Walking somewhat lost and forlorn through the stampeding holiday masses at
Borders today, I spotted a woman wearing a garish Christmas
sweater with no apparent sense of irony. This was somewhat akin to spotting a unicorn to me, a strange mythical creature who had accidentally wandered into our realm from some fantasy land (in this case, somewhere like Kansas). I had long wondered for whom these kinds of god-awful kitschy
sweaters were produced, besides for my generation's cynical gag Christmas cards (ahem, Jason and Tiffany). But there she was, walking nonchalantly among the hipsters of San Francisco with a straight face, a colorful wool Christmas tree knitted across her chest.
I thought about her on the drive home, and thought, "Aha! So these are the people who think gift certificates for McDonalds Big Macs really do make excellent stocking stuffers. These are the people for whom plastic Jesuses (Jesi?) in plastic
nativity scenes are made, the people who have white
aluminum Christmas trees with large blinking red and green lights." It all began to fall into place, my questions about the economic rationale of mass-producing chotchkes that I had previously believed unsellable, now answered. I can envision Auntie Patty (as I mentally dubbed her) driving a massive SUV with a wreath fastened to the front grill and a Rudolph nose on the
antenna to her house, which undoubtedly has one of those mechanical Santas on the front lawn and a row of huge candy canes lining the walk to her door. Christmas Eve, she'll wear the eleventh of her twelve Christmas sweaters, her favorite, featuring a flying sleigh and reindeer, and serve "Auntie Patty's Pretty Peppermint Cocoa". At 6 A.M. Christmas morning, before the kids get up to unwrap their
Bedazzlers and Mariah
Carey CDs, she'll be in the kitchen making pancakes and singing along to the Regis Philbin Christmas album.
Yes,
Virginia, there
is a Regis Philbin Christmas album.
