Crumpet

This is my Christmas Elf. His name is Crumpet. I named him after David Sedaris' elf name for himself in the short story "The Santaland Diaries," (in which Sedaris took a job as a Macy's Christmas elf) in his collection "Holidays On Ice." This collection of short stories is a must for anyone jaded, fed up with, or downright disgusted with the joy-as-commodity rat-race of consumerism ("Your moments of joy have the precision of military strategy" --Barbara Kruger) the USA has made of what should be a spiritual time of reflection a la SILENT night. But I think it's safe to say the global culture of the 21st century is not down with quiet reflection, let alone silence. But enough of that.

As you can see, Crumpet is addicted to Green Apple Mentos and he sleeps on a '50's pin-up mousepad. What you can't see is that when you squeeze his belly, he lets out a childlike yet demonic (or demonic in it's childlike-ness?) gleeful laugh that gives the impression that not only is he laughing AT you, not with you, he is overjoyed and delighted at the dark lunacy of not only our American Christmas season, but at the whole farce that is human existence. Indeed, Crumpet the Christmas Elf would be quite at home in a dark, smoky French cafe in the days of yore discussing the side of existentialism that leans towards being nihilistic with the likes of Sartre. Of course, Crumpet's only form of communication is his sinister baby laugh. But I think Sartre-- along with the early Dadaist performance artists of that era-- would get it.