It happens every December November–that first hint of tawdry Christmas commerce that feels way too premature, because it is.
For me, it happened when I stepped out of Grand Central at Pershing Square today, where three “men” in Santa outfits and tights sang “Jingle Bell Rock,” danced three individual (as in, unrelated to each other) kick lines, a la the Rockettes, and handed out handbills for the new Augusten Burroughs book, You Better Not Cry: Stories From Christmas.
I would’ve preferred to see the Bad Santas run with scissors.