This is one of the few posts ever on this rambling chaos (all apologies to Donald Trump and Jeb Bush) that I call a blog.
I nearly always think of a title after I’m done with my spiel. The title usually fits the subject, and sometimes, during the composition, a title will make itself know. Sometimes I reach and strain to push out a good title. That is not pleasant.
Nah. Not now.
This title preceded the thought, the cognitive scourge I’m about to lay out.
Christmas is such a pain in the ass.
I hate it. I invest as little time and energy in it as humanly possible.
I hate everything about it. Goddamned gifts, goddamned trees, goddamned Santa Claus, goddamned mangers, hate.
And to an atheist, whose child is grown, what the hell does this end-of-the-year refutation of good sense do for me?
Even if I choose to opt-out, everyone around me has not. And I still get to experience that second-hand Christmas madness, that Jack Frost assault on my sensibilities.
There is no escape. There can be none, not in this society.
Is it supposed to be like this?
I remember running home late on Sunday Winter nights after picking mistletoe with the boy scout troop to watch The Little Drummer Boy. So magical, so genuinely spirited and humble.
The Little Drummer Boy is Christmas.