THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, December 24, 1995 TAG: 9512200042
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K5 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY MIKE KERNELS, SPECIAL TO REAL LIFE
LENGTH: Medium: 99 lines
The Christmas spirit. Just what is that?
An obligation to eat at least one piece of fruitcake - and like it? To watch as many bowl games as possible in 24 hours?
Or, as we are told since birth, something that happens sometime after the Cowboys play on Thanksgiving and before a rerun of ``A Brady Bunch Christmas.'' Or is that ``A Perry Como Christmas?''
Anyway, I bring this to your attention because I need your help. I've lost the spirit.
Christmas doesn't turn me on anymore.
The only thing about this holiday season I'm glad about is that it's almost over.
And, I, like the rest of the human race, can go back to being a normal jerk.
That's one of the things I don't understand about this time of year. We're expected to be something we're not: nice, thoughtful and patient.
In a word: civilized.
I've always wondered why the Christmas spirit never carried over into the other 11 months of the year, but I'm sure the lack of presents being involved has something to do with it.
I shouldn't be feeling this way. I am only 28. Cynicism usually replaces idealism in your 40s. Or after marriage.
But Christmas just isn't the way it used to be.
Remember when it was better to give than to receive?
Now Christmas has become too homogenized, sterilized and commercialized.
People like Martha Stewart, Cathy Rigby and QVC have packaged the Christmas spirit into slick little Infomercial-from-hell soundbites.
And another thing: I've never really been that good at gift-giving. Receiving, yes. But giving? I never know what to buy.
It's not that I'm not thoughtful. I am. Sometimes.
You be the judge.
For my girlfriend, my typical Christmas starts and ends at Victoria's Secret. Thank God for Victoria's Secret. Not only can I get a gift, it already comes in a box. And more importantly: It already comes wrapped.
I go there and pick out MY BOX and stand in line with the rest of the guys and THEIR BOXES.
Now, buying for the dad who has everything is hard. That's why my family, after The Clapper debacle in '85, demands he make a list every year.
Check out this year's: ``Baywatch: The Lost Episodes'' on video; duct tape; ``The Melrose Place'' soundtrack;'' a socket set; the new GX-1000 Strike Force polycarbon, kryptonite-resistant bowling ball; the book ``Guys, Guts and Glory: The History of Professional Wrestling.''
And mom. She's always a pain. I strike out with her every year. The Wonderbra in '94: Too sensual. The Swingin' Seniors cruise in '90: Too short. The Wal-Mart sweatsuit in '88: Too cheap. The treadmill in '87: Too fast. The computer in '93: Nice, but where's the CD-ROM?
This year's entry: a blank check. Let her pick it out.
Then there's the family gathering.
I'd rather be a TWA hostage.
If you think hard enough, the traditional family gathering at Christmas is no different from a fraternity hazing.
My family is like an old sitcom without the laugh track: The years change, but the actors - and the lines - stay the same.
Of course, my family is from South Carolina, which explains a lot. The town's name is Anderson, pop. 78, which is bigger than a Burger King but smaller than a Denny's.
I've got 57-year-old Uncle Bob, a stand-up comedian who just happens to be an air-conditioning repairman for fun.
Then there's cousin Teddy, who was appointed by Anderson's city council to be the town Bubba in 1978. This is a little hard to explain to big-city folk. A Bubba is a kind of rural Archie Bunker who hunts, fishes, wears coveralls and blaze orange and/or John Deere caps, and says really, really dumb things.
There is also Aunt Agnes who lost herself to the Gospel in 1968 and has spoken in parables ever since.
And Aunt Alice. She sells Amway. Enough said.
We also have Uncle Alton. Idol: Elvis. It's not uncommon for Uncle - who looks a lot like Grizzly Adams - to show up at our reunions (or other semi-formal functions) wearing a cape, just like the one The King used to have.
I am not kidding.
The thought of having to endure another holiday season scares me more than a Bee Gees comeback.
It's too late for me this year, but I think I have an answer for next year.
Would any of you readers out there be willing to trade places for next year? And if it succeeds, maybe we could work out something long-term.
Instead of giving my family second-rate gifts, I just give them to yours. Instead of sitting through another family gathering (sometimes with a loaded
Meanwhile, you would get the chance to discuss world politics with Uncle Bob.
Promise me you'll think about it. MEMO: Mike Kernels lives in Chesapeake and wants a Chia pet for Christmas.
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