I'm Dreaming of a Black Christmas - Lewis Black [4]
Every year, all of that unimaginable pressure of finding just the right gift, of seeing everybody in the family, of putting up the decorations, writing the Christmas cards, selecting the perfect tree and decorating it just so, the endless lists of lists of lists—it’s unbelievable. And it’s extraordinary to watch. Whenever I have celebrated the holiday in the homes of others, there is a feeling that hangs over the event, that this Christmas has to be the best one ever, the most ideal, the one like that Christmas when you were young and the world seemed so sweet and you were so innocent. To get back to that time that once was but really never was what you thought it was, because it wasn’t like that. It was just another Christmas and all that that entails.
As I’m a Jew, one would think I could easily escape this maelstrom, but I never do. No one can. No one is immune from the all-consuming madness. There is something that stirs deep within me as Christmas approaches. As the days tick by, an aural wall of “carols” is erected around me; the advertising on radio, television, and the Web becomes one long primal scream of sales beyond human comprehension, the holiday films flicker deep into my psyche, and the Christmas cards roll in, and with them the long laborious notes that share the joys and triumphs of the many brilliant offspring of my friends and acquaintances. This is followed by a litany of diseases wrestled with over the past year, the pets that have passed on, the minute descriptions of wondrous vacations, the occasional work promotion, all of which ends with the usual conclusion that we really need to see each other more often, like before we drop dead or something.
The most extraordinary card I ever received was a picture of a family and I had absolutely no idea of who they were. Not a one. The signature gave no clue, as it was illegible. I went through the Rolodex in my skull and came up with nothing. Who the fuck are these people in this photo and why are they so happy to see me? What kind of an asshole am I that I can no longer remember close friends? No, please, dear God, don’t let it be early-onset Alzheimer’s. I put the picture up on my bathroom mirror and studied it every day. Maybe his hair changed color, or maybe I know the woman from some long past drug-induced bacchanal. People just don’t send these cards out willy-nilly. Maybe that’s who they are. Willy and Nilly. Every day I was reminded that I had a very special friend, and that I had consigned whoever it was to some dustbin in my brain. I was taunted and tortured by the photo. Until, that is, one day, when I’m in my agent’s office in Los Angeles and the very old friend walks into the office I’m sitting in. Jesus, he wasn’t an old friend at all. He was an agent. An agent I had met exactly once before. And his name had both a “wein” and a “stein” in it, and that was the most disturbing part of the whole episode. I received a Christmas card marking the birth of the Christ from a fellow Jew. Whom I barely knew. That’s when I learned a valuable lesson: Never underestimate the power of a Christmas card.
As I have grown older, in the midst of all these stimuli, I find myself getting sadder and sadder. Yet the sadness is oddly comforting, as the memories flow in of my brother and the many friends whom I spent these holiday times with but who are no longer with us. For in the midst of the sense of loss and the tears, these times remembered bring a sense of joy. For some inexplicable reason these memories are conjured up by the Christmas season, though they have nothing at all to do with the holiday. Go figure.
At this time of year I find myself falling into a condition that I like to call Infectious romanticus or Sentimentalicous irrationalico. I find Christians suffer from the same condition during this time of year. The difference is, I have no remote connection to Christmas, other than as a spectator.
I shall repeat. I am A JEW. I may have been brought into