Mugger: A MUGGER IN A PEAR TREE
It strikes me as rather strange, but suggesting today that Christmas is a buoyant, even magical holiday is seen in some quarters as an odd and contrary point of view. After years of digesting news stories and op-ed columns about the crass commercialism of the season, the depression and stress it causes, tips on how to behave at office parties and the silly religious/social squabbles over how prominently Jesus may be represented in cards and mall displays, Ive given up and retreated into Santas comfortable bubble.
Our Christmas Eve dinner will notalthough one never knows what Whole Foods is up tobe green.
Matt Drudge flagged a story last Friday about Urban Outfitters selling Santa Claus Hates You T-shirts. A good marketing ploy by my reckoning, as are the eco-friendly clothes, such as the soy-based undies on the rack that Times reporter Eric Wilson amusingly noted, will someday save the polar bears. Ill stick with boxers from Paul Stuart, and let others wallow in ego-massaging morality this month.
Granted, I find the week between Christmas and New Years as a complete and disagreeable snooze, but the days leading up to Dec. 25 are, at least in my household, usually a delight. Yes, as one gets on in years theres the inevitable melancholy of recalling family members and friends that have passed away, but its usually a fleeting sensation that gives way to living in the present. Besides, if you make a big deal about decorating a Christmas tree, as our family does, and have built up an inventory of ornaments over the years theres no better occasion to spin yarns about the olden days. Theres no better time for an exercise in oral history.
My wife, who grew up in Los Angeles, is less enthusiastic about the annual tree ritual, but shes a good sport and takes on the unenviable task of stringing the lights together and then sits in an easy chair as the boys and I spend a few hours hanging the balls and tin figures. The four of us went to a local nursery last week, picked out a 10-foot Douglas fir and let it settle for a day before the decoration began. We each have favorites: Nick and Booker are partial to the Browning School ornaments they acquired eight years ago. I like the plastic World War II stars and Depression-era cloth fruit sculptures (improbably saved from my mothers South Bronx childhood home) that were prominent in the trees of my own youth. Melissa still loves the glitzy collection of glass animals that we bought on a Bloomingdales spree a couple of years before we were married. Paraphrasing Rod Stewart, every ornament tells a story.
Booker, in particular, gets revved up over Christmas, and, thankfully, not because of the presents under the tree. During the summer, he and I usually watch baseball games together in the sunroom, affording an opportunity to gab, but once the seasons over were at a loss, settling on old episodes of The Twilight Zone, The Honeymooners or I Love Lucy as a barely adequate substitute. (The one exception this fall was on Wednesday nights when he and his brother were glued to Kid Nation, a show I simply cant abide.)
At the beginning of December, however, he insists on a Christmas movie marathon and although our tastes differ wildly, we strike compromises. Which means, for example, that I have to endure the incredibly dumb Jingle All the Wayas an actor Arnold Schwarzenegger, in my opinion, is only barely more tolerable than Sylvester Stallone or Ben StillerHome Alone and Elf. We both like the South Park Christmas episodes, but he vetoes Bad Santa (which I thought was terrific) as completely inappropriate to the season, which strikes me as a Mitt Romney sort of stance, but thats OK. Some films make the cut every year, like Bill Murrays hilarious Scrooged, while Its a Wonderful Life is relegated to biannual status.
Actually, I like the cornpone of that classic, and still get a bit misty when young George Bailey is upbraided by the grief-stricken pharmacist, but its a little too old-fashioned for Booker. Apparently, hes not alone, as was pointed out in a recent Los Angeles Times column by comedy writer Annie Korzen. She calls the Capra classic a horror flick, and thats just a warmup. Korzen continues: What if George Bailey had been a selfish little piggy like me, or like Frank Capra? How wonderful would his life have been if George had followed his dreams? He might have traveled to progressive countries like Denmark or Sweden and discovered societies that arent in a pitched battle between rich and poor. Then he could have used the wealth he earned from being a world-class architect to run for public office. Lord, give me strength.
Cant we just accept Its a Wonderful Life as period piece, a curio that may resonate on several levels even though most of the United States now resembles Pottersville and selfish little piggies are, as in the past, abundant in the population, especially at this time of year. The holiday season, I now believe, if put into perspective, is a welcome respite from all the bitterness in the country, and is best taken at face value. Its prevented me, for example, from becoming unduly annoyed at the sanctimony cascading in the news about cheaters like Roger Clemensas if Babe Ruth was a model of rectitudeor Hillary Clinton, Inc.s attacks on Barack Obama as, tut-tut, a onetime dabbler in the pleasures and pitfalls of pot and cocaine.
My younger son says with a straight face that all he wants for Christmas is peace on earth, although hes dropped hints about getting an electric guitar, and that cracks me up. Almost as much as the inflatable reindeer and elves and Santas that are now on rooftops in our neighborhood. Maybe its not progressive like Denmark and Sweden, but right now it suits me fine.