A few weeks ago, I heard about a sculpture of the infamous “Leg Lamp” from A Christmas Story being unveiled in, of all places, Chickasha.
Maybe I have been out of it—strokes will do that do you—but I didn’t realize that the people of Chickasha had such fandom for the tale, which takes place in Hammond, Indiana, far, far away from an I-44 pit stop town.
My father—a 1930s kid himself—loved the movie and routinely watched it on VHS, long before it became a cable Christmas marathon classic, so feeling nostalgic and brazenly melancholy, I took a trek to Chickasha, a town I had never visited before, on a recent Saturday afternoon to see it up close and personal.
Chickasha was mostly barren, just like I imagined it, but after a few minutes of driving, from the road, I could smell the pre-sexualization of a young boy’s awakening coming to the plasticine patch.
Near Roberto's Tex-Mex restaurant, I took a left, and there it was, my pointy-nips engorged in amber-encased holiday-fetishment, beholding a dirty Christmas miracle.
While the story of how and when the leg lamp arrived in Chickasha seemed important—I think the guy who designed it called Chickasha home—all I could see and think about was the embodiment of egg-nogged sex, 50 feet tall.
Just like Ralphie says in the movie, the creamy leg and supple calf, encased in a fish-net enhancement of thigh-high garments, crowned with a stingy lampshade with whimsical tassels, gave off the “soft glow of electric-sex gleaming in the window.”
It was a musty, goodtime treat, with ample season’s greetings that left me craving a cold glass of Ovaltine.
After jollies were had, we walked down the street to Higbee’s Department Store the Grady County Historical Society to look at a replica of the Parker family’s living room, with young Ralphie paraded out like a “deranged Easter bunny.” It was charming.
Though the museum was closed for the weekend, it was still gratifying to see the town—and Oklahoma, in general—champion a nearly 40-year holiday movie. And with the sequel being released back in November, I expected droves of people to shoot out their eye, even though the county morgue says there have been no ocular-trauma cases for the past few months.
But, even more, I realized this is a zealous spectacle of the real Americana of the holiday season—heartwarming tidings and blatant sexualization—and the greatest erotic civic art-project Christmas ever realized.
Oh fudge, indeed.
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