You're not related to that James Garner?

Around mid-year I noticed the creeping, creepy prevalence of the term "signature approved." Rainbow Foods had just installed self-checkout lanes where shoppers could scan, bag, and pay for their groceries free from needless human interaction.

"By whom?" I wondered the first time I saw the message. Did The System have a copy of my signature on file somewhere? Determined to foil the automaticrats, I set out to discover what would meet with disapproval. I gradually started varying my signature until eventually it became an unintelligible scribble. It was approved every time.

I then took a minimalist approach, entering wavy lines or my initials in Morse code. Approved. So I switched personas altogether. After various presidents' and cartoon characters' signatures were approved I became more brazen. I was inspired by sports (Derek Raivio), current events (B. Obama), and the contents of my shopping cart (Orville Redenbacher, Tom Atoes).

I started using bogus signatures not just on touch screens but on paper charge slips, too. Amazingly, even when clerks appeared to compare the signature I gave with the one on the back of my card they said nothing. Once, noticing his name tag displayed both his first and last names, I signed as the clerk himself. Approved.

Yesterday, at last, I was found out. At Nordstrom I bought an understated pair of alpaca socks to complete my Christmas ensemble. I signed the slip and handed it to the prim, middle-aged woman behind the register. She looked at it, smiled, handed me the bag and receipt, and said, "Merry Christmas, Mister Cratchit."

"Merry Christmas," I said.

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Yes, we are playing hoops at St. John's tomorrow. Come as any player you like. We tip off at 8:00 a.m., as usual. Please let me know whether you will or will not be playing, and watch this space for a cancellation notice if numbers are too low.