Occupy the North Pole

Times are tough for Santa this year. I can tell because I have seen two television commercials in which the cookies and milk left for him are devoured by others, or begrudged him. In one case, they don’t realize who he is, believing he’s just another car salesman. In another, the shopper has beaten him at his game by purchasing all the presents she needs. I never imagined I’d feel sorry for Santa. I’ve always thought of him as little more than a marketing tool, but this worries me.

It would be nice if Santa’s downgrade really was another symptom, like the tent cities in our cities’ downtowns, of our disgust with the materialistic trappings of American culture, but I fear it is the opposite. We are such amazing consumers, we don’t even need a miracle to help us shop successfully and get what we want anymore. If even our corrupt symbol with its hint of the generosity that Christmas is supposed to be about has become obsolete, we are in serious trouble.

Even my eighteen-year-old stepdaughter, a shopaholic if ever there was one, must be sensing this danger, when she pipes up that she is looking forward to having children, so she can tell them all about Santa and create beautiful Christmases for them. Well, she may just be wishing she weren’t too old to have that magic feeling she vaguely remembers now, as well as hinting that we really ought to be buying nicer gifts for her so she doesn’t feel her loss so keenly. But perhaps she senses it too: Santa is dying. We no longer need to cloak our greed in a jolly red suit: it can prance naked about the streets.