© St. Petersburg Times, published November 27, 2001
In the interest of keeping my hate mail at its current all-time high, I am in need of a new subject.
Being in the business of occasionally hitting the raw nerve is a difficult one when the raw nerves are so trod upon that they no longer respond.
I have already rounded up all of the usual suspects, gun control, witchcraft, drug legalization and -- the really scary one -- local government, and can only think of one more dart to throw.
I'm finished with my Christmas shopping.
Done.
Finnito.
Finished.
In the can.
All wrapped and ready.
And yes, before you ask, I am the same guy who always has his taxes done and in the mail by Feb. 5.
Irritating, huh?
The tax thing is made simple for me by the fact that I don't have that much income and am in a situation where a standard deduction works for me better than itemizing in that it both facilitates the filing process and keeps me from going to prison for perjury.
I simplified the Christmas situation a few years back by severely limiting the number of persons to whom I give gifts, and, with very few exceptions, giving everyone the same thing, a gift that is nice enough that nobody has ever complained.
It is not only quick, but it saves me the drudgery of spending a lot of time and even more money coming up with something that someone will hate.
I know I'm missing some of the warm-fuzzy stuff by doing things the way I do them, but I'm also missing a ton of aggravation and actually running less risk of offending, or at least puzzling someone.
Yes, I know there is supposed to be some sense of the joy of giving involved in the season, but it has pretty much gotten lost in decades of conspicuous consumption and current talk of market stimulation which now makes conspicuous consumption patriotic.
Those who remember World War II and things like rationing and donating pots and pans to be recast as armaments have to be at least mildly nonplussed in today's world where the best way to help out is not to find butter substitutes and limit driving but to buy more butter and spend money on things like expensive foreign-made automobiles.
Go ahead, call me Scrooge.
(Brief pause here while everyone screams "Scrooge!")
There's nothing fulfilling, in bad economic times, watching desperate parents trying to fulfill the latest television-induced materialistic fantasies expressed in terms of "must-have" toys and clothing.
I don't think any of the major faiths that celebrate holidays this time of year are theologically tied to an already debt-ridden public acquiring more debt in the interest of fulfilling needs that are artificial and almost completely secular.
So I may do my shopping coldly and cynically, but it gives me weeks to sit back and wait for the annual influx of books I won't read, ties I won't wear and cards I won't return (I gave up that tradition four years ago).
I will, for what it's worth, continue as much as possible in the tradition of making this a season of good will, where everyone except politicians and telemarketers is involved, and I will take only a tiny bit of joy on Christmas Eve finding a comfortable viewing spot in the mall to watch the annual parade of parental desperation.
For me, the best gifts are always friendship, company and knowledge, and I already have someone to thank this year -- my old pal, folk musician Dennis Devine -- who wrote to inform me that I had, last week, incorrectly attributed a song written by Tom Paxton to Arlo Guthrie who sang it but did not write it.
Careful readers are sometimes the best gift of all.