What Matters

 Creeping around the edges of social media as I do, I have become aware of two very distinct and competing trends. The first is a lot of folks weighing in about whether or not audiobooks "count as reading." The second is a longstanding feud about what makes a movie a "Christmas movie."

I know that many of you who eschew these forums of public opinion are probably anxious to let me know what you think, but first you want to be careful not to stomp all over the sensibilities of the person who brought you to the brink of having to generate a feeling one way or another. 

I have good news: You don't have to worry about that. 

Instead, take delight in what I have constructed here as a template. First of all, pick a side. You need not worry about who is right or wrong, but your argument should not be devoid of details. For example, if you insist that Die Hard is not a Christmas movie simply because it takes place during the Yuletide season, let me remind you of the paradox you have created here. "Only the true messiah denies his divinity." Just as an atheists paint themselves into a corner by discussing the very thing they insist does not exist, claiming that John McClane's adventures in Nakatomi Plaza just sets the mind to racing. Why else would NYPD officer McClane be in Los Angeles visiting his ex-wife and kids unless it were Christmas? Aren't the events that unfold over the next two hours all part of a Christmas miracle that bring Holly and John back together again? And let's not forget how "Santa Claus" brings John a machine gun right at the moment that he really needs one. And how about the convenience of that holiday wrapping table that supplies the mistletoe tape that allows him to conceal his pistol with his last two remaining bullets in the climactic scene? 

Spoiler alert. And apologies to those who may still be trying to come up with their own feelings about this weighty matter. It's not that important. 

Much in the same way this printer's son was always happy to receive the gift of a few books each Christmas morning, eager to sit under the tree and pore over the pages of some new compendium of horror movie posters or encyclopedia of film. The visceral memory of turning those fresh new pages is one that still rings true to my sense of smell and touch. But that was part of another century. Long before I sat in front of a streaming version of a yule log and listened to my favorite carols pouring out of a digital music delivery system. I understand the time savings permitted by acquiring your words through your ears rather than your eyes. I understand that my insistence on reading one book at a time to its last page before moving on to a new one makes me a freak compared to my wife whose bedside is full and overflowing with books she continues to wend her way through. Add to that mountain of knowledge the potential of immersing oneself in a river of someone else reading to you and you've got bedtime wrapped up for all eternity. 

So I give you the gift of complacency. And let's save our strongest opinions for those things that truly matter. Like is the hot dog really a sandwich?