In September 1897, Virginia O’Hanlon wrote the following letter:
Dear Editor,
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see in the Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon
In 1987, the letter found it’s way to the editor of Fangoria Magazine. This was his warm response.
If today is your birthday, cherish the day, for you are sharing your birthday with Jefferson Beauregard “Jeff” Sessions III, Rickey Henderson, Annie Lennox, Ricky Martin, Cab Calloway, Lemmy, Humphrey Bogart, Ryan Seacrest, Jimmy Buffett, and most importantly, Santa Claus.
It is almost Christmas here in Chicago. In fact, it is technically Christmas Eve. I’m not sure how the rest of the world celebrates, but here in the good old Windy Second City, we pull out all of our Motown records, and we just look at them like they were pretty silverware. The mild winter weather is the perfect landscape to what is potentially a fantastic soundscape. This is how we roll.
What does Christmas mean to me? It’s a time where everything should be communal and shared like a bathroom or a marijuana joint. A time where Jay-Z can rap while the band, and not the actual elements, Earth, Wind & Fire accompanies him. A time where a baby named Jesus is born in some manger in Bethlehem as three wise men approach with strange presents by merely following a star. A time to avoid shopping for two and a half weeks.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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