Christmas. I don't know whether the overfed sensation, or the piles of gifts that need to be put away, or the way the garbage container's lid makes about a sixty degree angle with its rim (so stuffed is it with the packaging appurtenances that accompany new purchases) that's the strongest proof of this seasonal surfeit. Not that I'm complaining about all the delicious food I ate, or the nice gifts I got, or the . . . well, I am against all the packaging material. What a waste. Maybe a case can be made against the other stuff, too. It's evident that a lot of Americans are literally eating themselves to death, and the quest to fill up our houses and garages with things-for-sale probably isn't a promising sign either. Who said the problems of western civilization stem from our inability to be alone in a room with our thoughts? If no one, then I'm saying it now. I think we buy all this stuff to distract ourselves. Thoreau's Walden may be intolerably boring for long stretches but that doesn't mean he wasn't basically right about everything. "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation"--what's truer than that?