I had a recent opportunity to do a Good Christmas Deed: At a gig, I needed to find a place to chill out at a country club while the Victorian-garbed Christmas Carolers (my employers) were serenading the plaid families sans accompaniment. So, I holed up for most of an hour in the surprisingly comfy men’s locker room while aimlessly scrolling on my phone (that’s what the cool kids do, right?). I kept hearing sporadic moans and grunts coming from an unseen corner, until a pitiful voice cried out, “Can you give me a hand? I’d really appreciate it.” The portly club manager was attempting to put on a Santa suit and was having trouble negotiating the interface between the garment and his lower extremities. “It’s a new suit,” he said by way of explanation. So I spent the next several minutes tucking his trouser legs into the socks and straightening the spats over his shoes. He was very grateful, and I now have my “Santa’s Helper” merit badge. It does indeed take a village. Santa’s Village. And, once I got upstairs to play, I learned that the lyrics in “Silent Night” don’t include “ground young virgin.” Who knew? That song makes so much more sense to me now.