Three wise men and their journey to buy gifts

As I may have mentioned, in public places he is fond of dropping his britches and pretending nothing is different. The toddler will walk along an outdoor mall admiring the birds and the out-of-work actresses, behaving as if nothing is wrong. It’s very British, really, this type of comedy. And I think we know where that nation’s headed.

“Pull up your pants!” I used to order, but he’d just laugh and shrug and mug for the crowd. My new tactic is to say nothing at all. He seems to prefer that even more.

“Dad, make him pull up his pants,” his older brother urges.

“I’m just trying to ignore it,” I explain.

“Well, it’s not working,” the boy says.

You can ignore nudity but never Christmas, which brings us to this outdoor mall early in this shopping season, looking for gifts for the boys’ mother, who had the audacity to be born Dec. 12 -- same day as Sinatra, by the way. Bob Barker too, if that tells you anything.

“She’s a Sagittarius,” I tell the clerk at the high-end clothing store.

“Oh?” the clerk says.

“A stubborn free spirit,” I explain to the baby, “An enigma, really.”

“How about something like this,” the clerk says, pointing to a $200 sweater.

At the Grove, astrological signs are more important than dress sizes or clothing tastes. They give clerks a better sense of the individual. And reassurance that you’re the kind of idiot who’ll pay $200 for a sweater.

“We also have some nice things over here,” she says, pointing to some $500 purses.

The Grove is full of nice things. It is my favorite mall in L.A., since it is outdoors and you can always slip next door to the Farmers Market for real food and real people. Nowhere is L.A. more conflicted. It’s where the Botox meets the brisket.

“Dad, something bad happened,” the boy explains when he catches up to us a few minutes later.

“You got a job?”

“I dropped some cologne,” he says with a cringe.

The teenager explains that he was shopping for perfume for his girlfriend or his mother -- depending on the price point -- when a bottle of cologne he was fondling slipped through his fingers and exploded on the carefully patinated concrete.

It immediately created a musky cloud of smog that drifted over the Fairfax District, settling just north of Canter’s Deli. When it mixes with the smell of Canter’s pastrami, believe me, it’ll make you almost pass out.

“I’m sorry,” the boy says.

Nothing to be sorry about. It’s the holidays. Bad things happen. On Tuesday, the transmission on the car conked out. On Thursday, the clothes dryer. Today, I’ll shell out 30 bucks for a fumbled bottle of cologne.

After careful study, I have concluded that there is a principle at work in the universe, where bad things happen only at the worst of times. It is a codicil to Murphy’s Law. Like when Mary and Joseph were turned away at that Ramada, with her pregnant and all.

But in crises, we find salvation. So by the end of the week, I was on the phone selling 50 shares of Cox stock, in an effort to pay for a new transmission and a modest Christmas. If the trend keeps up, I will soon be selling buckets of my own blood, and when that runs out, two or three of the younger children. They’re low mileage but high maintenance. Trust me. You’re not interested.

“Cox is up a penny today,” the broker reported when I called in the trade.

“Then I guess it’s a good time to sell,” I said.

Now I am walking through this fancy mall with my two sons, one of them half naked and probably risking arrest. I have my wife’s birthday money warm in my pocket and the scent of a nearby restaurant hot in my head.

The toddler walks along, noticing everything, the way toddlers usually do. He’s got December in his face and a mane of cinnamon hair -- like Trump -- though it is better tended, less like a stack of Nebraska hay. It shimmers in the midday sun. The only gold I own.

At one point, I think the toddler is stopping to pull his pants up, but he is pausing only to kiss a passing Shar-Pei full on the mouth. Evidently, this is how lovers find each other in L.A. It’s amazing anybody dates at all, really.

“Leave that poor puppy alone,” I tell the baby.

“But I love him,” the baby explains.

“You’re too young for love,” I tell him.

Like I’m not? This is the holidays, kid. Ration your kisses. Watch your hands. Temptation is like Christmas. Yep, it’s everywhere.