Ho, Ho...hum.

Whether it's 70-degrees in New York City or not, the holidays are upon us.

Here's how I know: those damned windows at Macy's are back.

Now, I have to admit, I am not really familiar with the tradition of the holiday windows at Macy's. I knew they existed, and I imagined them to be these lush, beautiful, artistic outpourings of holiday spirit. But I generally avoid heavily-trafficked retail areas like the plague, especially around Christmastime.

This year, however, one of my gigs (oh, the life of a freelancer!) has brought me to the Herald Square subway station, which is right by the Macy's windows, with some regularity. And a week or so ago, I came up from underground at 34th Street and was confronted--nay, accosted--by the spectacle that is the Macy's holiday windows.

Let me do my best to explain. There are a series of windows along a single block of the store, each filled with its own diorama, brimming with that special joy we get only from seeing automatrons repeat a single arc of motion over and over again. One features a giant child's head peering into some sort of Edwardian faerie conclave; another has a large furry creature (a polar bear? a dog? that thing from The Neverending Story?) licking a candy cane, up and down, up and down. It's disturbing. You get the idea.

In addition to these subtle visuals, each window has its own holiday soundtrack, which is, I guess, a neat idea. However, the sound design is wholly unsuccessful, and instead of creating a little aural world for each window, the speakers simply BLARE each soundtrack out onto the sidewalk with alarming intensity. The effect is total, migrane-inducing cacophony. It's as if Christmas has been in a horrible train wreck, and we're hearing the moans of dismembered survivors--some familiar holiday bells, a synthesized horn section--trying to clamber out of the smoldering wreckage.

The kicker, my friends, is not merely the windows themselves, but that there are SO MANY PEOPLE there gawking at them. Or, more accurately, Getting In My Way. There are grown men and women videotaping each diorama, presumably so they can remember what the roar of a giant stuffed lion sounds like once they've gotten home. There are school groups, throngs of cornfed teenagers all wearing the same puffy jackets, like a uniformed Squadron of Annoyance. There are all of these things. Before 9am.

Bear in mind that this sensory explosion happens to me post-subway rush and pre-morning coffee. It's no secret that I am not a morning person, and I have a particularly cranky window of time between the final push of my snooze button and the first delicious sip of sweetened caffeine each day. This same confluence of unfortunate events also explains my disdain for SpongeBob SquarePants, and particularly his theme song, sung yelled by a group of screaming children, which is often the first thing I hear when I turn on the TV in the morning to get the weather.

Don't get me wrong; I'm no Grinch. But my romantic idea of the Macy's holiday windows as soul-lifting works of art? Totally untrue.

If you don't believe I'm not Scrooge in disguise, I wrote a heartwarming finale for The Greatest Holiday Musical...Ever, a new musical revue, which you can check out soon here in New York.

'Tis the season for self-promotion.