A Visit from Hip Young St. Nicholas by Clement Clark Moore, VI

Happy Holidays, Steamroller!

In putting together our show, Snowed In: The Upstairs Gallery Christmas Pageant, Sarah and I wanted to evoke the tone of classic Rankin/Bass specials like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and A Year Without a Santa Claus. We both love Christmas, and those specials go hand-in-hand with celebrating this time of year. It's no surprise, then, that some of the characters in our show are based on existing Christmas figures.

We also found out about another Christmas figure created by Clement Clark Moore, VI, the great-great-great-great-grandson of Clement Clark Moore, who we all know wrote "A Visit from St. Nicholas" aka "Twas the Night Before Christmas". As the great-great-great-great-grandson of a poet, Clark Moore, VI, carried the family profession, and had written his own, lesser-known version of the poem.

We thought we could share Clarence Clark Moore's (VI) soon-to-be timeless poem with the Steamroller to give a little insight to our show and the coolest, yule-est dude, Hip Young Santa! We look forward to seeing you this Saturday night at 8 p.m. at the Upstairs Gallery.

Merry Christmas!

A Visit from Hip Young St. Nicholas
by Clement Clark Moore, VI

'Twas, like, totally the night before Christmas, when all through the pad
Everyone was passed out, even that weird guy from Air B&B, Brad;  
The Coors Banquet cans were lined up on the windowsill,  
In hopes that Hip Young St. Nicholas would soon come to chill; 

Charlie lay on the couch in a position supes weird,
While that dog from next door licked food from his beard;  
And me and Stacy in some t-shirts, I think mine was the Clash,  
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s crash,  

When out on the fire escape I heard such a thump,  
I turned from the TV to see what was up.
Away to the porch, I ran like hell,
Opened up the sliding door and “Yo!” I did yell.
All the streetlights were on like they are every night,
So the alley outside still looked mad bright,

When, what to my blurry eyes should appear,
But a cool vintage sleigh, and eight dope-ass reindeer,  
With a chill-as-fuck driver, so laidback and slick,  
I knew in a moment it must be Hip Young St. Nick.  

Screaming down the asphalt it drifted to a stop,  
And he tweeted out the names of the whole reindeer lot:
"Yo, @Shiloh! yo, @Channing! yo, @Blu_Ray and @Diplo!  
#Britta! #Hannah! #Fixie and @StringerBell!

Find a spot where it’s free to park, and then  
I’ll find someplace to dump these presents #thatawkwardmomentwhen!"  
As ash from a hand-rolled cigarette does fall,
No joke, those deer dragged that sleigh straight up the wall;  

So the whole cool-ass rig ended up on the roof, 
With the sleigh full of stuff, and Hip Young St. Nicholas, it’s the truth.
And then, in a sec, I heard overhead
The reindeer stomping around like they’d wake up the dead.
As I shut the sliding door, and was turning around,
In through the bay window Hip Young St. Nick came with a bound.
He was dressed all in plaid, from his head to his feet,
And his clothes were from Urban, which is pretty fucking sweet;
A bike bag of swag he had over his shoulder,
And he looked like Justin Vernon, but older.
His eyes—real sleepy! His sideburns how trimmed!
His hair was gelled, his glasses thick-rimmed!
His mouth was twisted in an ironic smile
And the groomed beard on his chin was super in style; 

A pack of American Spirits he held in his hand,
Alongside a handmade artisan lighter that must have cost, like, a grand;
He had on vintage suspenders, and real skinny jeans,
That seemed sprayed onto his legs and had a waist-size in the teens.
He just seemed super awesome, a really rad dude,
With a totes fresh persona and an enviable tude;
A roll of his eyes and a dragging of his heels
Let me know he thought Christmas wasn’t such a big deal;
He didn’t say much, beyond “Hey, man,”
Filled the Coors boxes; then shotgunned a can,
And stroking the tip of his trimmed goatee,
He flashed a peace sign, said “Deuces,” and out the window he did flee;
He hopped in his sleigh, to the deer drawled, “Let’s roll,”
And away they tore, almost taking out a telephone pole
But I heard him sigh, before he cruised out of sight,
“Hit me up if you hear about a party on New Year's Night!”

–Kyle Chorpening and Sarah Hatheway