I love the excess of Christmas. The shopping season that begins

Host: The night was bright, almost too bright for winter. The streets of the city glowed with electric gold, neon reds, and greens that refused to die even at midnight. The air was cold, filled with the sound of bells, distant laughter, and the rustle of plastic shopping bags brushing against coats. The smell of cinnamon, burnt sugar, and cheap perfume lingered like an afterthought in the wind.

In a small coffee shop at the corner of West 42nd, Jack sat near the window, his hands wrapped around a mug that had long stopped steaming. Jeeny sat opposite him, her scarf unwrapped, her hair catching the glow of a string of lights that blinked lazily above their heads. Outside, an artificial Santa kept waving at no one.

Jeeny: “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way the whole world seems to shine for a few weeks.”

Jack: “Beautiful? It’s excess, Jeeny. That’s what it is. Artificial lights, artificial joy. People buying stuff they don’t need, to impress people they don’t even like.”

Host: Jack’s eyes were like frosted glass, reflecting the blinking red bulbs outside. He spoke with that low gravel voice, the kind that sounded like it had argued with too many midnights.

Jeeny: “And yet, Mo Rocca said, ‘I love the excess of Christmas.’ Maybe there’s something human in the excess, Jack. Something that says — we’re still capable of celebrating.”

Jack: “You call it celebration; I call it delusion. Christmas has turned into a marketplace. A ritual of consumption, not compassion. People start shopping in September, listening to bad pop covers of ‘Silent Night,’ and calling it spirit.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point — the chaos, the noise, the lights. It’s not about purity, it’s about connection. Even if it’s messy, even if it’s commercial, people are still gathering, still feeling something together.”

Host: The coffee machine hissed in the background like a tired beast, its steam curling into the cold light. Outside, a child pressed her face against the glass, staring at a snowman display that had already started to melt.

Jack: “You really think a mall Santa and a 50% off sign mean connection? It’s programmed joy. Manufactured nostalgia. A company’s algorithm wrapped in tinsel.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it still makes a child smile, doesn’t it? Makes a mother cry when she hears a carol from her childhood. You call it programmed, but maybe it’s memory. Maybe it’s how we remember that we can still feel.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. People drown themselves in debt every December. They buy happiness like it’s on sale. Remember 2008? When Christmas loans were a thing? Banks giving credit cards like candy canes — and then families losing their homes by spring.”

Jeeny: “Yes, I remember. But those same families, Jack — they still hung a wreath, still sang together. Maybe they were broke, but they were also together. Isn’t that something?”

Host: A faint tremor passed through Jack’s fingers as he lifted his cup, as if some memory had brushed against the edge of his mind. Jeeny noticed it, but said nothing. The lights outside flickered, as if the city itself was listening.

Jack: “You always find a poem in the garbage, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Because there’s always one hidden there. You just refuse to look.”

Host: The silence between them was thick, filled with the hum of music and the faint echo of “Last Christmas” playing through an old speaker.

Jack: “Look, I get it. You think Christmas is a symbol — of hope, of light. But let’s not pretend. It’s been hijacked. Even the churches have sponsors now.”

Jeeny: “Symbols are what we make them. A cross, a tree, a song — they only mean something because we believe. You can’t commercialize that.”

Jack: “Belief is the easiest thing to sell. That’s what advertisers know better than anyone. They don’t sell the toy; they sell the feeling. And we buy it, every year, wrapped in paper and guilt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe buying that feeling is still better than losing it altogether. People are lonely, Jack. They need rituals to remind them they’re part of something. Even if it’s a cheap one.”

Host: The snow began to fall outside, soft and uneven, like a forgotten memory finding its way back. The city slowed — or maybe it only seemed to, from where they sat.

Jack: “You’re telling me illusion is better than truth?”

Jeeny: “I’m telling you that truth without warmth is cold, and cold kills the spirit faster than a lie ever could.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes moved toward the street, where a man in a Santa suit was handing out gloves to the homeless. The scene caught him for a moment, his reflection in the window trembling slightly.

Jack: “He’s not selling anything.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But he’s still part of the same season you call rotten. Maybe the excess gives him the chance to give. Maybe the noise allows some kindness to slip through.”

Jack: “So you’re saying excess has a purpose?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s the mess that makes us human. The mistakes, the chaos, the overdoing — maybe they’re all part of how we reach each other.”

Host: The rain began to mix with the snow, smearing the lights into long, melting streaks on the window. The sound of car horns softened, and the café seemed to shrink, folding in on its own warmth.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my father used to hate Christmas. Said it was a waste. But one year — he bought a tree. Just a cheap, plastic one. I thought it was ugly. But he stood there, smiling, like it meant something. I didn’t get it then.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think maybe he just wanted to pretend, for one night, that we were a normal family.”

Jeeny: “That’s not pretending, Jack. That’s hoping. That’s what Christmas is. Hope, dressed up in excess.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders softened, the hard line of his expression easing into something quieter, almost tender. He looked at Jeeny, and for a moment, the cynicism cracked.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe the excess isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s just the symptom of how badly we want to believe in something again.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The lights, the songs, the rush — it’s all a mirror. It reflects what we’re longing for. Not the stuff, but the feeling behind it.”

Host: The music changed. “Silent Night” — the original, not the pop remix — played softly. The barista turned off one of the neon signs, and the room fell into a softer glow.

Jack: “So, Mo Rocca loved the excess of Christmas… Maybe it’s not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s honest. Human beings don’t know how to feel in moderation.”

Jeeny: “We were never meant to. We love too much, lose too deeply, spend too wildly, and forgive too late. That’s the tragedy — and the miracle — of being alive.”

Host: A pause, as both of them sat, watching the snow. The world outside was still buzzing — cars, sirens, footsteps, music — but inside the café, there was only the soft clinking of a spoon, the sound of breathing, and two souls who had just remembered something ancient.

Jack: “Maybe next year, I’ll buy a tree.”

Jeeny: “Get the ugliest one. The kind that leans to one side and drops fake snow all over the floor.”

Jack: “You’ll help me decorate it?”

Jeeny: “Only if we argue about the lights.”

Host: And so they laughed, the sound small but real, like the first flicker of a fire in the dark. Outside, the Santa had stopped waving, the streetlights had dimmed, and the snow — for once — began to settle gently, like peace finding a home.

The camera would have pulled back then — from the café, from the street, from the city — until all that remained was a faint glow against the night, a quiet reminder that even in excess, there can be meaning.