way of killing 6 hours of time however I like. Take that, world – bah humbug. The best part is that this isn’t even the worst Xmas music related gig I’ve ever had. Oh, it gets worse. Far worse.

Oh lord, I take it back – “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” done by Frankie Valli. Shoot me.

Grocery Hell – Ground Zero for All Xmas Music

I used to work at a grocery store, like so many others passing through high school. I, however, was not a mere shelf-stocker or checker/bagger – I worked for Peapod, goddamnit. I was practically grocery royalty. You want to know where the canned salmon was? I’ll tell you how many steps it takes to get there. Comparing cat food? Dry vs. wet or brand vs. brand? I’m your man.

And yet, the season of Christmas music fell on my ears just the same as it did with everyone else there – seemingly minutes after the turkey was in the fridge gearing up for leftover duty, it was Mariah Carey every hour on the hour. Madonna doing “Santa Baby” for the third time today. And endless Brenda Lee, rocking around that F’ing Christmas Tree. (Can’t swear around the customers…too loudly.)

After a couple different years of dealing with Christmas music for a combined total of 5 weeks per year, 3-5 days per week, about 5-6 hours per shift, that makes a grand sum of: 300 hours of Christmas music, give or take. If I can survive that, then I can survive anything. And to think – there are lifers in there, working full time, 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. That’s damn near 200 hours every single year. Minus the “Singing in the Rain” you get in the produce department when they mist the greens.

Of course, being young ruffian troublemakers, we would be too busy stealing booze and cigarettes, talking/flirting with the rest of the staff, and listening to our own Slayer-equipped Walkmen to pay attention to the whole time, so adjust the sum accordingly. However, no matter how relaxed and groovy the gig may seem, the Alvin and the Chipmunks tune where they want hula hoops and shit like that haunts my dreams.

Christmas Morning, 6AM. Suburban Radio. Prepare the Noose.

There was one year – I forget who decided this would be a good idea – but at the station I used to work at, it was someone’s responsibility to come on dark & early on Christmas Morning and spin a few hours worth of Christmas tunes. Doesn’t sound too terrible, does it? Go in at 6ish, play some CDs, say some stupid Christmas greeting every 20 minutes or so, give the time and temperature every now and again, and call it macaroni.

Now keep in mind that the kid doing this is a 22-year-old damned fool who cares nothing for his mental state that early in the morning, nor for his liver, but only for the avoidance of jeers from his friends, wondering just what he’s doing going to bed so early on Christmas Eve! We gotta party, man? This tree isn’t going to get covered in beer cans on its own, now is it?

And as I arose at 5:40 that fine Christmas morning, shook the cobwebs of holiday cheer from my brain (somewhat) and stumbled to the parking lot to my 1971 Cadillac Coupe Deville, I wondered exactly what the hell I was doing with my life. I’m not even a full time employee – am I expecting them to give me a full airshift or something? Is this how my life is going to be…forever?

Well, yeah. Tough shit, kid. Shoulda been an accountant.

As things turned out, they did give me a full morning airshift – months and months later, after trying out a sales guy who had never done any on-air work before who would do the shift for free. Only after that experiment failed did they turn to the experienced fresh-faced young’un who had always been there for them, like a beaten wife or a stalker-y boyfriend.

Ah, memories.

Fast Forward To Present Day! We Find Our Narrator…

…Sitting behind this gargantuan console, rotting away on a Christmas afternoon. Waiting for the clock to turn to 4pm. Waiting while families enjoy their turkey and ham, while they open presents and start fires with all the wrapping, while children frolic and puppies bark. Listening to more Nat King Cole, more Elvis, more “Silver Bells” and more “Frosty.”

And I don’t care. Because as soon as I get outta here, I’m Christmas Asshauling up to the Great White Wastes of Michigan and having Christmas on my own terms. Er…on the in-laws terms. But no matter! My family times and my holiday time is what I’ve decided it is. And I’ve decided it’s in between the 25th and the 31st. Take that, calendar.

Besides, the world has slown down, practically damn near stopped and no one gets to enjoy it! Riding the El to work this morning was like looking down on a ghost town. The streets of the Loop were bare, and I have the pictures to prove it. If anyone needs any photographs to emulate a post-apocalyptic Chicago, just ask. They look pretty good.

Yes, in just minutes I’ll be gone, having wasted away the last hour and a half trying to get my brain to put out 1200 words. It usually takes far less time, but my grey matter has been somewhat numbed, you see. That or it’s the lutefisk from last night. I don’t know. But soon it will be Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. Or a good 6-hour drive. And I don’t care which.

Holidays on your own terms – it’s a new and novel idea. Next up will be the 4th of July – in August. Think of it! Halloween a week afterwards! Well, maybe not. But this works for me, and I’ve earned it. The Little Drummer Boy is rum-pa-pum pumming out of the speakers right now and it’s all I can do to keep from kicking them in.

Bah humbug to all, he says. And to all a good night.