So great to see ol' whazisname!

I'M AS EAGER as the next person for Christmas to come, but please, let the holiday festivities go.

Oh, I don't mean the concerts, the caroling, or even the wassailing, whatever that might be.

I'm thinking of the ''come all ye wastrels" Christmas parties that pepper the political landscape.

Why do I fear them? Well, if, as someone or other said, memory is a crazy woman who collects colored rags and throws away food, mine is the starving queen of the realm of rag-tag recall, at least when it comes to names and faces. And these parties seem to be populated by the sort of eagle-eyed observers who can watch an episode of ''America's Most Wanted" and, six months later, spot a featured fugitive while speeding by an interstate truck stop.

Not me. History tells us that George the III of England, deep in the grip of a mysterious mental malady, once mistook an oak tree for the King of Prussia. I'm in complete sympathy with the poor mixed-up monarch. I spend every Christmas party trying to avoid the same sort of mistake.

Perhaps you've had this experience. You're standing at a holiday gathering, safe in an oasis of familiar company. You need a drink, however, so you make a break for the bar. You get a beer and turn, only to find yourself face to face with someone whose look of recognition signals that you must have met previously -- but whose name, alas, is as remote as capital of Kazakhstan.

Once some years ago, I was talking to a statewide officeholder in a State House hallway when a man stepped off the elevator, waved, and strode toward us. ''Damn, who is that?" the public figure said. But by the time the third party reached us, the practiced pol had the right name upon his lips. ''Whew. Now, where did that come from?" he chuckled after the fellow had left, none the wiser.

For my money, from God himself, for surely a gift that precious must be heaven-sent.

It's certainly something I'd like for Christmas. For oh, what a tangled web we weave when someone's name we can't conceive, as Sir Walter Scott should have said.

So what do you do? If you're like me, your strategy is to ask a question broad enough to prompt the unidentified party-goer into offering a clue to his or her identity, without revealing your own perplexity.

Something like: How are things in your, ah, shop, anyway?

Let's say the answer is: ''Pretty good, except for the daily tantrums just before nap time." You've just taken a huge leap forward. You know you're either talking to a child-care provider or to someone who works for Joe Kennedy. Now it's merely a matter of narrowing things down.

This approach is not without risks, however. The answer might just be: ''Well, you saw the big headlines about our news, of course." At this point, there really is no graceful way out short of dropping your drink and, under the guise of finding a mop, beating a hasty exit.

Some counsel that candor is the best policy. Trust me, it's not. I tried that once when, at a party for my younger sister, someone I had frequently seen in her company spoke to me.

''I'm sorry, I know we've met, but I just can't remember your name," I admitted.

She seemed vexed.

''I'm your cousin Jocelyn," she replied. I seem to recall her adding: ''You idiot."

Well, as I said, I knew we'd met.

Of course, the ordeal isn't over once you figure out whom you're talking to. The unwritten law of Christmas parties dictates that conversation ensue. And for the socially befuddled, even nonparty chitchat can be fraught with peril. Out on a walk one morning, my wife and I ran into a friend, who described a yearly vacation she and her sister take in Maine. Each evening, she said, they gather on the porch to enjoy a glass of wine and discuss canoes. Canoes? Every night for a week?

''How much, really, is there to say about canoes?" I asked.

''The news, Scot, the news."

The news. Well, sure, fine. But why didn't she just say so?

Still, if I had to go to one party each year, it would be Mayor Menino's.

Why? Simple. He makes everyone wear nametags.

God Bless you, Mr. Mayor.

And Merry Christmas everyone.

Scot Lehigh's e-mail address is lehigh@globe.com.