November 29, 2000

Christmas catalogs: No special delivery

By GARRET LEIVA
Herald editor
       You know Christmas is just around the corner when the postal carrier's car scrapes bottom turning down the street. His four cylinder sleigh weighted with holly-jolly-glossy four color separation Yuletide treasures; otherwise known as catalog junk mail.
      Starting well before Thanksgiving, mailboxes across the country are inundated with reams of catalogs hawking everything from elk jerky to a Neiman Marcus submarine. All guaranteed delivered to your door before December 25; except the sub, no shipping.
      Evidently, along with keeping a list and checking it twice, Santa sells the names of good little boys and girls to catalog companies. "On, L.L. Bean, on Crate and Barrel, on Fingerhut ... Now mail away, mail away, mail away all!" It seems even old St. Nick has crossed over to the dark side of bulk rate Christmas. Of course, who can blame the big guy after years of paper cuts opening greedy 'Dear Santa' letters.
      What I find so perplexing, if not down right vexing, is how a seemingly innocent catalog order can open a Pandora's box inside your mailbox. Now along with electric bills and "You May Have Already Won" sweepstakes, Martha Stewart wants me to buy a Kalabash gourd wreath; and pay shipping and handling no less. The following are just a few of the absurdities lining my recycling box:
      - Things You Never Knew Existed (or ignorance is bliss): Page after page of novelties and gag gifts perfect for that pull-my-finger relative. My favorites: a Christmas carol album 'sung' in belches and a number two pencil topped with an excrement eraser. I guess this is the type of highbrow reading material you receive after ordering one too many Three Stooges movies.
      - Sharper Image: For the person who has everything, but a glow-in-the-dark Navy S.E.A.L. wristwatch.
      - Williams-Sonoma: My idea of gourmet cooking involves Chef Boyardee, so I'll pass on the monogrammed caviar server.
      - Summit Racing Equipment: Although I wish someone would stuff my stocking with a 750 cfm Holley, I doubt an electric choke carburetor is on Santa's short list this year.
      Of course, all these third-rate catalogs are accompanied by credit card applications with silver, gold and other precious metal spending allowances. Sure there is that whole peace on earth and goodwill towards men, but for everything else there's Mastercard.
      Now in the innocent days of youth, I was not so cynical about the crass catalog commercialism of Christmas. Instead, around October I started checking the mailbox for the Holy Grail of Christmas catalogs: the Sears-Robuck. My sister and I would nearly tear this Wish Book in half as we tried to call dibs on the toy catalog. While no blood was ever shed, oh how the red ink did flow. Taking a permanent marker, I would carefully circle both page and item numbers; just in case Santa was myopic, I dog-eared each desired page.
      Despite all this painstaking effort, I would still find a few tube socks and Tuffskin jeans under the tree Christmas morning. I still can't fathom how Kriss Kringle confused Rock Em' Sock Em' Robots with a Mr. Professor Calculator. If only I could have e-mailed my requests to the North Pole.
      In 1860, Pony Express recruiting posters sought the following: "Wanted. Young, Skinny Wiry Fellows Not Over 18. Must Be Expert Riders. Willing to Risk Death. Orphans Preferred." While these early postal carriers faced unscrupulous robbers, unsavory weather and untamed wilds, there was one thing they never had to fear: a hernia-inducing saddlebag of J. Crew Christmas catalogs.
      Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com.