Here we are, so close to the holidays, which every tradition promises is going to be a time of love and happiness.

Yeah, right.

Sometimes it’s true. I still remember my first Southern California Christmas in 1981, when I hardly knew a soul. On the other hand, I had no money. I was living on bags of russet potatoes, flavored with chicken soup packets that I liberated from the office kitchen. I had a tiny, freezing cold apartment in the Fairfax District, and my only amusement was watching my ancient black-and-white TV or hanging around bookstores reading all their books for free.

Being alone and broke at Christmas is not all it’s cracked up to be. It made me feel like David Copperfield ( Charles Dickens ‘ version, not the Las Vegas magician ). And then I got the mail. On Christmas

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