NO MORE TUBE SOX AND I MEAN IT

When I was a child, I spake like a child, thought like a child, and reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up my childish ways.

So spake … I mean spoke … St Paul in his letter to the Corinthians (whoever they were).  And his words are appropriate in this festive, holiday, Christmas season of joy everywhere except at John Boehner's house.  But let us put politics away for now and contemplate the true meaning of not being a child anymore, because Virginia, there is no Santa Claus.

When I was a child Christmas meant celebrating the birth of baby Santa and PRESENTS.  The more presents the better.  Lots and lots of presents.  But NOT underwear.  Underwear is no gift for a child. 

But as one ages and matures and gets older and cranky one realizes that Christmas is about much more than presents.

That's because as one ages and matures and gets older and cranky one has pretty much got all the stuff one needs.  Presents aren't as important as they were when I was nine and wanted a race car set to assemble and break in the basement.

I don't need a car or a television or a cell phone or a blu ray player or a recliner or more tube sox or another shirt or jacket.  That's why presents have lost their appeal – cause I got all kindsa stuff.  
A house and basement and garage and storage locker FULL OF STUFF.  Enough with the stuff.  Don't give me anymore damned stuff.  And I mean it.

Now, as I've aged and matured and gotten older and crankier I see that what matters most at this time of year is something more lasting and sublime.

Now what matters is food and drink.  Lots of both.

The holidays are a time for eating and drinking to excess and worrying about the consequences in January.  That's when there's nothing to do anyways and most likely we'll have gone over the fiscal cliff.

I mention the fiscal cliff only because this is supposed to be a political blog.

But Right Now I'm indifferent to fiscal cliffs.  Now I'm thinking of champagne, turkey, stuffing, pecan and cherry pies, olive topped canapés, shrimp cocktail, cookies, Christmas ales, mashed potatoes, yams, buttermilk biscuits … and some good scotch. 

When I became a man, I gave up my childish ways in favor of gluttony.  One of the seven deadly sins I mean to work on next year.
Starting in January.

Late January.

At the latest.

Or … Maybe February.