"A Christmas Story"...starring Simon Thomsen

"I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the "F-dash-dash-dash" word!"
-A Christmas Story

This weekend, Kim and I will be attending a stage production of A Christmas Story. This is cool, because Kim has never seen the film (I have a feeling that I happen to be living with the only person on earth who hasn't seen A Christmas Story.)

I, on the other hand, grew up with the film. Recently, my friend Brian, who also grew up with the film (who hasn't, besides Kim?), admitted to me that he always thought that I was Ralphie. Blond hair, glasses--I'd never thought of this, but he's right: The young Simon looked very much like Ralphie. Hell, when I'm clean shaven I still look like him.

Maybe that's why I've always enjoyed the film. I was, I am, Ralphie. I'm the child with wild fantasies and irrational Christmas wishes. For a while, I wanted a BB gun, but never got one. A few years ago, my little brother finally obtained one. Within five minutes of getting a hold of it, I shot out a window.

So maybe I didn't really need a BB gun, and neither did Ralphie, but he and I shared those sames dreams of saving others from vicious bandits (Ralphie's fantasies had a cowboy flavor, while mine involved more of a G.I. Joe theme). It's not like I'm alone with this hero complex--I'm sure most young boys imagine themselves as rescuers. I still do. When I'm at work, I often imagine myself foiling a hold-up. That's on the slow days.

As youngsters, Brian and I used to carve popsicle sticks into points and tape them, pointing up, to the cinder-block wall surrounding our parent's backyard. The yard became our fortress, and we were the protectors, though if we faced any real threat we probably would have wet ourselves. Chances are, if there were to be an armed hold-up at my place of employment, I'd have that same reaction.

Or maybe I wouldn't. I could be a hero, I suppose. I work in a kitchen, and we have plenty of knives. I'm not a violent person, but it's not like a robber would know that. I'd just have to sneak up behind him, let him know that I have a knife, and instruct him to gently set the gun on the counter. I'd have to take my glasses off first, though, so I look tougher. I could be like Samuel L. Jackson at the end of Pulp Fiction, playing it cool because I've had "a moment of clarity" and I happen to be "in a transitional period" and I'm carrying a "BAD MOTHER FUCKER" wallet.

Fuck that. This guy has a gun, and I've got a dull knife. I'd rather wet my pants.