Yuletide Hard Sell

Welcome to Christmas, the ultimate Hard Sell holiday. As someone who listens to the Dean Martin Christmas album in July, it's hard to say this, but I have decided not to buy anything at any store that plays Christmas music. That's right - nothing. The mood is spoiled, and I'm at the end of my jingling bell-bedecked rope when it comes to marketeers coercing me into merriment by piping in the merry tunes.

Before you write to tell me that I'm the Grinch reincarnated, you should know that my youngest brother and I actually used to get a Christmas tree down at the corner tree lot, and haul it back on our Flexible Flyer sled with icicles forming in our nostrils. This was before SUVs were invented. Then we'd plop our butts down on the shag carpet, grab a beer and watch football with our dad. We got up at 5AM on Christmas morning to dive into a small mountain (OK so it seemed bigger when we were 4'2") of handwrapped Christmas gifts and pillage our stockings. So don't tell me I haven't felt the joy. Oh - and we're Jewish.

Now that I'm older than I used to be, and I'm supposed to support our retailers every December so Lou Dobbs can smile when he gives the CNN Moneyline update on the holiday season, I can tell you that Christmas violates almost every aspect of the Hard Sell - as described in our most excellent book and essential gift idea, Why Business People Speak Like Idiots, that you should preorder for everyone on your Christmas list this holiday season.

First off, I live in southern California and I'm wandering around a trendy open mall listening to tunes about captive reindeer laboring to pull an obese white male on a sleigh. It's about 79 degrees outside. There's a guy dressed in red flannel and fake beard trying so hard to be jovial that's it's hard to focus on the "goodwill toward men" thing, especially when the whole sentiment is clearly a cold, calculated attempt to exclude women. The HR team in Bethlehem screwed that one up. Manger or whatever, there's no excuse. It's almost as bad as those slave-labor elves in China.

All of this questionable merriment is set to the Christmas mall soundtrack, which consists of 6 songs, of which Sammy Davis Jr.'s at least sounds like Christmas. Then there's the Bruce Springsteen Santa Claus song, which is great twice, then loses some luster the third through the 28th time it's played. By the 40th time, I'm thinking about how Bruce copes with the holiday parking scene and hoping Clarence gets a lump of coal this year. Then there's George Michael with his bouncy little yuletide tune. He probably found a parking spot next to Bruce.

For Christmas this year I'm going back to Las Vegas to flee the superficiality of southern California. Tons of lights, no snow and endless opportunities to spend my money more wisely. Most importantly, I can be merry without turning into some kind of credit-card-wielding Pavlov's dog.