Holiday Cheers and Jeers

I don't know about you guys, but when I think about hard-hitting journalism, in-depth think pieces and the highest quality writing on the planet, I think about TV Guide.

And so, in an homage to their brilliant "Cheers and Jeers" section, here are my own thoughts on the mostly concluded holiday season of aught-eight.

Cheers to Dr. Wife, who once again put me to shame in the gift-giving category. Not only did she buy presents for everybody on Earth and some in other dimensions, they were all well-chosen gifts. My own big present -- the Unicorn Magnum Pepper Grinder -- would seem boring to anybody else on the planet, except for me. I cannot tell you how unironically excited I am to cook chili using that pepper grinder. I want to season chicken RIGHT NOW.

Jeers to the "War on Christmas" meme that keeps getting brought up every year. Yeah. America hates Christmas. It's that exact hatred that makes us put everything else on hold for at least two weeks to shop, wrap, decorate, cook, make travel plans and hang out with our families. Just because Christmas doesn't mean the same thing to us as it does to you doesn't mean we hate Christmas. It just means we hate you. ("You" in this case is Bill O'Reilly.)

Cheers to my mother-in-law, who makes everything perfect through sheer force of will. Did everybody want to go bowling? No. Did we have a great time? Yes. Did everybody want to go back to her house and play "Do You Know Your Family", game show style? No. Did we all end up loving it? Yes. Thank God she's on the side of the angels (God and angels both being fictional), because if she was evil, she'd be the cutest Hitler EVER.

Jeers to random millionaires for not finding me and giving me enough money to live comfortably on for the rest of my life. I was really counting on you guys to keep me from having to head back to work.

Cheers to my friends, for making time for me amid the holiday confusion and stress. I loved seeing Big Time and Rita, Brit and Chris, Nate and Jen and the rest of you lovable losers.

Jeers to Dr. Pants, for not making time to go to a kick-ass party at Bob's house Saturday night, largely because of the aforementioned game show/bowling night. I wanted to be there. I wish I had been there. I regret not being there.

OK, so how was everybody else's Christmas?

Hah-bumbug

I am not the target audience for Christmas.

There are plenty of things that are aimed squarely at me. Primetime TV shows with smart writing and attractive women - check. Steakhouses featuring dry-aged beef - check. The music of Fountains of Wayne - check.

But I am not in the Christmas demographic. I do not strongly identify with Christianity as a religion, for one thing, though I think it's safe to say that Christmas has become a pretty secular holiday in America.

Very few parts of me are childlike, any more, and there are doctors working on that problem. As such, I do not find myself giddy to the point of delirium, as children are, at the prospect of opening Christmas presents.

I am also not a parent, which I understand plays a big part in re-discovering the joy of Christmas. I'm sure this also has something to do with why my parents and in-laws are chomping at the bit for some hot Pants-on-Wife procreation action, as they would like to re-re-discover the holiday as grandparents.

Also, true to my Grinchly nature, I just don't like Christmas decorations or Christmas music or the way the entire world around me tends to seize up when Christmas approaches. For instance, I would like to go to the grocery store this evening, but I know what it will be like -- crowded, pushy and insane.

The one things going for me on Christmas is that I am a consumer, but a guilty one. I love buying new things, but I feel bad about it, because I don't really need most of the stuff I buy. Christmas is nice, because I get the joy of buying while feeling less guilty about it since I'm giving it away to friends and family.

And I know that's not the true meaning of Christmas -- at least it's not the true meaning people keep trying to shove down my throat -- but I like giving and receiving presents. I'm sure that makes me a bad person, but I don't care. For all the bother of Christmas, with crazy people going even crazier and that awful music and the forced merriment, giving gifts is the saving grace of this time of year.

Keep it to yourselves, racists.

Here's the thing: I don't mind buying a hamburger from a racist. If those are your beliefs, I think you're dead wrong, but I guess you have a right to be totally, totally incorrect about that.

That said, restaurant owners, I don't want to know if you're a racist. Will I buy a burger from you? Yes. Will I go out of my way to eat at your establishment when there are other burger joints who can keep it to themselves? No.

I went into Little Mike's Hamburgers with for lunch with Dr. Wife and found it the equivalent of walking into an old racist's e-mail account. I was going to say my Dad's e-mail, but he's not actually racist, or capable of using e-mail.

Regardless, past the annoying EIGHT PAGES of "Why it's good to be a Sooner" somebody printed out and taped to the wall, there were "jokes" about Muslims and Democrats and shit like that. You know, the kind of thing your relative you don't really get along with that well might forward to you if they're completely ignorant of your tolerance toward different religions, nationalities and political views.

It was a good burger. No doubt. But I will drive a few miles farther to the Charcoal Oven next time or cross the street to go to Johnnie's or buy the beef and cook my own damn burger before I go in there again. Why? Because shut the fuck up and make me a burger, that's why.

People don't like Hollywood stars espousing their political beliefs? Fine. Don't go see their movies, don't buy the issue of People with them on the cover, tell people you think they're jackasses. But you don't get to bitch and moan about Susan Sarandon or Sean Penn and then put up a bunch of racist crap and expect to get away with it.

They have a broader audience, which means more people can get pissed at them. As for me, I'm pissed at the jackasses at Little Mike's Hamburgers, because I don't need to know that you hate "ragheads" (stay classy, America!) when I want a burger. I just want a burger and if you want me to buy it from you, keep your retarded thoughts in your retarded head. Since you can't, I'm sure I can find someone who can keep their trap shut and make my burger just as well.

Nothing to dream about.

So I've had this dilemma for a while and I thought you all could help me out with it. I have no dreams.

Well, OK, that's only kind of true. I'm sure I dream. I know I've woken up and have had dreams. Those are not the dreams I'm talking about.

When I was younger, I would have ideas -- goals, hopes, fantasies -- that would speed me off to the People's Republic of Sleepyland (formerly Slumbertonia). I would lay my head down on the pillow, close my eyes and imagine I was a superhero or a famous writer or a spy or a lottery winner.

As I grew older, I found that my dreams needed to be rooted more and more in reality. Which is to say, I cannot dream of being a superhero or a spy any longer. And, since I don't have an idea in my head that could be used as fodder for a book (or even a short story), the famous writer one is out, too.

Lottery winner is easier, but it requires me to actually purchase a lottery ticket. Silly? Of course, but I cannot dream of winning the lottery unless I have an actual chance -- however slim -- of winning the lottery.

And this is my greatest fear about "growing up." My hopes for the future are so limited because, I think, all of my potential is gone. There's no more "someday I'm gonna" because someday is today. I am technically a man. I done went to college for my book-learnin'. I have a very limited skill set and I'm doing one of two or three jobs that use those skills.

So I don't dream anymore. I watch TV or read comic books until my eyes start closing involuntarily and I have to pass out. I used to look forward to sleep as a time when my imagination could run wild. Now I look forward to sleep because it's cold in my house and I'm too cheap to turn up the heater very much.

By the by, I'm not saying I have nothing to live for or nothing to look forward to. My life is pretty great, except for the bits that aren't, and Dr. Wife has basically threatened me with death if we don't go to Europe next year. But there's nothing fantastic lurking at the edge of my consciousness. I'm too worried about now to dream about then and I don't know what kind of then to dream about anyway.

Calm, Kool, Collected and the Gang

Here's the thing about Christmas, especially for a guy who doesn't have any firmly held religious beliefs (unless you count the firmly held belief that most religions are bullshit) -- there's still a ton of stress.

Some of it is the usual family stress, like holding my tongue without outright lying to my deeply religious parents, which is amplified around time periods in which Jesus was supposed to be born/died/resurrected/invented the light bulb.

Then there's the problem with making time. If friends come to town, which I love, I want to see them as much as they would like to be seen. Some have their own family commitments (and time issues, etc.) and some don't, but balancing my fairly normal schedule and Dr. Wife's ever-changing roller coaster schedule and making sure we're around for friends isn't always easy.

And stress has an odd effect on me. I think, though I'm sure Dr. Wife could dispute this, that I get kind of calm during these events. And I do that because, in my experience, getting worked up almost never gets shit done. Sitting down, making a list and going through it methodically, however, turns up results.

So I'm trying to be calm right now. I'm trying not to worry too much about my ailing grandmother or my parents' new found inability to make any plans on their own or my sneaking suspicion that I'm not buying the right gifts for my lady or my family or my friends or that I'm going to be dead broke by the time Dec. 15 comes around.

Oh, yeah, and I'm going on a diet. For work. Which will be the subject of a video. (If you want to read more about that, go to my work blog. If you want to know where that is, tell me, and I'll tell you.)