When I was a child, I couldn’t wait until Christmas to find out what my presents would be. 

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out where my parents were hiding the unwrapped presents 

        (the apartment wasn’t that big), 

and I would investigate, 

getting tingly all over 
and salivating at the discovery.

Of course, being a spoiled, entitled child 

        (I was the oldest), 

if I didn’t see something I had explicitly requested of Santa, 

boy, 
I would get pissed. 

Merry Christmas and Ho Ho Ho!

It’s been a while since I’ve burned through my bank account and credit cards 

to buy presents that no one really wanted 
or needed 

        (okay, except for my granddaughter, 
         and I am only buying stuff she       
         really needs or would be suitable for her).

Looking back at both my wives 

        (yeah, wives), 

my love partners, my children, and my friends, 

I can’t tell you how much I dreaded the practice of gift buying.

I didn’t know whether to ask them specifically 
what would make them happy 

        (as if a gift from me is what they needed to be happy), 

but then it wouldn’t be a surprise, 

and what would be the point of waiting for Christmas morning?

Or I would wing it 

and suffer anxiety about whether they might not want or need it, 

and who the hell told me this gift is what they wanted, 
and why didn’t I ask them beforehand?

Damn if you do and damn if you don’t.

So, I finally said, 

“You want something, you buy it."

        (except, of course, for my granddaughter)

        (don’t worry, her day will come when she turns…
         I haven’t decided the gateway age yet)

The worst adventures 

were the years we would wake up early on post-Thanksgiving Day to stand in line at 3 a.m., 

shove your way into a store, 
and fight for a toy 

made in some foreign country 
by workers who earned less in a week 
what we would end up paying for the toy, 

so some CEO could buy a yacht 
and their company end up paying no taxes that year. 

Yeah, that wasn’t smart at all.

Then I began to think about 

what the hell the purpose of the season is. 

To run around like a mad person at the last minute, 
usually grabbing whatever you can because time was running out?

Every holiday season, 
as I get older, 
becomes a time for me to try to recall 

why do we do 

this insane dance of gift buying 
and swapping gifts, 
cutting down pine trees 
and dragging them onto the tops of our cars 
and into our apartments and homes, 
and lavishly decorating them, 
only to undecorate them 
while hoping the usually unwatered and brittle tree 
doesn’t catch fire, 
and then drag it out to the sidewalk 
where someone inevitably sets fire to it anyway, 
or dragging it out back on top of your car 
where you take it somewhere to dump 

        (legal or illegal), 

all while you’re attending parties, 
getting drunk, 
eating your brains out for two weeks, 
all in preparation for New Year’s Eve, 
where you party some more 
and eat until your eyeballs pop out, 
wake up on New Year’s Day hungover 
and dreading the day, 
swear you’re going to write down resolutions 
for the new year 
and follow them to the letter, 
including the one where you swear 

I'm not going to drink or eat like the previous two weeks ever again, 

and you know you’re not going to live up to it, 
but hey, 
isn’t this what the holiday season is all about?

To make things really crazy, 

for some families, 
the holiday season doesn’t end on New Year’s Eve. 

Until the pandemic hit, 

my wife’s Japanese side would celebrate New Year’s Day 
with a potluck smorgasbord of everything 
from sushi to teriyaki chicken, 

while the Black side of the family 
would bring gumbo, black-eyed peas, and rice.

Then, too many people would crowd into our house, 
and we would do everything possible 
to keep the holiday season going. 

Of course, if you are Latino/a/x 
and celebrate the Three Kings holiday 
on January 6, 

why not party for a few more days?

Anything for a party, 
even a religiously motivated one. 

Now, to be honest, 
I wasn’t complaining back in the day. 

I loved the gift-buying 
and receiving gift scrambles, 
and eating 
and drinking my way 
through the entire month of December 

        (my birthday is on December 8, so even better) 

into January 1.

I admit it 
and regret it all at the same time.

But now, it’s different. 

As I get older 
and since I’ve been sober for the past fourteen years 

        (I still eat too much), 

any partying is, well, let’s say, taking its toll on the body and mind.

I think twice now 

about what the point is 
for all this debauchery 
and gluttony, 
and for someone like me, 

an atheist who doesn’t celebrate the Christian version of the holidays. 

The point got lost somewhere, 

maybe the last two and a half decades since 9/11.

I want to use the occasion 
to measure how I did 
over the previous twelve months: 

was I good to others, 
and did I use my time on earth 
to celebrate life?

This seems more urgent 
and crucial 
during these days of chaos 
and insanity, 

the contradictions of hate 
and so-called Christian love, 

the snatching of immigrants, 
intolerance toward others 
who may not celebrate 
the holidays as we do, 

and when crazy 

        (not necessarily the official psychiatric definition) 

seems to rule the days. 

Hey, drink 
and eat all you want,

and spend extravagantly 
on gifts that no one wants

if that’s how you want to celebrate.

I, 

on the other hand, 

am going to take this time 
to reflect on the past year 

so I can look ahead 
to the new year 

with the mission 

to figure out 
who the hell Antifa is 
and where their headquarters are, 

so I can march alongside Santa Claus, 
waving the Antifa flag, 

right up to the front door and shout, 

“We want to join. Sign us up. We ain’t got time for Bah Humbug.”