The Christmas Curmudgeon

"Let's make this one program on which nobody sings 'Silent Night," the great curmudgeon, eorge S. Kaufman, sniffed on his radio show on a Christmas Eve back in the 1940s. For that intemperate remark, he was fired. Pulled off the air. His night became more silent than he had bargained for. You see, one could not denigrate the notion of Christmas -- not on Christmas Eve. No siree. For one thing, it was bad for business. Sponsors don't like satirists. They make people think. It's too distracting. That time should be devoted to the mindless frenzy to buy so we can be happy for the moment.

I suspect another sentiment that was muttered in the oak-paneled offices at the vast radio network: "Who does that Jew think he is, making fun of Christmas?" I have no doubt that was an issue at the time - as it is an issue today. Kaufman's ennui-drenched comment was beautiful for its brazen, uncooperative, ill-timed panache. And suicidal. He probably didn't really want to denounce Christmas. He was denouncing the creepiness that had already been attached to it. It howled in the hallways of department stores, in the unavoidable advertisements, in the hawkish commercial hysteria. The hopes and fears through all the years had been marked down to $49.95.

Kaufman, of course, was gleefully playing Scrooge. And George S, Kaufman, who co-wrote a few Marx Brothers movies (and "You Can't Take It With You" and "The Man Who Came To Dinner" and "Dinner at Eight")-and that makes him the provider of more laughs than just about anyone on the planet-was, indeed, one the first Christmas Curmudgeons. For this alone, he has earned my respect.

The Christmas Curmudgeon is not a cynic. On the contrary. Because it is the holiday season, I will treat myself to yet another Oscar Wilde quote: "The definition of a cynic is someone who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing."

The Christmas Curmudgeon is cranky because he sees the potential for beauty tossed into the garbage with the discarded wrapping paper and the unwanted boxes. Boxes that are too often used by people to sleep in. The Christmas Curmudgeon has a tough time enjoying himself because he sees others suffering. He still has enough humanity left in him to be outraged. He prefers the quiet forms of charity -- the sort that go on without announcement and without media coverage. He still has traces of love under his crusty exterior. It causes irritation when it rubs up against the world, creating a rash. It's only exacerbated all the more by the stifling heat of cocktail parties.

Don't get him wrong. The Christmas Curmudgeon loves to laugh. But the chuckle is often accompanied by the shaking of the head. His humor is often taken as sardonic. But you might notice the victims of his piercing satire are the self-important, the pompous and the narcissistic. Hence, he has plenty of targets. The Christmas Curmudgeon loves to listen. He eavesdrops with the best of intentions and a secretly hopeful heart. He wanders through the park in the San Francisco darkness. As the California Street cable car rattles by, a couple, clinging to each other in the chill, stands before the Huntington Park fountain -- the one with the rococo turtles and the loco dolphins -- and gaze at the flag flapping atop the Mark Hopkins. Above the hotel, the half-moon shows itself through the clouds, hovering in the black sky. Our observer overhears her whisper to him tentatively, "This is going to be a wonderful year Christmas this year, isn't it?" The man leans toward her, clutches her a little harder, and murmurs, "The best."

The Christmas Curmudgeon smiles to himself and moves along.

Any curmudgeon worth his salt also has plenty of detractors. He may or may not have a religious conviction. But he always has a spiritual side. He privately believes in humanity and, above all, he has a belief in redemption. All good stories are about how someone gets himself or herself into trouble and then figures out a way to find a redemptive solution. Or, at least, make the effort.

The Christmas Curmudgeon is not bitter. He is simply disappointed. The theme to his life is innocence and how to protect it as long as possible. "It is the World with a capital "W," my friend, Father William Myers, is fond of saying. In this World, innocence is mislaid. But it is in this world we make our struggle.

The Christmas Curmudgeon has not yet given up. You can feel his pulse in his ironic phrases, his condemning speech, and in his private tenderness to others. He deplores the vulgar and longs for the authentic. Colleen Williams says the term "authentic" has become dangerously outmoded these days. Yet Our Yearning Yuletide Yob believes that real love will likely save him from mediocrity and the attendant terror it brings. He will keep on with the keep on, whether exalting love comes for him or whether is passes him by. If he lunges at windmills or at Christmas trees, he still remains in the fray.

Or if he goes on the radio to tell a national audience, "Let's make this one program on which nobody sings 'Silent Night,'" we'll know that the Christmas Curmudgeon is still alive and on the air. God bless him -- oh, and Tiny Tim, too. I've been meaning to send them both a card.

Bruce Bellingham is the author of "Bellingham by the Bay." He refuses to reveal the identity of The Christmas Curmudgeon and will stubbornly maintain that position even if Bellingham is sentenced to a whole week of holiday parties that drip with relentless cheer. His e-mail is bruce@brucebellingham.com