A holiday tradition that never got off the ground

“Irreverent and smart” was how one critic described Esquire magazine’s annual Dubious Achievement Awards, first published in January 1962, a tradition that continues, I think, to this day.

But who knows?

Given the current state of print journalism, which might most generously be listed as being in critical but stable condition, the future for the continued survival of magazines is not at all assured.

Esquire has been around since 1933 — an eternity in the fickle business of glossy print journalism — and has, over the decades, featured fiction by such literary luminaries as Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Mailer, Capote, Tom Wolfe and Stephen King.

Despite steep declines in circulation revenue, a highly contagious disease for which there is no known cure, Dubious Achievement Awards continue to be part of the possible solution/salvation.

Inspired by the satiric lampooning, I convinced a friend of mine, with whom I had written for the high school newspaper, to conspire on a holiday project code-named “Creative Opulence.”

The idea was simplicity itself. On the night before Christmas, we’d drive around town, sampling house decorations in many neighborhoods, looking for the most over-the-top display, the one that screamed, “Look at me!” at the top of its exhibitionist lungs.

“But it has to be in good taste,” my friend said. “Nothing gaudy.”

“That might be a rather tight needle to thread,” I said. “We don’t want to be out all night. I’ve got some family functions to attend.”

“It gets dark early on Christmas Eve,” my friend said. “With any luck, we should have handed out the trophy by 6 … 7 at the latest.”

At this point in this holiday narrative, I want to stress two things:

First, we did a lot of silly, stupid things in the '70s, and second, we had no intention of hurting anyone’s feelings.

It was, after all, the holiday season, a time for goodwill to all.

But there was, admittedly, a certain arrogant cynicism in our Creative Opulence quest, but given the tenor of the times — long lines at gas stations due to the oil embargo, the drip-drip staccato of Watergate, the ongoing collapse in Vietnam — it could be argued it was a harmless, if pointed, reflection of that disillusionment.

The trophy itself — something we had designed on our own — cost a pretty penny at the downtown sporting goods store, but in our minds, any joke worth devising was worth executing well. As I recall, it featured a life-size electrical wall socket with dollar bills stuffed into the slots where prongs were meant to be inserted.

On the base, a small plaque was inscribed with these words:

“Creative Opulence Award — Christmas Excess At Its Finest.”

In journalism class, we had been schooled on the mantra, “Write tight,” and I like to imagine our saintly teacher giving us an A+.

In our little town, traffic was light on that Dec. 24 evening, most folks settled down in their cozy homes, thermostats turned up to 72 F after having been locked in at 65 since Thanksgiving, a treat the little children appreciated. I imagined carols playing on the radio as moms and dads fed their kids, pets at their feet, looking up with beseeching eyes, hoping for tasty table scraps.

We drove from block to block, south side and north, east and west.

“What about that one?” I asked, drawn by a nativity scene, replete with a spotlight casting a golden glow, next to an inflatable Grinch.

“Make a note of it,” my friend said, turning left. “Nice contrast.”

A few minutes later, he said, “Check out the roof over there.”

Its border was lined by flashing lights, a sled parked at the apex and Santa Claus frozen in a pose, one leg heading down the chimney, while on either end, angels appeared to be singing.

“Sacred and secular,” I said, rolling down the window. “Listen.”

Sure enough, “Angels We Have Heard on High” was playing through hidden speakers, loudly enough to be heard from the street.

And that’s pretty much the way it went. There were too many viable candidates, too much sensory overload, a veritable Santa’s sack stuffed with more creative opulence than we could handle; in short, we were in over our heads, the task at hand simply too vast.

Shortly before 7 p.m., my friend dropped me off at my house.

“What about this?” I asked, offering him the wrapped box that held the Creative Opulence Award. “You want to keep it, or should I?”

“Just hang onto it,” he said. “Maybe we’ll try again next year.”

I could smell Mom’s tuna noodle casserole as I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, where my father, sister and brother were seated. Later that Christmas Eve, we’d have the treasure hunt, read “A Certain Small Shepherd” and listen to “A Christmas Carol.”

Then it was off to midnight mass for a simple, age-old celebration.

“Sure are a lot of candles lighted,” I thought, “and the choir sounds especially good, almost in tune ... this could be an award winner.”

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where some things never really change.