December 22nd 2006, Ann Arbor

My, don’t we feel awkward sitting here looking at each other awkwardly as even this sentence is, that is to say, awkward? That piece of exquisite verbiage should illustrate my present mental state fairly well. Like a big ship full of fried eggs and cheese listing on a noisome sea of booze, my breakfast swings and bumps on last night’s excesses. There is no snow on the ground here but the air is filled up with water. Fog; fog is everywhere, hiding anything that strays more than fifty yards away. The windshields run, the roofs patter and drip, the shoes fill and the fronts of your jeans feel uncomfortable where your jacket ends. Colorado is paralyzed by snow but Ann Arbor lies swathed in the same mist that is keeping planes on the ground in London. Not a chance of a snowflake this year, I fear.

One might almost forget that jolly Ho-ho-mas is upon us, but thankfully, the toasty hearts of the American corporate sector are ready to suffocate us all in holiday cheer. At home, Christmas means a visible rise in the number of steamily erotic fragrance commercials on the television, the occasional hamper advertisement from Londis, a bit of pointless prancing- that is to say, ballet- on the BBC and the ritual disinterment of Noddy Holder. You may have heard American conservative commentators say that there is a War against Christmas? This, to their minds, is bad, as opposed to other wars that are manly, patriotic and highly profitable affairs. No, this war is a bad one, one barely befitting the name WAR, which deserves to be declaimed manlily in patriotic capitols like this: WAR. (Did you notice that if you make ‘manly’ into an adverb, it turns totally gay-looking? Man-lily? That, Sir, yes-SIR, is the reason why gays will never be allowed to join the military; they will turn those fine men and wi-men into man-lilies.)

Back from this tangent I spring, like a well-lubricated trigger. This war on Christmas is more of a slightly contemptible inconvenience, like being sexually harassed by someone with multiple sclerosis. ‘How dare you!’ you cry in the post-office queue and turn, only to see the withered creature withdrawing its fingers from your person and smirking pitiably from its bath chair. Thankfully, Bill O Reilly is on hand to defend the sacred festival of the nativity of Christ from the likes of those Italian liberals who put hand-holding homosexuals in the crib in Rome. Judging from the dust jacket of his latest tome, Bill is either on the South Beach Diet or has contracted a terminal illness, but his vigor remains, well, vigorous. From the Gortex shell of his ski-jacket, his bony head juts like a giant dislocated knee on a neck as stringy as that of a tortoise, but his eyes are still as narrow as a rattlesnake’s vagina, the better to pierce falsehood. And HE says that there is a war on Christmas therefore it must be true therefore shut up. QE fuckin’ D.

However Stalinist things may have gotten in the public sector, the corporations have risen to the challenge. Every time you turn around, seasonal jollity engulfs you like a giant pair of sexually unappealing breasts; the breasts of an emotional ex-schoolteacher met years later perhaps, or those of an annoying co-worker who is a bit drunk now. Though the reviews for The Nativity Story make Baby Jesus cry (Anthony Lane and his smirking homosexual friends will be drinking scalding Cosmos in hell soon enough), the lines at the box-office are frankincense and myrrh to his button nose. Everything that is not wreathed in plastic holly is dusted with styrene snow. Every man wears a reindeer sweater; every woman has her novelty Christmas earrings on (“They’re little San’a heads; look, they flash read and green, aren’t they just DARling?”) and the downtrodden African-American cashiers at TJ Maxx are wearing their Yuletide scowls.

At Barnes and Noble, there’s a special on unsightly coffee-table books so huge that, if they’re in the room, you HAVE to look at them, so glossy that you can put them in the centre of the floor and have a dance-off. It’s either that or a calendar for 2008. Here I have to step with care; Peter drags me from shop to shop to make sure that his Spain and Britain calendars are in stock. If there are more than eight on the shelf, he curses the disgusting public for not snapping them up. If there are less than three, the curses the idle staff that refuse to restock them. And what company they keep! Do you like doggies? Pah, what a question; what breed? Chihuahuas? Now, what do you want them dressed up as? What do you mean you don’t want them dressed up? Without costumes, they’re cute but not DARling. How about firemen; to commemorate the heroes of 9-11? OMG, that’s DARLing and shows you love America! It also sends out the right message to our allies. Did you know that Muslims think that doggies are unclean, and pigglies too? Don’t forget to buy a calendar of pigglies dressed as characters from Star Wars just to gosh-darn those terrorists straight to heck. Look at Luke Skyporker! Look at Ham Solo! Gee, that’s funny. You’re a funny guy. That guy should get, like, a medal for funny. He’s like, Lord Funnington-Smile of Laughter-shire.

Everyone is wired on cookie-dough and mood stabilizers. Peter’s parents, as I may have mentioned before, live in a warm condo-community surrounded by the headquarters of Pfizer pharmaceuticals. I can see their magical silvery walls of right now. Nobody goes in; nothing comes out; only boxes of triple-scrumptious anti-depressants to chase away those blue meanies. On a cold and frosty morning, you can stand outside the chain-link fence and watch the plumes of steam turn to ice crystals in the air. I like to wrap my scarf up tight and put on my-ear muffs and lift up my cherry nose and just BREATHE in the delicious fumes. After a quarter-hour, I’m so full of Christmas spirit that I could shit party-favors and piss eggnog.

Oompa Loompa Doopedy-dee/
Frowning’s illegal; try it and see./
Oompa Loompa Doopedy-da/
Read the small print, sing Fa-la-la-la.

What do you get out of wearing a frown?
Mentioning things that get everyone down?
Everyone’s having good times but you/
What do you think we ought-to-do?

Think-pro-tec-tive cus-to-dy
Let’s-black-bag-his-grumpy-head.

Oompa Loompa Doopedy-dip,
If you are wise, you’ll button your lip,
You will live in happiness too,
Like the Oompa Loompa Doopedy do.

(Failure to sing the preceding song to the correct melody and in proper Oompa Loompa manner as demonstrated in the 1971 Mel Stuart movie constitutes a felony under US federal law under Section 32 of the US Homeland Security Bill (amended 2006), paragraph 5c. Describing the amended bill, entire or in part, as ‘terrifying’ or ‘indefensible’ is also proscribed under section 51 of the same bill. Either felony is punishable by a period of no less than _____________________.)

Charlie wishes you and yours all the blessings of this holiday season. Thank you for your continuing support. Have a joyous and prosperous New Year; we look forward to seeing you in 2007.