I was going to write a column about my Big Game weekend. It started with a trip to see Gaieties (sadly, not as funny as last year).

Then I went drinking in Berkeley with a friend and a couple of “Cal Sucks” T-shirts — one of which ended being draped over the “Footballs Players” statue by my illustrious friend (an experience that simultaneously made me feel both young and a little tragic).

And, of course, the adventure ended with the Big Game itself — which, for once, was actually the highlight of the weekend.

As you can see this doesn’t really fill up enough space, so I’m going to have to ramble on about something else instead.

(Brief Gaieties aside first, though. Was surprised to see such enthusiastic involvement from the Deans — it seems a little inappropriate that authority figures would appear in a production that fetishes underage drinking, sexual conduct bordering on assault and combinations of the two. Still, I suppose it’s a good way to stay “in” with the kids.)

There are many things I like about Christmas. The warm feelings it fills me with. The pleasures of seeing little children flush with joy as they contemplate the Miracle of Little Baby Jesus. That sort of thing.

However, I am conflicted.

Part of a successful graduate student life is maintaining a deep-seated hatred of happiness. We feed off misery, off sadness and off the bitter taste of imminent failure. So, it is a yearly surprise to me that find out that I love Christmas.

It’s my favorite time of year. I like the bright lights and the fake snowmen and the Christmas trees. I love the endless shopping. I adore the slightly out-of-tune carol singing.

People try at Christmas. They pull themselves together and try to have fun. There are drunken parties with embarrassing stories and sexual assault. There are overpriced, unwanted presents. And, most important of all, there is food. Lots of cholesterol-rich, artery-clogging food.

Unfortunately my boundless glee is not without price. It is tempered with a tinge of regret.

Bitterness has its price, but it also has its pride. Maintaining cynicism about, well, everything and a healthy contempt for those around you is a very pleasurable way to face the world.

If you can sneer at everything around you, it’s easy to feel superior. And feeling superior is all some of us need to do to stay sane.

Which makes the realisation that one actually likes stuff strangely painful. It is hard to resist the urge to dismiss feelings of fondness as unnecessary sentiment.

Hmmm. Maybe I’m not saying this right. Dislike is cool. Derision is trendy. And falling in with the crowd is a little like giving up.

Parents like Christmas. Small children like Christmas. Your elementary school teacher likes Christmas. Liking Christmas is like liking the novels of John Grisham: It is an affectation of the culturally illiterate, of the tasteless and of the hoi polloi.

And yet... I can’t stop myself. Christmas (contrary to popular accounts of increased suicide rates) is the greatest time of the year and it makes me and everyone else happy.

Ah well, I guess this the way the descent into mediocrity begins. One chunk of joy at a time. Still, at least I can still despise New Year’s Eve...

Merry Christmas.

For those of you wondering about my preference for “Christmas” over “holiday,” it’s because I declaring war and this is the first battle. Email navins@stanford.edu if you want join the fight.