In the next few days, my family and I will gather in front of the big-screen TV to watch that timeless holiday classic about a giving, troubled man who discovers the depths of despair, only to soar anew on the wings of family and friends.

        We can't wait to watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

        You can have It's A Wonderful Life. George Bailey may be the emblem of what the season should mean: the unvarnished helping of others, the random good deed, the awesome power of people caring about people.

        Chokes me up just thinking about it.

        But sorry. We're watching Christmas Vacation. Jimmy Stewart makes George Bailey a believable sentimentalist. We like him. Chevy Chase makes Clark Griswold a bumbling, well-intended dolt. We are him.

        George Bailey is who we aspire to be; Clark Griswold is who we're stuck with.
       

An old-fashioned Christmas

       

        George reaches for all the grander virtues: honesty, decency, charity. Clark just wants to put the lights up without electrocuting himself.

        George Bailey is a gold-plated great guy. Clark Griswold means well. Clark dreams of a “fun, old-fashioned family Christmas.” Whatever that is.

        (Do you s'pose anyone's ever actually had a fun, old-fashioned family Christmas? Can you buy one at Hammacher Schlemmer?)

        Clark does his best to pull that off. He takes the family to cut down a live Christmas tree (“the Griswold family Christmas tree!” he proudly proclaims) that is too big for the family room. Clark sings carols while his bored, cynical kids grimace in the back seat.

        Clark decorates his house with “25,000 imported Italian twinkle lights.” He makes this harder than landing on the moon. Naturally, the lights don't work. Sound familiar?

        Clark relishes spending the holidays with his extended family. Clark's extended family could fill 10 Jerry Springer shows. In other words, it's a lot like my family.

        Clark counts on a big Christmas bonus to pay for the pool he's already laid a down payment on. When the bonus comes, it's a 12-month subscription to the Jelly of the Month Club. (He should have figured something was up when the boss called him “Greaseball.”) Are we hitting close to home here?
       

One disaster after another

       

        You know the rest. Heck, you've lived it. The Christmas dinner is a disaster; the cat gets electrocuted by the tree lights; the unemployed cousin with the metal plate in his head dumps the bilge from his RV's toilet down the sewer; and, of course, the cops surround your house after said cousin kidnaps the boss you hate for giving you the lousy bonus.

        All of which is more relevant to the Year 2000 than George Bailey being saved by an apprentice angel named Clarence.

        “I don't know what to say except it's Christmas, and we're all in misery,” says Clark's wife, Ellen.

        Only, providence falls on Clark without, for once, slamming him on the head. The kidnapped boss realizes he's a cad and comes up with some cash. Meanwhile, the entire town turns up at George Bailey's house, bearing a laundry basket-ful of dough, to save George's failed building and loan.

        The moral to each?

        “No man is a failure who has friends.”

        Or, maybe, “Show me the money.”

        Clarence gets his wings.

        Clark gets his pool.

        It is a wonderful life. Really.

        Contact Paul Daugherty at 768-8454; fax: 768-8330.

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