On 34th Street (natch), the people of one block all decorate their houses in a fashion that makes Mardi Gras look restrained. Lots of lights; more dancing Santas than you can imagine; and lots and lots of plastic Magi. Samson was particularly taken by the manger scene on the roof of one house. Nothing says Christmas like a two-year-old looking up with wonder into the cold December night and proclaiming "Look. On the roof: It's baby Jesus!"
We took him to this block last year, but I think this time he got a little more out of it. Certainly he enjoyed seeing all the Frostys and Rudolphs. He was less taken with the Grinch.
And neither of us could understand why unblinking dolls holding candles have anything to do with Christmas.
Even if they are in little velvet dresses. Creepy.
My favorite story of the night is one I wish was mine. Our friends took their daughter, Sara, to see the lights, and at one of the houses was a guy nominally dressed as Santa [slight paunch, white beard, red shirt]. This Santa was standing on his steps, smoking, and called down to my friend's daughter: "Hey Shorty, here's a candy cane."
I'm paraphrasing here; the important part of this is that Sara's encounter with Santa involved smoking and the term "hey, shorty." And yes, I'm jealous. We visited the same house, and this Santa was neither smoking nor tossing out nicknames like George W at a barbecue.
He did, however, give Samson a candy cane.
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