December 31 - Last Supper

New Year's Eve. No time. Already late, but a shower, change of clothes, and a fucking faster than hell bite to eat had to be done.
Food first. He opened the refrigerator.
A disaster. Absolutely fuck all to eat.
Fuck my ass.
But wait.
What's that?
Cold fried chicken in the back of the second shelf.
Yes.
He reached for it.
Hold on. When was the last time I had chicken?
Valuable seconds ticked off the clock.
Was it this week? Last week?
Last month?
He stood in front of the refrigerator wondering.
Minutes melted away.
He scrunched up his face in concentration.
Fried chicken.
The sun had long since set. More and more lights went on outside. The town was coming to life.
On the other side of town, She was finishing getting ready.
Third date tonight. All kinds of vibes on dates one and two. Sex tonight for sure.
Sex for fucking sure.
Fuck it. It's fine.
The first bite told him otherwise. Second bite, too, and every other bite until he'd ripped his way through it like a shark that swam in on a seal fucking his wife.
And the chicken had tasted off, there was no doubt about it.
But it was fried. How bad could it have been?
No time to ponder. Into the shower. Hot water. Steamier than hell. Not mixing well with the caffeine from earlier. Definitely not mixing well with the chicken.
He focused on his date and fought through the doubts that were starting to creep in. Was the chicken a mistake?
He turned off the water and started drying off.
How freaking old was it?
Dizziness and nausea. Things slowed down. Everything moved cartoonishly slow. There were trails. The Axe Body Spray slipped out of his hands and crashed on the floor and he was powerless to stop it.
Everything was in slow motion.
His stomach turned to lead. Then his arms and legs did, too.
Just a second to sit.
It didn't help. The room spun. And then went black.
He was out.
Hours passed.
And then the dreams started.
They were all over the map.
Suicidal whales, kindergarten unicycle gangs, Mongolian night stalkers, wild west zombie killers, serial killer jaw transplants, plastic bubble wrap men, vegetable cows, Korean gangsters the size of whales, feuding Palestinian and Jewish rappers, Catholic High School Girls in Trouble, Chinese cyberterrorists, messengers from the sky, Russian house sitters, talking dogs, vampires, long lost heirs to the Japanese throne, an orchestra of hobos, orcs, bloodbaths, fish tacos, homeless punching bags, fighting leagues for old ladies from around the world, mind reading flight attendants, fat suits, washed up former masturbation champs, sleeping pills, funky presidents, time travelers, haiku hustlers, bastard warriors, castaways, Gypsy curses, catatonic seers, and bridges.
The dreams kept coming and he kept sleeping.
Dream after dream after dream after dream.
African rock star prophets, post-apocalyptic herbivores, baseball dads, talking mustaches, talking assholes, talking penises, magic pens, heroes, single women, advice dispensing pirates, illegally employed undead, dog racing monkeys, clown bars, running bachelorettes, jinxes, Bible thumpers, Amish rock stars, good deeds, iMotions, prehistoric killer bees, stressed out jazz musicians, domineering deer, ass kicking boy band back-up dancers, races against incontinence, assassination schools for mixed race orphans, birthing resorts, insufferable bastards, Zoobomb Turks, underground paintball circuit champs, restaurateurs, hecklers, inter species romances, lameasses, Spanish wine-making giantesses, breakfast burritos, pillow fuckers, heists gone right, baby proofers, parallel universes, final shots, aliens in border towns, and roaches.
The dreams kept coming.
Pranks gone wrong, long legs, father son trips to Reno, mouse ballets, bear ticklers, make-up artists, sausage hiders, glove makers, penis thieves, cho pos, one hit wonders, Rush cover bands, karaoke kings, fish 'n' chips jackasses, haunted strip malls, Turkey sand witches, death trains, meetings with Satan, neckless bastards, Ozzy Ozbourne, magic tots, boxing nuns, lesbian vampire killers, selfish shellfish, semicolons, a baby named Maya, and a shit ton more.
There didn't seem to be an end to the dreams, but then suddenly there was.
The dreams stopped.
By the time he woke up, the night was over, the sun was up, and the new year had begun.

December 30 - Guatalatinejo

They'd taken conventional medicine as far as it would go, but it wasn't enough. The doctors gave her a month.
Rather than spending the rest of her time waiting, she and her husband booked a trip to Peru where they would stay indefinitely in Guatalatinejo, a native American village and "healing center" in the Andes. Guatalatinejo was near Puno, the hamlet where they had first gotten to know each other more than 15 years ago as Peace Corps Volunteers. It would be their first trip to South American since then.
"Round trip," she'd said, looking at the itinerary he had booked for them. It wasn't exactly a question, but given their circumstances, round trip wasn't what she was expecting. She looked at him expectantly.
"Yeah," he smiled and shrugged. "Well, you know." What was he going to say? That he didn't feel like explaining to the travel agents why one ticket would be one way and the other one would be round trip?
"It was cheaper, actually," he said.
Before they left, their friends threw them a bon voyage party, and although there were a few tears, everyone was pretty good about following his insistence that the night not "end up in a teary, depressing mess." On the contrary, there was a lot of laughter, and lots of stories. She thanked them at the end of it, saying it was like getting to attend her own funeral. Then she laughed a bit, there was a pause, and everyone else lost it.
Nobody wanted to be the first to leave. The hugs lasted for minutes.
Two days later they were in Peru.
(As they were expecting) Guatalatinejo was a little bit touristy, and the relatively new facilities of the healing center tried a little too hard to look exotic, but overall it was charming. And it was great to be back in South America. Everything looked a little newer, but the hills, the smells, the air, and the sounds were the same.
The healing center staff were friendly. It helped that their tribal language was similar to the language they had learned (and to their surprise, not completely forgotten) during their Peace Corps days in Puno. The more they practiced with them, the more it came back.
There was locally grown fair trade coffee available, as well as and locally made handicrafts for sale at the market near the healing center. They could also buy traditional tribal bags, shirts, shawls, and jackets with the local tribe's patterns and insignia on them--clothing that they only ever saw being worn by other guests at the center or the villagers that were directly employed by the tourist industry.
But despite the manufactured authenticity, they both enjoyed Guatalatinejo, particularly the crisp, cool mornings as the fog burned off. Every morning they wrapped themselves in blankets and sipped coffee on their veranda that overlooked the deep valley. Quietly listening to the sounds of the surrounding village coming to life--sheep bleating, chickens clucking, people calling to each other in the tribal language--was a gently magnificent way to start the day.
Their days were spent with the other guests (mostly other U.S. Americans) sipping herbal teas, eating locally grown herbs and roots, following a rigorous but soothing activeness regimen, and receiving the incantations and prayers of the medicine man.
In a previous life, he might have derisively called the medicine man a witch doctor, but not now. Not when he could see how calm the medicine man's words--whatever they were--were making his wife. Although he would never let himself get to the point where he actually believed any of what was happening there might actually work, he also wasn't so cynical that he couldn't see the effect it was having on his wife. She was calm and at peace, but not in a resigned and ready to die way. She was also vibrant, happy, and vivacious, so he didn't question it.
In fact, he was loath to even acknowledge it. Sports superstitions were about as close as he ever got to religion, but he felt strongly about them, and the one that applied here was don't mess with a streak. Because that's what their time at Guatalatinejo felt like to him, one phenomenal, increasingly long (and frankly unexpected) winning streak. She felt good, they were enjoying their time together, and that was more than they could have allowed themselves to hope for going into it.
The days stretched into weeks and they quickly found a rhythm: quiet mornings together, days with the staff and other guests at the healing center, and evenings together, sometimes in their cottage and sometimes at Guatalatinejo's Cultural Center. Teenage girls dressed in ceremonial costumes doing traditional dances to the accompaniment of pan flutes, and then texted from the backs of their boyfriends' motorcycles afterwards.
They also took a couple of trips to Puno and visited their old host families and friends from their Peace Corps days. They didn't mention her disease and nobody suspected anything was wrong.
A month passed. Then six weeks. He Skyped his boss from their cottage and told her he needed more time. His boss teased him about it, saying the woman they hired as his temporary replacement was doing his job better than he could.
"Take as much time as you need. As far as I'm concerned you guys don't ever have to come back."
As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them, but he didn't say anything. He just thanked her and told her he'd be in touch.
Another couple of weeks passed and every day she seemed to be doing better. They went on longer and longer walks. They danced. They laughed. Maybe it was the air. Maybe it was the diet, the exercise, the herbs and the roots. Maybe it was the words of the medicine man. Maybe it was the pan flutes. He didn't know and he didn't care. He was just happy that it was working, whatever it was.
Two weeks after he called his boss, they celebrated their 12th wedding anniversary in Guatalatinejo. Neither of them said so out loud, but both of them couldn't believe she had not only held on that long, but had managed to do so looking better than she had when they had arrived. After dinner they sat on their veranda for hours looking at the stars and listening to the distant sounds of the pan flutes at the Cultural Center.
A week later, she died in her sleep.
There would be a wake for her when he got back to the States, but they had already made arrangements for her to be cremated in Peru. She was adamant about not having her last act on the planet be "getting flown thousands of miles just so I can take up a bunch of space I don't need."
He spread her ashes on the outskirts of Puno and then made his way back home.

December 29 - The Neighbor

When I opened the door it was the FBI. They wanted to talk to me about my neighbor, who was being sought as a person of interest in connection with a case of art theft. Namely, the original A Bold Bluff from C.M. Coolidge's Dogs Playing Poker series had been stolen.
I laughed, and asked them if they were serious.
They were. And then they answered my next question before I could ask it. It was worth just less than $600,000.
I asked them again if they were serious, and rather than answering me they asked me what I knew about my neighbor.
I shrugged and said, "Not much" in a way I hoped suggested that I wasn't just answering their question, but also making an observation or even a judgement about the state of the world. Like, We barely know our own neighbors these days. What happened to us, you know, as a society?
The younger one swallowed a yawn, and the older one asked me if I thought art theft might be something he might be mixed up in.
I pretended to think.
My neighbor? An art thief? What could I tell him?
He was by far the quirkiest neighbor I'd ever had.
One time he answered the door dressed in a fur tunic and a helmet with ram horns on the side of it. And then, handing me a flagon of grog, he wished me a Happy Viking Week.
He only ever dated plus-sized models, but not the sassy ones.
He had a rotary dial cell phone and a record player for his car.
I had no idea what he did for a living, but every time I went to his place he was engrossed in a different hobby: building a ship in a bottle, talking on a ham radio to Korea, glass blowing, repairing Sony Walkmans, tracing, translating ancient Greek into Latin, breeding hamsters, plumbing.
He regularly played poker with a group of guys that included Anthony Edwards.
When I heard he was licensed as a minister, I assumed it was one of those deals where you could sign up online, but actually he was Lutheran. But not practicing.
He volunteered for Meals on Wheels, but it was mostly so he could do recon work for antiques dealers; he always knew which estate sales to hit.
He'd gotten a scuba license in Latvia.
One time the local police contacted him because they needed someone who was familiar with an elephant's urinary tract in order to solve a case.
When we were watching Wind Talkers, he kept rolling his eyes at how ridiculous everyone's Cherokee accents were.
He claimed that he did voice talent work in the 70s. Remember the commercial for Operation!? That was him. Or so he says.
A couple summers ago I went to China on vacation, and while I was tooling around near the Great Wall, I saw his likeness on four different caricature artists' sample pictures, alongside Leonardo DiCaprio, Lady Gaga, and Barack Obama.
He'd once contributed a chapter's worth of kelp recipes to an Asian fusion cookbook.
And now he was wanted by the FBI for questioning about the theft of the world's most ridiculous painting. They wanted to know if I thought it was something he might be mixed up in.
I shook my head slowly and shrugged.
"Beats me," I told them. And after a few more questions they left.

December 28 - Sarcasm Graham

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

Let me be the first to congratulate you on your performance from last night. It went well beyond brilliant and it would not be an overstatement in the least to call it unforgettable and bound to be legendary. Your play is always without peer, but last night you reset the bar: 3 points on 1 for 13 shooting; 0 rebounds; 6 turnovers. Absolutely amazing. It was the highlight not just of the season, but of an exemplary career. Your team is truly fortunate to count you as one of its roster.

Although eight million dollars a year is an insult to your talents, it is a testament to the depths of your magnanimity. You are not only one of the all time great NBA players, but also a saint among men. Everyone in the city should consider themselves lucky to have you not only as the franchise player of our team, but also as the face of our city.

This fan thanks you humbly for your brilliant performance, and looks forward to seeing if you can ever top yourself.

Sincerely,Greg Maddox

c/o www.sarcasmgram.com
"Sarcasm" Graham Pinto, CEO

Tina Turner's You're the Best played in the background as an animated audience surrounded the electronic message giving a standing ovation. It was a typical Sarcasm Gram: a seemingly sincere message that was twisted into a caustic missive with a biting tone by the appearance of the Sarcasm Gram logo (a smirking yellow face) and the name "Sarcasm" Graham Pinto at the bottom of the screen. By the end of 2010 Sarcasm Grams were more ubiquitous than Ecards.
As the CEO of sarcasmgram.com, Graham Pinto wanted the world to know that he stood behind his service. That's why he put his name under the web address, under the logo, and on the company's letterhead. In doing so, he became a household name along the lines of Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, and Steve Jobs. Graham Pinto was the very face of sarcasm.
And a very rich face at that: sarcasmgram.com netted more than 350 million dollars in 2010, and it was solely responsible for making sarcasm a global phenomenon, having launched successful Sarcasm Gram websites in 20 countries. Sarcasm was big business and to almost everyone in the world, Graham was sarcasm.
However, one side effect of being synonymous with sarcasm was that it was impossible for Graham to give anyone a genuine compliment, word of thanks, gesture of appreciation, or offer of condolence. Everyone always thought he was being sarcastic.
And that included his eleven year old daughter, Michelle.
Throughout her childhood, she suspected and gradually became wise to the fact that there was a big (sar)chasm between what her father said and how people perceived it. The words that came out of his mouth always seemed very nice, but they seemed to put the people who heard them in a bad mood.
When she found out what his job was--spreading sarcasm around the world--she became unable to believe any compliments he gave her, especially potentially backhanded ones like "Your shooting style is so unique" and "What an interesting outfit you have on today" and "Those new shoes are so . . . you!" The more she suspected his sincerity, the more adversely it affected her self esteem.
Which in turn killed Graham. He loved his daughter and thought the world of her. He hated the idea that his genuinely kind words were messing with his daughter's mind, especially as she was on the cusp of the particularly awkward and stressful teenage years.
And so he retired. He sold sarcasmgram.com and walked away. He walked so far away from sarcasm, in fact, that he switched teams, becoming a ghost writer for Hallmark, churning out some of the most well received greeting cards in the company's history.
However, when it was revealed that Sarcasm Graham was the man behind the new cards, there was an uproar. Hundreds of thousands of people suddenly felt that the cards they'd received from family, friends, and loved ones were meant sarcastically. There was a class action lawsuit that destroyed the company. Less than a year after he started working there, Hallmark filed for bankruptcy.
It soon became clear to Graham that he was the negativity Midas. And so, accepting that that was the impact he was going to have on the world, he went back to work as a lobbyist, writing opinion papers for industries to which he was opposed.
Big Tobacco enthusiastically hired him, for he was one of the top writers in any industry and they knew he would do a good job for them. The only condition was that he had to remain behind the scenes. Nobody could know that Sarcasm Graham had become the Voice of Big Tobacco.
And so he went to work, writing countless articles trumpeting various tobacco companies' contributions to the environment, education, etc., all the while injecting tiny little clues about the identity of the writer into the reports and papers.
And his efforts worked quite well for Big Tobacco and the other industries he went to work for--until the little clues about his identity he left out began to accumulate and the media discovered that Big Tobacco's PR blitz was captained by none other than Sarcasm Graham. The fallout was massive and Big Tobacco took a huge PR hit. Suddenly, slogans like "Phillip Morris really cares." and "RJR Reynolds is really interested in what you think." and "Phillip Morris knows that children are our most valuable resource." were dripping with sarcasm. People still smoked, but major damage had been done.
As it was in the other industries he "went to work for": Big Oil, Big Alcohol, and various weapons manufacturers.
So much so that they stopped hiring him, but by then he'd long since made well more than enough to retire on comfortably. And so he did, devoting the rest of his life to trying to earn (back) the trust of those he cared about the most.

December 27 - Lost

His big fear was that the moment he was locked into one option, another, better option would present itself.
The fear had its roots in the spring of his senior year when after hemming and hawing for several weeks, he said screw it and asked Sally Fulton to the prom. The same afternoon, he found out that Jill Kressler had broken up with her boyfriend in order to ask him to the prom.
Jill Kressler.
He'd had no idea Jill was into him. If he had, he never would have asked Sally. Not that there was anything wrong with Sally. She was fine; it's just that, well, Jill was Jill. Piss funny, into cool stuff, and smart. And hotter than hell without being girly. And she liked him.
If only he'd held off on asking Sally--for one hour!--he could have gone with Jill instead.
But no. He was, well, he didn't want to say 'stuck' with Sally, but that's how he carried himself that night. He sulked his way through the prom, barely talked, barely danced, and Sally had a bad time, and that was the only night they ever went out. (Do I even have to tell you that Jill ended up going with a totally undeserving moron?) It was a terrible night all around. And then they all graduated a few weeks later and Jill went one way and he went another and that was it.
And it was all because he'd settled too quick. And so his M.O. became Something better could be just over the horizon, so don't lock yourself into anything until you're positive. Until you're absolutely sure.
Only thing was he never let himself get to the point where he positive, where he was absolutely sure. He always pulled the plug before it got anywhere near that point.
He dated sporadically in college, but never seriously. His eyes were always wandering, he was always distracted. This girl is great and all, but what else is out there?
After graduating, all of his friends got hitched, one by one. All but him. They tried to set him up for a while, but then gave up when they started having kids.
Years passed.
As did many promising women, but he wouldn't let himself get lost in their charms. Sure, a lot of them were great, but he'd held out for The Right One for so long; he could wait a little longer. At that point, he wasn't going to pull the trigger just to pull the trigger. He wasn't going to go all in on a four of a kind when a straight flush might be right around the corner.
Years later, at his 50th high school reunion, he was still single.
And it was great to catch up with everyone and see how they all turned out, and in the middle of all this, texts and emails suddenly started flooding into the reunion with shocking, impossible news. Someone found a TV and they all stood in numbed silence as they watched CNN's coverage of the End of the World.
They had 25, maybe 30 minutes before the bombs hit that would kill them all.
Many people held their loved ones and watched the story unfold on TV. Others wandered away from the TV in a daze.
Some collapsed to the floor in tears and prayers. And others paired off and tried to find a place with something approaching privacy so they could go at it one last time before the world came crashing down.
As more and more people paired off and disappeared, he searched the dance floor frantically. This was it. Time to forget about possible future regrets and find someone. Now.
And then magically, there she was. Sally, his old prom date.
The grudge she'd held against him for ruining her prom was long gone, of course. And even if it hadn't been, she would have found a way to forgive and forget in that moment, because there was no more time to waste. It would all be over soon.
He realized that now. He'd wasted too much time.
But no more.
There was still a chance to make the final moments of his life worthwhile and share it with somebody for once. It wasn't too late. He grabbed her hand.
Yes.
Yes, let's go.
They started across the room, and then there she was, Jill, the one who'd wanted to go with him all those years ago. Standing alone.
He stopped.
They looked at each other.
Sally noticed.
And tugged at his hand.
And then let go of it.
He started to walk over to Jill, but then stopped when her husband came running back to her with a bottle of wine. They joined hands and left.
He turned around to grab Sally, but she was gone.
And then the bombs hit.

December 26 - Boxing Day

Most people have heard of Boxing Day, but not as many know what it is other than that it falls on the day after Christmas.
The best guess most people are able to hazard is that Boxing Day is the day when rich people give boxes of food, gifts, and sometimes money to their servants on the day after Christmas.
This is more or less what Boxing Day would one day become, but to get to the true origins of Boxing Day, you would have to go back to 1763 when the Duke of Gloucester, one Richard Joseph Louis III decreed the day after Christmas to be a day for men to "unshackle themselves from the stresses and overindulgences of the holidays, and to adopt more sprightly humours through rigorous physical exertion."
A noted (and feared) pugilist, the Duke was of the mind that hand to hand combat was the ideal activity for bringing about the twin benefits of stress relief and exercise. And so he declared December 26 Boxing Day.
According to the Duke's rules, Boxing Day was a day on which any man, regardless of class, social standing, occupation, parentage, age, or disposition, could challenge any other man to a sparring match--and that man was obligated to agree to the fight under the pain of the stockades.
Not that anyone ever backed down. On the contrary, when December 26 hit, the streets, back alleys, pubs, churches and everywhere else were filled with men beating the tar out of each other, a particularly striking sight when there were still so many Christmas trees and decorations around.
Boxing Day was an especially big hit among the underprivileged classes who relished the opportunity to take out a year's worth of humiliation, overwork, physical and mental abuse, and harsh treatment on their bosses, superiors, teachers, commanding officers, and the like.
They looked forward to it all year, and many began training for the day weeks, even months in advance.
For their part, hoping to avoid spectacular ass whoopings from their physically superior underlings, many bosses tried to buy their employees off by doling out astonishingly generous Christmas bonuses. Sometimes it worked and the challenge to a fight was never laid down.
But not always.
It wasn't long before many men of high social standing stayed at home on Boxing Day, hiding behind closed doors until the 27th.
But other members of the upper classes embraced it. For 364 days a year, they had to behave like gentlemen. But on Boxing Day, they could be men. Many of them, like almost everyone from the lower social classes, looked forward to it more than Christmas.
And it remained this way until December 26, 1787 when the Duke of Gloucester died from injuries he sustained while beating the snot out of a 250 pound longshoreman from Birmingham.
He was 74 years old.
With his death came a new Duke who was very much opposed to Boxing Day, and he ordered an immediate stop to it.
However, the public outcry against his directive was so severe, so harsh, so total, that the new Duke actually feared for his life. If he was going to take away the men's beloved Boxing Day, he would have to offer them something else in return.
He consulted with the women of the Dukedom, who, perhaps predictably, were also less than enamored with Boxing Day. And the compromise they came up with was that on the day after Christmas, the haves would put together an offering of food, gifts, and money to give to the have nots. Said offerings would be packed up and delivered in boxes.
And that is where Boxing Day comes from.

December 25 - Olive

In Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, the line goes, "All of the other reindeer used to laugh and call him names," but in fact it wasn't all of the other reindeer, it was just one: Olive.
Olive the other reindeer.
Of course there wasn't just one other reindeer. In the mid-1950s there were hundreds of reindeer on the North Pole. Thousands. But two of them were different. One of them was Rudolph. The other one was Olive.
Rudolph had a red nose.
Olive's was green.
And both of them glowed.
But it was Rudolph who got all the attention, and it wasn't just because of his nose. He lettered in three different reindeer games, excelled in all his classes, and was just an all around nice reindeer.
Everyone was always going on about how great Rudolph was, and it drove Olive crazy. In fact, she was the first individual to be green with envy. The expression comes from her and her green nose
But it soon went from simple envy to an irrational need to destroy Rudolph. Thus, the names she used to call him: commie, pinko, comrade, Rudolph the Red. This was at the height of Cold War anti-communist hysteria, and not even the North Pole was safe from McCarthyist witch hunts.
But fortunately for Rudolph, everyone saw through Olive's ploy to tarnish his good name. All that communist nonsense was just that: nonsense. Nobody paid it any mind.
And so when the fog set in on that fateful Christmas Eve, it was a no brainer that Rudolph would guide the sleigh. Of course his glowing red nose would be indispensable in that weather. But on top of that, out of all the reindeer he was the best leader, the ablest navigator, and the sharpest aviator. None of the other reindeer were even close.
Even still, Rudolph, ever the magnanimous reindeer, lobbied hard to get Olive a spot on the team, figuring nothing would shout Merry Christmas more brilliantly than the sight of Santa's sleigh being guided by a glowing green nose and a glowing red nose.
But Olive wouldn't have it. She spent that Christmas Eve alone in her stable, taking out her frustrations on sugar cookies and salt licks while Rudolph saved Christmas and flew his way into the history books.
Years later, when the time came to document that Christmas Eve in song, Olive threatened to sue the songwriters for libel if they used her name. That's how Olive the other reindeer became all of the other reindeer.

December 24 - Figgy Pudding

I'll get the door, dear.
Oh, look at that, would you? A troupe of Christmas well wishers! How perfectly delightful.
And what's this? They're singing?! Well, would you look at that!
Darling, can you hear them in there? They're wishing us a merry Christmas and a happy new year. Lovely, really. Top notch!
Oh, what's that? Another verse? Why, how wonderful!
And how deliciously offbeat this verse is! Darling, can you imagine? It seems they would like some figgy pudding! What a delightfully unusual thing to ask for!
Say, darling! Do we happen to have any figgy pudding? No? Ha ha, of course not!
Terribly sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I'm afraid you'll have to go without your figgy pudding tonight. Ha ha. A thousand pardons. Ha ha. Yes, well, good night then!
Oh, I'm sorry. Not done yet? Another verse? Why, let's have it then.
What's that you say? You won't go until you get some? Why, of all the things to say! Surely you can't mean that.
Can you?
I truly am sorry, but I'm afraid we don't have any figgy pudding at the moment. It's not something we tend to keep around the house, you know.
Ha ha.
Well . . . It was wonderful of you to stop by.
We really enjoyed your holiday spirit. You must come again next year!
Ha ha.
OK, I'm closing the door now.
Good night.
Merry Christmas.
What's that? More singing?
Another verse?
What's that you say? You'll come back when we're sleeping? And break down our door? By God, I would say that's taking things too far, even for a joke.
Good night!
I said good night!
Bloody hell, another verse?
You'll what? You'll take our lovely daughters? And sell them abroad?
By God, have you taken leave of your senses? I am calling the police this instant! Darling, do call the police! Yes, do it now! Do it at once!
Dear Lord, more singing?
And then you'll burn our house down? And piss on our bones?
Is this really just because we don't have figgy pudding to give you? How can I make you understand this? We don't have any! Please believe us. If we had some we would surely give it to you. Please, just leave us alone!
Oh God, another verse.
What's that you say?
You were just messing with us? It was all a big joke?
Oh.
Oh, I see.
You were just taking the piss then, were you?
Very well, then. Good show.
Yes, ha ha. Very good indeed.
OK then. Merry Christmas to you too. And yes, a happy new year as well.
Good night, then.
Fucking carolers.

December 23 - Lovely

My university students and I had decided to make Monday's lesson, our last before winter vacation, a bit more laid back, so I showed up that day with chocolate, Christmas music, and a lesson plan that wasn't too demanding.
And the students got into the spirit too. All the ladies were on time, but the guys didn't show up until a few minutes after the bell rang. They were late because they had been putting the finishing touches on their costumes. A hip-hop dancer named Akihiro was dressed like Santa, and for reasons that were never explained to me, Katsuya, Satoru, Masaki, Hideaki, and Tomoyuki were dressed as a soccer player, a baseball player, a basketball player, a rugby player, and a culinary school student respectively. It was like they'd decided to have a combined Christmas party and dress-as-what-the-elementary-school-version-of-you-wanted-to-be-when-you-grow-up party.
By the time they arrived, most of the ladies had put on Santa hats, Christmas aprons, and/or reindeer antlers, and everybody insisted I put on this red fish hat they'd brought for me, so I did.
And it was a great class. Any time you have a class with costumes and chocolate, it's going to be good. And on top of that, it wasn't completely unproductive. The students had book circle discussions of A Christmas Carol, and we read about various Christmas urban myths and tried to guess which ones were true and which were false. It was fun.
But then with about five minutes left in class, Akihiro Claus stood up suddenly and said he was leaving, that our Christmas party was a humbug.
The rest of the guys chased him down and begged him to stay, telling him they needed to celebrate Christmas together for Andy sensei's new baby daughter.
His baby daughter? he asked.
Yes, his lovely daughter Maya, they said.
And then Satoru the baseball player sang the first line of Isn't she lovely.
And then Masaki sang the next line.
And then Katsuya the next.
And Hideaki the next.
And then the whole class got up, clapped their hands to the beat, and sang the whole song, verses, chorus, and all. Hideaki and another student named Sayo broke out guitars and strummed along, and another student, Rika, played a harmonica solo in the middle.
And it was fantastic. If it had been something I'd seen in a movie, I would have rolled my eyes at how obviously ridiculous it was, because stuff like that doesn't happen in real life. And yet there it was happening in my class. I laughed and clapped along and tried to remember it as clearly as possible so that later on I could tell my wife Misako about it.
Wait, Misako!
There was still a little time left over in class. I asked the students if they would sing it again as I called her on my cell phone.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang.
And then it went to voice mail, so I introduced the class to her, and they did the whole song again for her voice mail, and it sounded even better the second time.
When class was over a minute later, they gave me (well, they gave it to me to give to Maya and Misako) a big floral arrangement. Then the next class's students came in and gave us more flowers, and then a group of students I'd taught last year crowded in and gave me a card they'd all signed.
It was amazing, almost overwhelming. It took every bit of concentration I had to not get choked up and ruin the moment by blubbering like a teary eyed jackass.
Seeing all their cheery faces and knowing they'd done all that for me and my family is something I don't think I'll ever forget. It was a lovely start to the week before Christmas, and a reminder that I've got a pretty fantastic job.

December 22 - Father Christmas

Since I'm the primary bread winner of my family, I would say that puts me in charge of things around here and that includes Christmas. And as this will be our first Christmas together as a family, I'm going to establish some new rules about how Christmas is celebrated around here. I don't expect anyone to make a fuss about any of them, especially since our daughter Maya is nowhere near talking, but still. I wanted to get these ideas down and on the record.
Ready? Great.

First off, screw it. There's no Santa Claus.

What, like I'm going to haul my ass all over the Internet trying to find the right(ish) gifts for our daughter, pay for them with my hard(ish) earned money, and then give all the credit to some fictitious fat bastard? Think again.

Look. I'm not forgoing the giving of presents. Well actually, maybe this year I am. Our daughter is less than a month old, so the concept of 'want' hasn't really set in yet. Things are still (blessedly) primal at this point, and years from now I have every intention of looking back wistfully on this time and thinking about how good we had it before our daughter was able to articulate her need for ever overpriced/worthless piece of plastic on the planet. So as a gesture to my future self, I'll be going easy on the gift buying this year.

But yeah, in the future: presents? Absolutely. Maya will not be wanting when it comes to presents, toys, etc. She'll just know they're from us. And not in any sort of dickish earn this kind of way. Just more in the not giving credit to someone else kind of way.

Next up, Christmas music.

I'm all for it, but not the following songs (some of which I've been clear about my disdain for in the past, but they're still around, so I'm going to complain about them still being around and I'm going to keep on doing so until they're not around anymore):

Last Christmas by Wham because it is not a Christmas song. And also because it sucks.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time by Paul McCartney. Really, Paul? You're simply having a wonderful Christmas time? Well, I'm not. And I blame you and your shitty early 80s Casio synthesizer for it.

So This is Christmas (War is Over) by John Lennon. Sorry, John, but the war is not over and it never will be and I know that that fact should make this song all the more poignant but it doesn't. This song is pretentious dreck of the highest magnitude, and it needs to piss the hell off.

The Celine Dion Christmas Album. I assume she has one, and I assume I hate it.

The Chipmunk Song (Christmas Don't be Late) by the Chipmunks. Is it just me or does this song always make you picture a fat drunk man in his underwear and a Santa hat sipping cherry brandy in a dark, cold, empty kitchen, gazing longingly at a bottle of sleeping pills through teary eyes of regret and hating himself because he doesn't have the balls to just take the next step and get it all over with? Really? It's just me?

Everything else we'll look at on a case by case basis.
Next, Christmas specials.

We will watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at least once while baking cookies. And Maya will be enchanted by it.

We will also watch the Charlie Brown Christmas Special because I want Maya to have a soul, and watching this uncannily melancholy classic will be a step in the right direction.

At some point in the holiday season, we will enjoy a double feature of Lethal Weapon and Die Hard, because they are two of the finest Christmas movies around and also because nothing says Happy Holidays quite like mid-80s Gary Busey yelling, "It's Goddamn Christmas!" at the Scrooge on the TV before blowing it to smithereens with a machine gun.

Finally, food.
Turkey, not ham on Christmas. Unless we're in Japan, in which case it's KFC.
No, really.

December 21 - Carol

Malcom X-mas.
Pete stared at the computer screen for a moment, and then typed, "We're not dreaming of a White Christmas. A White Christmas is dreaming of us!"
It didn't have the same ring as, 'We didn't land on Plymouth Rock. Plymouth Rock landed on us.' He deleted it.
And then stared at the otherwise blank screen.
At that late point in the afternoon, Pete was beyond frustrated, mainly because Malcom X-mas was such a promising title.
Malcom freaking X-mas.
Militant black leader rails against The Man, and gets in some digs against Christmas along the way. Throw in a crap ton of jokes, give some Malcom X sound bites a little Christmas flavor and then BAM! Done. Damn thing writes itself.
Only in this case it wasn't.
In fact, it wasn't doing anything but mocking him. He stared at his computer screen and saw nothing but a promising beginning followed by a large blank expanse.
The perfect metaphor for my career, Pete thought, a bit unfairly. Pete's career had had not only a great start, but also a great everything else so far, owing largely to Pete's unparalleled work ethic, which still served him and Chick Magnets, the Comedy Central sketch comedy show he wrote for, very well. The only thing he lacked right now was inspiration.
In the past he would have powered through his writer's block. Actually, in the past, he never would have had writer's block. It never came to that. He and Carol, his old mentor and partner in sketch comedy writing crime would load up on booze and/or whatever recreational pharmaceuticals she could score from the interns, and they would work through the night to crank out something that inevitably ended up being hilarious.
That's the way it had always been at Chick Magnets. Work was a party, but partying often felt like work. The two full time pursuits blurred together so thoroughly that it was impossible to separate them--not that Pete or Carol or anyone else on the writing staff would want to. Being a comedy writer in New York City--and getting paid handsomely for it--was the dream gig of a lifetime, and they would put as much into it and get the most out of it as they could. Most of the time, that meant long hours.
And controlled substances.
And a lot of both at the same time.
And in time that combination took a toll.
When Carol (inevitably) died of an overdose, Pete took over as head writer. And the combination of 1) seeing his partner/best friend die and 2) turning 40 was the wake up call that made him realize he couldn't go on like that forever. He quit all his bad habits, focused exclusively on work, and for the past seven years, workaholism was his only vice.
And this was what he had to show for it: a well paying job, writer's block, and pariah status among the rest of the staffers for not partying anymore, even though he swore up and down to them that unlike last year (and the year before and the year before) this year he would make it out for the Christmas party.
But first, sleep.
And then, Malcom X-mas.
He popped a couple of Valium and momentarily felt like a rock star again for not being 100% drug free after all. And then his giddy self congratulatory feeling was immediately replaced by self loathing for having actually believed he was cool again.
And then he fell asleep.
When he opened his eyes a few minutes later, his old writing partner Carol was there.
"All right, Pete," she told him. "I'm sure you know why I'm here. It's flogging the dead Christmas cliche time. Let's get this over with."
"Carol?"
"Yeah," she said. "I'm the ghost of Carol here to visit you and warn you about the way you're wasting your life by working so hard and tell you to look at how I ended up and don't make the same mistakes I made and all that crap."
"Did my mother send you?"
"So you accept that it's me."
"I accept that I'm dreaming."
"Close enough."
He sat up straight and stretched and took her in. She looked the same as she had when they had first started working together. Then it struck him and he smirked at her.
"Oh, fuck my ass. I'm gonna be visited by three ghosts tonight, aren't I?"
She rolled her eyes apologetically. "Yeah."
He laughed through a yawn. "Seriously?"
"What?"
"That's like, every Very Special Episode ever. I can't believe you're playing the Scrooge card."
She shrugged. "It's the only way they'll let me out. And before you ask, no, I can't tell you where they're letting me out of or who they are. Or what it's like where I am or anything like that."
"OK, so basically anything I might be interested in you can't talk about."
"Pretty much. These visits are pretty scripted."
"So it's basically me learning the real meaning of Christmas, huh?"
"Yep."
"Is that why they sent you? Does this make you the Christmas Carol?"
"Nice one."
"Is tonight going to scare the Dickens out of me?"
A middle finger was her reply.
"Come on. Don't hate me because I'm literary."
And another middle finger.
"Boo! Boooooo!" he said. "Bah! Bah Humdog Millionaire. I guess it doesn't matter to them that I'm Jewish?"
"It's all the same to them."
"Whatever. Fine. But do you at least get to hang out, or do you have to take off?"
"Sorry, just you tonight."
"That's lame, but I figured as much. Well, all right then. Off with you. Send me my first ghost."
She started to leave, but then turned around.
"You look good," she said.
"Clean living," he said. "So do you, by the way. Younger. You get to choose what age you are, or what?"
She smiled and nodded.
"Nice. But why'd you choose 35?"
"Try 25, asshole."
He laughed. "See you . . . at some point, I guess." Then he straightened up in his chair and said with gravitas, "Now, bring me my first ghost at once!"
"Have a good night."
"You, too. Now get out of here already."
She started to walk out the door, and he called after her, "Run to the light, Carol Ann!"
The first ghost came about an hour later and showed him his college days and early career. Booze, pills, women, success, good times.
"Not much here I'd change," he told the ghost, shrugging.
The ghost frowned.
"Sorry, but it's true."
The next ghost showed him images of his brother having Chinese food with his family and watching TV. The ghost looked sad.
"Have I mentioned we're Jewish? Christmas really isn't that big of a deal to us."
The ghost responded by showing him images of the rest of the writing staff partying.
"OK, if this dream sequence ever ends I promise I will go to that party. There, will that make you happy?"
The ghost made him focus more on a group of writing interns complaining about money.
"Whatever, they're interns," Pete said. "It's called paying your dues."
The ghost looked at him disapprovingly.
"What? Hey, don't bitch at me. Bitch at accounting. Besides, if they want a better paying job there's nothing stopping them from leaving."
The final ghost came next and took him on a tour of the future that ended with him looking at his tombstone.
"Yeah, I get it. I'm going to die someday. What's your point? If I work less, am I somehow not going to die in the future?"
The silent ghost's lack of a response indicated to Pete that he'd understood.
"I know you're always the quiet one of the bunch, so I don't really expect you to answer me on this, but why is it that in every rendition of this story the sight of his grave freaks Scrooge out so much? What, like he didn't realize he's going to die someday in the future? Not me. I know I'm going to die someday, but until then I need money to pay for things. And so I work. And this business is competitive, so I work hard. Why are you patronizing Christmas ghosts always so unable to understand that?"
The ghost stood impassively.
"OK, if it'll get us through this faster I'll promise to be a better person and be nice during Christmas. Even though I don't celebrate Christmas. Because I'm Jewish."
There was no response from the ghost.
"Do you want me to cry? OK, I repent! I repent! Jesus."
The ghost shook his head and walked away, and then Pete woke up and everything finally fell into place. He finally got it, and he quickly typed the title before he forgot it.
Of course.
A Malcom X-mas Carol.
In which the title character is visited by a series of ghosts on Christmas Eve that ultimately teach him an important lesson about love and acceptance and Christmas.
There.
At least he had the framing for the skit. Now he just had to come up with the jokes.
He put on a pot of coffee, emailed the writing staff that he probably wouldn't be able to make it to the party after all, and got to work.

December 20 - Christmas in July

The thing most people probably never realize about Christmas music is that it's almost never recorded during the Christmas season. Most of it's recorded during the summertime so they'll have time to tinker with the levels and get the mix right and package it and ship it in time for Christmas and everything else.
And so to deal with this, sometimes you'll get a singer or producer or whoever who wants to create a Christmasy atmosphere in the studio for the recording session. They'll string up lights in the studio, put Rudolph on the TV, wear Santa hats, shit like that. The best idea I heard was when Chuck Berry was cutting Run, Run, Rudolph, they brought in an oven and baked a bunch of gingerbread cookies so the whole place would smell like Christmas.
But my favorite was when (country recording stars) The Turner Sisters came in one July to cut There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays.
The plan was to cook a whole Christmas dinner for everybody right there in the studio's kitchenette: turkey, stuffing, pumpkin pie, the whole bit. Even eggnog. They had to bring in an extra fridge to put all the food in, particularly the 20 pound turkey they'd picked up from a farm over in Backgate, Arkansas.
Problem was the extra fridge caused a power overload in the middle of the night, the studio blew a fuse, and by the time we got there the following Monday, the turkey was beyond bad. And with that, there went Christmas dinner.
But The Turner Sisters had already booked the studio, and so, being the professionals they were, they made the best of it.
The food, as I said, wasn't happening. In fact, pretty much the only thing that was salvageable was the bourbon for the egg nog, so everybody just stuck with that. And so there we were at ten in the morning, everybody doing shots of bourbon mixed with nondairy creamer and calling them nogcycles.
Well, after a couple of hours of this--I don't know if I would call it Christmas spirit, but there was definitely some sort of merriment going on around the studio--everybody was feeling it. They were crumpling up paper and having "snowball fights." Ginger Turner made a tissue angel in the ladies' bathroom. And for some reason, Tom, Ray, and Sanders, the male back up singers, were going around the studio with bags over their heads and trick or treating. All of which, I'll admit, doesn't sound too debauched by today's standards, but for a Monday morning in July in mid-60s Tennessee, it wasn't too bad.
Anyway, by about three o clock, everybody was good and loaded, and suddenly somebody remembered we were supposed to be cutting a record. And by the time we got everybody herded into the studio, it was impossible to get anybody to take it seriously. They kept singing in different cartoon voices, changing the words, laughing hysterically during takes, you name it.
I still can't believe we ever got everybody in the right frame of being to cut the damn record, but we did and it was a keeper--except for one part right smack dab in the middle that we absolutely meant to edit out and replace but we just never did. And to this day, I still don't know how we let it slip by, but we did. I'm guessing it had something to do with the bourbon.
Anyway, my point is The Turner Sisters' little ad lib was never snipped out. It made it all the way onto the record, and if you get your hands on a copy you'll hear it.
In the original, the words go, "I met a man who lived in Tennessee, he was heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie (some pumpkin pie (that's the back up singers))." But when The Turner Sisters did it that day, it came out like this: "I met a man who lived in Tennessee, he was heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade fucking pie (some fucking pie)."
The funniest part is how few people notice it. If you're not listening for it, it's easy to miss. But it's there, plain as day. "Pennsylvania and some homemade fucking pie."
When we cracked open the box of records and put one on a couple months later, you should have seen our jaws hit the floor. We'd completely forgotten about it up until then! There we were listening to the damn thing in the office of the president of the record company--and he didn't notice a thing! So we sure as hell didn't point it out. We just quietly went about the holiday season, always kind of wincing in anticipation of somebody discovering our little R-rated lyric. But nobody ever said anything.
To this day, it's still one of my favorite Christmas records. And every time I partake in some bourbon, particularly around the holidays, I can't help but smile as I think to myself how nice it would be to have a nice slice of homemade fucking pie to go along with it.

December 19 - Hold On

It's a bitter pill to swallow knowing you owe your life to Hold On by Wilson Phillips, but that's my reality. Every day from here on out is basically a gift--a honey drenched, harmonized gift from the ladies of Wilson Phillips.
You remember that song, don't you? Come on, of course you do: Someday somebody's gonna make you wanna turn around and say goodbye. . . Yeah, that one.
Wilson Phillips. Three chicks. At the time of that song's release, two of them hotter than hell, the other one more than a bit on the hefty side. But then she got a stomach staple and liposuction, and lost half of her mass, and celebrated by posing nude for Playboy.
Hey, good news! The chick from Wilson Phillips is in Playboy!
No way, the blond one with short hair?
No.
The one with the wavy red hair?
One more guess.
Oh.
But you looked anyway because, hey, naked celebrity. Plus as it turns out she was totally doable in a big boned, Midwest farmer's daughter turned truck stop waitress kind of way, and the next thing you knew you were attracted to the big chick from Wilson Phillips, and all of the sudden nothing about how the world worked made any sense, or at least that's how it was for me.
Anyway, that band. Offspring of Mamas and Papas (but then, aren't we all) and Beach Boys. Or something. I don't know. Google them if you don't what I'm talking about. Or don't. Jesus.
Anyway, that band. That song. Kind of a 'Don't give up, hang in there' sort of anthem. It's all right there in the title. Hold on (for One More Day). No subtext, no hidden meaning. Just a purely encouraging hug of a song. Basically, it's like 'I know life can be hard, but don't kill yourself.' Only not nearly that blunt or dark.
And speaking of which, when I say I owe my life to that song I kind of imply that I was on some sort of verge for a while, and I don't want to paint a picture of myself as some brooding, tortured dark soul (unless you think it might actually get my shit laid this decade). I was just down, that's all. Not limbless at the bottom of a well down. More like stuck in the basement while everybody else is having a great time upstairs kind of down. No job, woman left me, living with my parents, no prospects to pull me out of any of those ruts. All that plus a magical gift for self awareness that made me hate myself even more for having such unoriginal problems.
It helped/didn't help that I was drinking a lot at the time. Boone's Farm. Remember that shit? Strawberry Hills, my friend. You know, the shit high school girls drink when they're ready to graduate from wine coolers but not quite ready for real wine? It's like if wine is a bicycle, and wine coolers are training wheels, then Boone's Farm is . . . I don't know. Some sort of nonexistent middle step between training wheels and no training wheels, as well as proof that I'm not good with metaphors.
Anyway, daily bottle of Boone's. Looking through the want ads for jobs. Daytime TV. Not showering. Still on the couch when my parents get home from work. Everybody else winning. Shit going on like this for, seriously, months.
Anyway, this one day I was drunker than hell at 11 in the morning. Actually, during that time in my life, drunker than hell at 11 in the morning was the norm, but I usually had the good sense to stay in one place. But that morning I was like screw it, and I went out to my car to go for a drive.
At the time I probably told myself I was going out to get more booze, but I think I may have had darker intentions in mind. It's all kind of foggy, but I remember that even in my mind there was a subtext to what I was doing. Like on one level I was telling myself I was just going out for more booze, but on another level I think I was hoping that something might happen to me. Something bad. It would be better than the nothing I was going through day in and day out.
Anyway, I started up the car and turned on the radio and there was that song. And for the first time ever I actually listened to the words.
OK, that's not true. I listened to the words every time I heard that song, it's impossible not to. I guess I should say it was the first time I ever heard the words, which makes it sound like I'm trying to be cooler than I am, but not really because remember I'm the guy who said he owes his life to Wilson Phillips.
I guess what I'm saying is the words affected me, and to be honest, I couldn't tell you why. Maybe I was just so ready for something to happen to me--good or bad--that all I needed was a catalyst and that song was it. If it had been Captain Jack, I probably would have driven my car into a lake, but instead it was Hold On. Big difference. Point was it got me. The melody, the harmonies, the way they kind of break it down in the middle so it's just them and the drums and I could remember that point in the video when they're strutting along the boardwalk toward the camera and I just thought, yeah, of course. Hold on. I can do that. I can hold on for one more day.
I'm pretty sure it was a Thursday when it happened, so it made even more sense to hold on for one more day because then it was the weekend. And yeah, I was unemployed at the time so weekends didn't really mean as much, but still. It was momentum, so I didn't question it. I turned off the car and went for a walk instead. Walked myself sober(ish) and then went home and slept the rest of it off.
The next day I got my ass in gear. First day of the rest of your life, that kind of thing. If my life were a movie (it'd be boring as hell) this would be when you would get the main-character-getting-his-life-together montage: running, projecting confidence at interviews, taking out the garbage (literally and metaphorically--hey maybe I'm not so bad at metaphors after all), drinking herbal tea instead of Boone's, laughing, shit like that.
And it's all because of that song. My comeback anthem. Oh sure, it wasn't a completely smooth ride. There were ups and downs, but mostly ups. Point is the song worked. And as a die hard, cynical asshole, that kind of stings but whatever. I defend that song to this day. Sure it's cheesy, but it got me going again.
I even wrote a letter to Wilson Phillips saying as much. And they wrote back! Well probably not them. Probably just a publicist. And I'm pretty sure it was just a form letter, but it smelled really good. If you want, I'll show it to you sometime.

December 18 - Desperate Express

Sorry, but I still don't get it.
It's called Desperate Express, OK?
OK. Ridiculous name, but OK.
It's a play off of FedEx.
No, I get that.
OK, but do you remember when FedEx was Federal Express and their tag line was 'when it absolutely positively has to be there overnight'?
Kind of. So?
So, Desperate Express is for situations when that's not good enough. Like, if you had something that had to be on the other side of the country in three hours, what would you do?
Email it. Fax it.
OK, but what if it was a small package?
I would contact you and Desperate Express it.
Yes, but hopefully you would do it without the condescension.
That's unlikely.
Well anyway, I would go to your place, make the pick-up, get the address, and fly there with your package.
Yeah, that's the part I don't get.
What don't you get? It's a delivery service. What is there not to get?
No, I get that. But it's like, dude, you can fly! Like, really. You can fly. You have a super power. If you wanted to, you could fly to New York. Right now.
Yeah. I know. So?
So, why are you dicking around with a delivery service when you can fly? You could do anything!
Like what?
I don't know. Fight crime?
How am I supposed to fight crime?
Hello? Dude, you can fly!
Yeah, but that's all I can do. It's not like I have super strength or anything. I'm not bulletproof. I can't fight. I mean, yeah, it's great that I can fly, but all that's gonna happen is I'm gonna fly to the scene of a crime and then get my ass kicked. Besides, how the hell am I supposed to even find this crime? Just like, fly around and hope that I happen to see someone getting mugged? I don't have super vision, so I'd have to fly pretty close to the ground, and every time I do that it freaks people out.
Yeah, but still.
Still what? Why does everyone tell me I should fight crime? 'Hey, he flies! He should fight crime!' What kind of bullshit is that? Shit, YOU fight crime if it's that big a deal to you. Plus, even if I did fight crime, I'd still have to make money somehow. I'm not independently wealthy. I don't have my own mansion with a secret lair in the basement. I'm just a dude who can fly for some reason.
OK yeah, but a delivery service? That's so--I don't know, mundane. Why don't you give people rides or something?
Give people rides?
Well, I don't know. Why not?
Because they're too heavy. I already told you I don't have super strength.
By the way, I love that it's 'super strength.' Like that's an actual thing people have.
Yeah, I guess. But either way, I don't have it. I've tried carrying people before, though. And they get really heavy really fast. Plus they always freak out and squirm and I really don't want to drop someone.
OK, so then you've got Desperate Express. By the way, you gotta find a better name than Desperate Express. I mean it sounds like they would have to be totally desperate to use you.
Well, that's kind of the point.
Yeah, but it sounds too negative. Just saying. So what, do you charge by weight?
Yeah, and distance, time, etc.
Got a website?
Desperateexpress.com.
Sounds porny.
Kind of, but whatever.
Navigation? How do you find your way?
I'm actually not sure about that yet. I'm guessing iPhone must have some sort of app.
Catch phrase?
Desperate times call for Desperate Express?
Horrible.
OK, you tell me.
How about, 'Don't let the fact that I'm wasting the most amazing superpower ever by using it to power a nationwide delivery service deter you from hiring me. Instead, pay me a lot of money to carry your small packages long distances in a short amount of time because somehow I was born with the ability to do just that and I will use this amazing ability in that way instead of doing something infinitely cooler with it.' I dunno, it's a bit clunky, but I think it works.
(Shrugs)
Has it gotten you laid yet?
(Uncertain look)
Flying, that is. Has being able to fly gotten you laid yet?
(Looks down).
Pathetic.

December 17 - Surprise Me With a Christmas Goose, Johnson!

Christmas season is upon us, Johnson.
Yes, sir.
Have you any plans for the holiday, Johnson? A quiet night in the quarters perhaps? A hot toddy and some thoughtful reflections on the triumphs and lessons of the past year?
Something like that, sir.
Very good, Johnson. Very good indeed. Nothing like a spot of the old reflection to bring another year to a close.
Yes, sir.
I too tend to go in for that sort of thing as well.
Oh, sir?
You seem surprised, Johnson. Do you think it incongruous that a man of action can also be a man of thought?
No, sir.
I've always been of the mind that a man must be equal parts words and action--both bolstered by a steady diet of contemplation and thoughtfulness. Remember that, Johnson.
Yes, sir.
Remember that, and you'll go far, old boy.
Thank you, sir.
While we're on the subject of the Yule season, I've been meaning to tell that I'd like you to surprise me with a Christmas goose, Johnson.
Sir?
Did I speak too softly, Johnson?
No, sir.
Did I perhaps stutter in some way?
No, sir.
Then why, Johnson? Why the tenor of dismay in your voice? The bestowing of a hearty Christmas goose is a tradition that goes way back in my family.
Yes, sir.
And I should like to carry on this tradition, Johnson. That is, assuming you don't mind?
Of course not, sir.
Damn it, Johnson! I was being sarcastic. Is your generation not able to tell the difference?
Terribly sorry, sir.
Oh, nonsense. Nonsense, I say! Put it behind you, Johnson. Put it behind you for God's sake.
Thank you, sir.
Now, about this Christmas goose. Are your instructions clear?
Sir?
Your instructions, man. I want you to surprise me with a Christmas goose. Just like the ones I knew and loved and cherished as a child. But it must be a surprise, Johnson. That part is key. You must deliver this Christmas goose at a time when I am not expecting it. When I'm not expecting it in the least. Is that clear to you, Johnson?
I believe so, sir.
Very good, Johnson. Top notch, old boy. You may just be officer material after all.
Thank you, sir.
But do lose that insufferable blushing, Johnson. Blushing is something I will not abide. Not even for a moment!
Of course not, sir.
Yes, now. That's more like it. Why, when I was getting my start in the corps, I--Damn it, Johnson! Do explain to me what the devil that was, and do it on the double, man.
I---
Spit it out, Johnson! Spit it out or I will see you in the stockades within the hour. Doubt whatever you will, Johnson, but do not doubt that.
Well, sir--
Yes?
You said you wanted me to surprise you with a Christmas goose, sir.
Damn it, Johnson! Not that kind of goose!

December 16 - Catholic High School Girls in Trouble

They called themselves Catholic High School Girls in Trouble: Susan Pandolphi on bass and vocals, Diane D'Antoni on lead guitar, Vicki Delfino on rhythm guitar, and Rhonda Van Lear on drums. All four of them were juniors at Sacred Mary of the Rose High School for Girls by day, and ass kicking, hard rocking Catholic missionaries by night.
They were one of the more unlikely success stories to come out of Detroit's underground rock scene, garnering a sizable following for their blistering punk rock renditions of What a Friend We Have in Jesus, Rock of Ages, Amazing Grace, How Great Thou Art, and other mainstays of the hymnal.
At around the time when most of their classmates were just getting their driver's licenses, they were getting paid gigs at many of Detroit's all ages clubs, sharing the bill with the most random assortment of acts imaginable; country, punk, hip hop, spoken word, you name it.
They would hit the stage dressed in their Catholic school uniforms, at first out of convenience (after basketball practice, they would change back into their uniforms and go directly to the clubs) and later as their trademark, and it caught on. After only six months of playing together, the Catholic High School Girls had graduated from supporting act to headliners.
But unfortunately for them, their popularity at rock clubs translated to scandal within the hallowed halls of Sacred Mary. Catholic school girls? At a rock club? On a school night? It was an outrage.
Father Michael O' Shannon, the principal of Sacred Mary wouldn't hear it when they insisted that their punk rock takes on the hymnal, while admittedly unorthodox, were completely sincere. The girls were Catholics first and foremost. Punk rock was just how they celebrated God's glory.
But Father Michael didn't see it that way. All he could see were dark clubs, cigarette smoke, and lust. After very little deliberation, he expelled all four of them for tarnishing the uniform of Sacred Mary.
In the wake of their expulsion, the girls were at first devastated and confused, and then later on, enraged. So much so that the four of them got together and ran away from home, going all the way to Chicago where they resettled.
It was there that, equating Catholicism with Father Michael's harsh punishment, they decided that they didn't really care for their chosen faith anymore. And then, lashing out at the church that they felt had forsaken them, the girls went secular and reinvented themselves as The Cover Girls.
Gone were the school uniforms and punk hymns. In their stead were thrift store prom dresses and badly smeared on make-up, with each girl adopting the identity of their least favorite diva. Susan became Celine Dion, Diane became Whitney Houston, Vicki became Mariah Carey, and Rhonda became Britney Spears, and together they played scorching blues punk cover versions of those women's songs.
And very quickly they developed a following, playing bigger and bigger clubs--and not only all ages clubs, but 21 and over clubs as well.
Which was at least partially the reason why for the first time in their career, they began partying. Just a little at first, but then more and more.
And then more and more on top of that.
And within a year, they had followed the typical, predictable Behind the Music career trajectory down to rock bottom and were strung out, broke, and destitute.
And that's when Sister Roberta Franklin found them.
A high school softball prodigy turned junkie turned nun turned PE teacher at Sacred Mary, Sister Roberta had always been sympathetic to anyone who wasn't afraid to follow her own path. And although she had never taught the girls herself--and had certainly never ventured out to any of their shows--she had secretly been cheering for them throughout their fledgling careers as the Catholic High School Girls in Trouble. And bitterly upset at how unfairly she felt the girls had been kicked out of school, she had tracked them down and dragged them out of the gutter.
She helped them into rehab.
She got them treatment.
She helped them learn to stand again, and they were so grateful for the positive attention and help from someone from the church that they felt it was a new beginning for their relationship with Catholicism.
In fact, the Girls went so far in the opposite direction of the partying extremes they had gone to with the Cover Girls that they joined a convent and became nuns.
But the musical bug was still there, and it always would be. Fortunately for them, the head of their convent was very open minded (and open eared) about reaching out to people in new and unusual ways. And so when the inspiration hit for them to create a third manifestation of their cover band, the convent was behind it 100% of the way.
They called themselves Nuns 'N' Rosaries, and they refashioned Guns 'N' Roses' biggest hits so that they were pro God, pro Jesus anthems.
Welcome to the Jungle became Welcome to the Kingdom.
Sweet Child O' Mine became Sweet Son O' God.
And so on.
And they were big. Maybe not Cover Girls big, but big enough to use their weight to put together a traveling Christian alt. music festival that they dubbed Christapalooza. All genres of Christian music were represented:
Christian jam band Loaves and Phishes was there.
So were Christian rock giants Crown of Thorns.
And Christian rappers MC Mark and The God Squad.
And Christian funkateers The Disciples.
And Amish Farmer Core behemoths the Harvesters of Redemption.
The lineup went on and on. There were even a few Jewish, Buddhist, Muslim, and Unitarian acts, all rocking out under the inclusive banner that proclaimed There are many paths to the Kingdom of God.
And Susan, Diane, Vicki, and Rhonda were right there at the forefront of it all, headlining the biggest Christian alt. music festival in the country. Not bad for a bunch of former Catholic High School Girls in Trouble.

December 15 - The Evergreen Syndicate

Don't call them eco terrorists.
When people hear that word, they think of radicals, Earth Firsters, George Hayduke knockoffs. Passionate, reckless, undisciplined. Driving spikes into old growth pines, pouring sugar into the gas tanks of bulldozers, disabling drilling wells. The Green PEP squad (pro earth pranksters) out to "raise awareness" and "make a statement" or effect some other impotent, inconsequential ripple of change in an ocean the size of the moon.
That isn't them.
That isn't the Evergreen Syndicate.
Though theirs is certainly a Green ethos, they go well beyond the frays of eco terrorism.
They are more like eco regime change; eco CIA black ops; eco grassy knoll.
They are the shadow of a shadowy entity. A beast of no nations. A phantom outfit. A secret order so far underground they make the Knights Templar and the Freemasons look like the Kiwanis Club.
They don't exist.
And yet their stamp is everywhere. Even though they have no stamp.
Theirs are the invisible hands pulling the invisible strings of environmental policy that 99.9% of the world don't know exist. And when the few who suspect their existence call them the Evergreen Syndicate, they don't even know what it is they're referring to.
The Evergreen Syndicate is a clandestine government agency.
No, they are a sect of covert ops cardinals from the Vatican.
No, they are a federation of rogue deep cover CIA lifers.
They are all of these things and none of them.
They are invisible men and invisible women in an invisible fraternity dedicated to the unchecked growth of nature.
Forests.
Ecosystems.
The oceans.
Wetlands.
Reefs.
Anywhere that Man shouldn't be.
Their M.O. is to keep Man out.
And their methods are extreme: assassinations, kidnappings, high level governmental and commercial sabotage. All of it off the books, off the radar. Unlike Earth Firsters, they aren't about showboating. They aren't romantics. They're results oriented: dispassionate, pragmatic, effective.
And quiet.
A week before a vote to open five million hectares of rain forest for ranching interests, a governor in Brazil receives a package containing the following: pictures of his five-year-old son that look like they were taken from across the street of his school's playground; the same son's nightlight that had gone missing a week ago; and a note that says, "vote no on ranching expansion".
He quietly votes no and the world keeps turning. It didn't make the papers because the Evergreen Syndicate keeps things out of the spotlight.
An offshore oil rig explodes in the Gulf of Mexico. As the media and politicians huff and wring their hands, and point fingers at everyone involved, all offshore drilling is suspended while tougher industry regulations are quietly pushed through congress.
The Gulf towns and waters that are devastated by the fallout? Collateral damage. The Evergreen Syndicate is focused on the Big Picture.
They're the ones that saw the writing on the wall in 2000 and decided a Bush White House and all the pro business, anti environment legislation it pushed would be better for the earth in the long run.
And they were right. By the end of Bush's two terms in office, things had swung pro-environment so thoroughly that clean air, global warming, climate change, melting polar caps, alternative fuels, improved fuel efficiency standards, and the entire Green agenda had moved to the forefront of public and legislative consciousness, and the country was primed for sweeping policy changes.
Disputed ballots in Florida, disqualified voters, hanging chads, Supreme Court decisions, Al Gore's consolation Noble Peace Prize?
Evergreen Syndicate.
Their reach is enormous, their power unlimited, their commitment absolute. And although nobody on the outside of their clandestine circle (read: everyone) knows their motives, speculation and rumor run rampant: The Evergreen Syndicate is all about profiteering. They are ultra-conservatives, religious extremists, a combination of the three, all of the above, none of the above.
But in the end, it's impossible to say, because as far as what anyone can prove is concerned, the Evergreen Syndicate doesn't exist.

December 14 - Four Kilos

One unexpected consequence of becoming of a father is that the office takes on a strangely comforting feel. In contrast to what's going on at home with a newborn child and a wife with whom your dynamic has changed slightly, the office is still a place where you know how things work. You're still in control. You understand how the game is played, and there is considerably less crying, mustard colored poop, and drool involved.
By the way, when I mentioned that the dynamic between my wife and I had changed slightly, I was going for humorous understatement. Any man who has been in the shoes I'm still breaking in and getting used to (has big feet and) is well aware that having a fresh baby in the house is going to redefine everything, including your relationship with your wife.
Basically, it's all about the kiddo now--as it should be (of course). And I help out wherever and however I can, but there are certain things that only she can do; namely, breastfeeding, and that takes up a lot of their time.
By the way, here's something agonizing: Now that feeding is in full swing, my wife's breasts are nothing short of phenomenal--and pretty much completely off limits to me. The baby gets first and last crack at them, and even if she didn't my wife and I are too tired all the time to be feeling randy anyway.
But especially my wife. The other day she was psyched at having gotten two and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep. The rest of the time she's pretty much following our daughter's schedule and getting sleep when she can, which is pretty sporadic. But she's doing great despite it. They both are.
And like I said, I'm helping out wherever and however I can. I'm the laundry guy, the grocery shopper, the cleaner, the cook, the dishwasher, the bather, the whatever I can be. Plus I'm still working full time.
And yet it's still nowhere near what my wife does. I used to think that mothers and fathers could be equal partners in parenting, but the two and a half weeks that have transpired since our daughter's birth have taught me that moms do more. Sorry, but it's true. Mothers of the world, I concede. You are the champs!
Like I said, I try to do as much as I can, but my wife just does more. Bottom line: she does the feeding. Bam. There's the ball game.
(And that's on top of carrying her for ninth months before, you know, giving birth to her. Yeah, the debate about who does more was over before it even started.)
So yeah, respect to all the moms out there. And speaking of which, hey, thanks, mom and dad. Holy crap. I had no idea how much work you guys did. And yeah, I know, it isn't really work because we all love our kids and we're happy to do it and all the rest of it, which is all true, but what is also true is that this is a mammoth undertaking. And like I said, it's really saying something when going to work almost feels like a vacation in comparison, but sometimes it does.
But it's fleeting.
Don't get me wrong. I like my job and I think I'm fairly good at it. And again, it's nice to be in a situation where I feel fully confident that I know what I'm doing. But getting to go home at the end of the day and see my wife and pick up my daughter and hang out with her? There's no question. She beats work every time. Weighing in at just over four kilos, she's the lightweight champion.
Anyway, I hate to end it on a mushy note like that, so I'm not going to. Besides, this isn't really a self contained story that has an ending. It's just today's installment of the biggest to be continued saga my wife and I are ever going to experience. So instead of coming up with an ending, I'm just going to reiterate that this parenting thing is a lot of work, that I love it, and that although I'm not at all surprised that my wife is kicking as much ass as she is at it, I'm still very impressed.
And now, speaking of my wife, I'm going to go see if she's done feeding our daughter.

December 13 - Artificial Intelligence

Sometimes when I feel like being a dick I'll replace my robot's face with a keyboard and its torso with a monitor, so the only way it can communicate with me is by typing on its face and then getting my attention somehow and trying to make me read its torso monitor.
And it's totally hilarious because every time it wheels itself in front of me, I'll turn around or look the other way and do everything I can to not see it, and it's so dumb it never gets mad. It just keeps trying until I finally get bored and read what it has to say and tell it to learn to spell already and then go through the whole thing again when it types this really apologetic and over polite message telling me that it's pretty sure it what it wrote spelled correctly but sorry anyway.
This one time I even replaced my robot's face with this antique manual typewriter from the late 20th century I found. You know, like the kind where you put paper in it? Yeah, so like I reconfigured it so it was adaptable with the robot's mainframe, and then replaced the robot's face with it, and it was classic because the dumb ass robot kept on fumbling around trying to get some paper so it could type up a response to whatever idiotic question I'd thought of and then hand me the paper even though I kept pretending not to see him. God, it was hilarious.
Seriously, the awsomest thing about robots is they seem like they're smart, but it's so easy to make them look stupid. And they never get mad at you about it, like ever.
Which is kind of funny if you think about it, because like every science fiction movie in the history of anything is all about how robots can't effing wait to rise up against Mankind and enslave us and shit, but in reality they're just a stupid bunch of sissies.
And that even goes for when they fight. Seriously, dog. Even when they fight they're sissies, which doesn't make any sense, but it's true.
Like this one time, I made two of my robots fight it out because I thought it might be badass or something, but no. All that happened was they ran into each other, and then it looked like they were slow dancing, and then there were some sparks and smoke, and they both broke down, and I ended up with this big ass repair bill. Completely lame. Maybe I should have given them weapons or something.
I heard they got these sexbots over in Japan. And I'm like, if those don't get up and rebel against their owners, it's never gonna happen. First of all, they're Japanese, so you gotta figure they're top of the line. And on top of that, their sole reason for existence is to sexify a bunch of geeks who can't get a real woman? Dude, if a robot facing that kind of situation day in day out doesn't get all Rise of the Machines on you, it ain't happening. It's just not.
Dude, this one time? This one time, I told my robot to tie its shoes together and clean the house. And it did! God, it was awesome. I kept on putting stuff in its way so it would trip and fall, and it never got mad. Not once. Seriously, if a robot's self esteem is so low you can get it to do that, there's no way it's ever gonna get up the gumption to join up with a bunch of other robots and enslave the human race. No way.

December 12 - The Insufferable Bastard, part IX

Marge: This is completely random, but I've noticed that whenever someone points out one of your quirks you tend to lash out at them in this weird cowboy personae. Just saying.
Ralph: Listen up, hoss. You best be shutting your chuck hole, lest I russle up a necktie social for your sorry ass.

December 11 - Inner Monologue of a Penis on a Saturday Night

Oh, man.
Oh, man.
Are you serious? Did you really get HER back to your place?
Dude: Fuck. And yes.
This is too much. All our lives, we've dreamt about a night like this and now it looks like it might actually happen. I mean, look at her.
No, really: LOOK AT HER. She's insane. Those eyes, that hair, those lips, that--Wait.
Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
She is going to your bedroom.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
This is happening. This is really happening.
Would you LOOK at that body?! Yes. Oh my God, yes. This is it. This is what we practiced for all those nights. This is going to be amazing.
She's taking off her dress.
And her, oh dear lord, her bra.
And . . . oh my.
She is naked.
Oh.
Oh, God.
Put me in coach; I'm ready to play.
Seriously, man. Let's do this. Let's do this right now.
No, no. I said NOW! Let's go!
What are you waiting for? Hurry the hell up! I'm ready. What are you doing?
Really? A condom? Come on, we don't need that. Let's go!
OK, fine. But hurry. Open it up so we can get on with this. Open it already! Jesus.
Oh for crying out loud, get some scissors, use your teeth, do something, just hurry up!
OK, there.
Yeah, that's it. Just roll it on over me. Just a little bit more. OK, almost there. And . . .
Good.
Very good.
And . . . Actually, no.
No, I can't. This isn't right. I can't let you go through with this.
No.
Not tonight.
Sorry, but I've made up my mind. Not tonight.
Look, I don't care how much you jab me against her, I'm not changing my mind. I'm not going to let this happen.
The moment's all wrong. Don't try to talk me out of it. And for God's sake, stop pulling on me. You look pathetic. It's not happening, and that's it. Not tonight.
Oh my God, did you really just tell her you wanted to wait until you got to know each other better? Yeah, I'm sure she believes that. After all, what guy doesn't suddenly decide he doesn't want sex when it's staring him straight in the face?
And . . . No, as it turns out she doesn't believe you. Surprise, surprise.
And now she's getting dressed, not looking too happy either.
And I know you're probably going to blame me and maybe you should, but I don't care.
So I changed my mind. So what? So I do that sometimes.
So I also jump the gun sometimes.
So I also used to embarrass the hell out of you every chance I got back when we were in middle school.
So all of those things and a whole lot more.
What do you want me to tell you? It's my nature to do those things to you. What can I tell you? I'm a dick.

December 10 - Uncle Fucky Part II

"How old are you now, 14?"
"Twelve."
"You're just 12? Man, that's too bad. Because what I've got to give you you probably can't handle it unless you're at least 14. So let me ask you again. You're 14, right?"
"Nope," the boy chirped.
The man made a big show of putting his head down and exhaling in disappointment. "Listen, partner. Trying to do you a favor here, but you gotta meet me halfway, OK? Now, I've got something I think you're gonna be interested in, but I think it's probably something you can only handle if you're old enough. So what do you think, little man? Do you think you're old enough?"
The boy shrugged, and the man rubbed his eyes.
"OK," the man started. "Repeat after me. 'Yes, Uncle Fucky. I'm 14 years old.'"
"But I'm--"
"Just say it, little man."
"OK."
"Well? . . . . Go on."
"Yes, Uncle Fucky. I'm 14 years old."
"There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
The boy shrugged again.
"OK," Uncle Fucky said. "So I'm here to talk to you because my sister--your mom--wanted me to. This should be your dad's job, but he's not around anymore. And it should also be 'Steve's' job, but he's MIA, too, surprise surprise. So now the duty has fallen to me. Now, you know what it is that we're supposed to talk about, don't you?"
The boy shrugged.
"We're supposed to have THE TALK. Duh duh duh!" He said the last part like dramatic music.
No response.
"Um," Uncle Fucky leaned in exaggeratedly, and used his hand to shield his mouth from the rest of the empty room. "I'm talking about sex, little man."
The boy looked at him blankly.
"So anyway, I got something for you." He handed his nephew a videotape.
"Know what that is?"
The boy shrugged.
"That, little man, is the fruits of I don't even know how many hours of dubbing and editing and copying and rewinding and fast forwarding with not one, but two VCRs. That is Phoebe Cates in Fast Times, Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places, Bevery D'Angelo in Vacation, and tons of chicks in Hardbodies, the Porky's trilogy, Revenge of the Nerds, Private Resort, Spring Break, you name it. What you are holding in your hands is more than one hour and 20 minutes of the nude scenes from the best titty movies--pardon my French--of the 80s. Proceed with caution, little man. Proceed with caution."
The boy looked at the videotape dubiously.
"See," Uncle Fucky continued. "I figure this is a good place to start your education." He did a Yoda impersonation that the boy didn't understand. "Use this to learn about the birds and bees you will."
When the boy didn't respond, Uncle Fucky went on. "Anyway, if you like what you see here--and I think you will--we can go on to the 'next step' a bit later."
The boy looked at the tape again.
"And then if you have any questions, you can . . . you know . . . "
They looked at each other for a second and then the boy looked away.
"You do realize what I've given you, don't you?"
The boy shrugged.
"Dude, when I was your age, me and my friends--we would have killed for a tape like that. It's like the Holy Grail of nude scenes. Do you get that at all? I mean, do you have any idea how epic this is?"
The boy shrugged again.
"Here, just," Uncle Fucky reached his hand out.
"Give it. Put it in and watch a few minutes. You'll see."
"We don't really have a VCR."
"What?"
"We used to, but it broke a long time ago."
"You serious? What do you guys watch movies with?"
"Sometimes we watch DVDs. Sometimes we watch stuff on the Internet."
"But how are you supposed to watch this?"
He shrugged. "I don't know, but you can probably find most of that stuff online anyway."
"What?"
"Here, look."
The boy sat down in front of the laptop, moved the mouse around, and woke the computer out of sleep mode.
"OK, so what was it you were telling me about that's on this tape?"
"Phoebe Cates," Uncle Fucky said immediately.
"OK." The boy started typing.
"No," Uncle Fucky said. "It's spelled P-H-O-" He thought for a second. "E-B-E. Here, let me see. Yeah, that's it. Yeah, Cates. With a C."
A few seconds later they were watching a clip from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
"Holy," Uncle Fucky said. "Oh my G--Here, move over."
The boy scooted over and Uncle Fucky sat down in front of the computer and started doing searches for other nude scenes from his heyday, sitting in front of the screen for close to 30 minutes, during which time he said little more than 'Oh my God,' 'You've got to be kidding me' and 'This is just here?' again and again.
When they were finished he could barely look at his nephew.
"Do you have any idea how easy you've got it?"
His nephew didn't say anything.
"When I was your age, if we wanted to see titties, we had to stay up and hope Skinemax had something good. And if they didn't, well, too bad. If it was like, 'The following movie is rated R for violence and profanity,' well you were just SOL. Or maybe you could try to rent Hardbodies or something, but if your mom went with you into the store, there was no way you were gonna be allowed to leave with that. I mean, they couldn't have made the covers more obvious. But you? Shit, man. You just type some shit and--boom!--there it is. Like, that's just--I don't even know what to say. Do you have any idea how much easier you've got it than we did when I was your age?"
He shrugged again.
"Man." Uncle Fucky patted his nephew on the knee. "You live in a golden age. I hope you appreciate that some day."
And then Uncle Fucky picked up his videotape and went to the kitchen to get a beer.

December 9 - Bark

"Oh, I see you haven't killed this one yet."
The man looked up at the old lady from where he was stooped over, giving his dog a treat.
"Excuse me?"
"No, I don't think I will," the old woman said. "Not now. Not ever. Not after what you did to those poor dogs. You're sick, you know that?"
The man exhaled deeply, scratching behind his dog's ears.
"I'm not Michael Vick."
"Dog fighting," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "That is just--that is sick."
"I know, but I'm not Michael Vick. I just kind of look like him. People make the mistake all the time."
"Only mistake they ever made was letting you out of prison. And now that you're on a winning team, pretending to walk the straight and narrow, everybody thinks you're this wonderful, reformed person. Well, I've got some "bad newz" for you, sunshine. I don't think you're reformed at all. I think you're a monster."
"Look. Ma'am. I agree with you. Michael Vick did some bad things, but I'm--"
"And on top of that, you talk about yourself in the third person? God, I hate it when you people do that."
"What do you mean you people?"
"Famous athletes!" she spit. "Arrogant celebrities! That's what I mean by you people. Don't play the race card on me, dog killer."
The man stood up, and the old woman flinched. He put up one hand as if to calm her and then reached his other hand into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.
"Look. Here's my driver's license. See that? Dennis Chapman of Little Rock, Arkansas. Not Michael Vick, OK? I know I look like him, but I ain't him. OK?"
She squinted at the driver's license, glanced up at him, and looked again at the driver's license.
"I still think you're a monster," she said, storming off.
Dennis stood for a moment, watching her walk away. Then he leaned over, cleaned up his dog's poop, and they continued on their way.

December 8 - Eugene's Lament

You spend your whole life providing for your wife and kids, keeping your family farm out of the red, helping out your fellow man when you can, and doing your best to be an all around good person, and do you think anybody says anything? Shoot, no.
Oh, but you just go and fuck one goat, and all of a sudden everybody thinks they've got you figured out.

December 7 - Crown of Thorns

You know what the worst part about being a Christian Rock star is? The groupies.
Dude, let me just tell you: The chicks that come to our shows? Insane. Just absolutely insane.
Most of them are college girls, Young Life types. Fresh scrubbed faces, perfect hair, amazing figures, drop dead gorgeous, and they're completely into our music.
Seriously.
Even though Crown of Thorns is a rock group, most of our audience is female. You look out into the audience at one of our gigs and a good 70% of the faces are female. And it's even more so with the fans who come to our dressing room. Night after night, almost nothing but hot, hot women who dig our music and want to hang out with us are coming backstage dying to meet us.
And they're completely off limits.
Because we're a Christian Rock band.
And Christian Rock bands don't do the groupie thing.
It's also because our fans are Christians, and part of why they're into us is because we're such good, wholesome guys. We're not into partying and drugs and booze and sex like regular rock stars, no sir. And so they're completely comfortable coming backstage and hanging out with us because there's not a chance that anything's going to happen. Shoot, we all even signed virginity pledges just like the people who come to our shows.
Wholesome Christian Rock musicians. Wholesome Christian Rock fans. It's perfect.
The only problem is this: I'm not a Christian.
In fact, religion-wise, I'm not really anything.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not like anti-Christian or anything. I guess if I'm anything I'm agnostic/atheist/tolerant of whatever. You want to be a Christian? Go right ahead. Want to never go to church again for the rest of your life? That's fine with me, too. Seriously, I don't care.
It might surprise you to hear that the lead guitarist of the biggest Christian Rock band in the country not only isn't a Christian, but doesn't have a stance at all, religion wise. So let me explain.
The only reason I joined Crown of Thorns is because Christian Rock is huge. Look it up sometime. Christian Rock consistently outsells jazz, Latin, punk, classical and a bunch of other genres.
Combined.
Really, I don't have anything for or against Jesus. Love him, hate him, ignore him. I don't care. I'm in this for the money.
And it's coming in, too. Now more than at any other time in my career, which is actually pretty long. Before I joined Crown of Thorns, I was in a bunch of groups.
Ever heard of Hobocop?
Rooster Sheath and the Conphylactics?
106 Miles to Chicago?
Hairy Daughter and the Voldewhores?
Simply Dread? You know, the band that played reggae covers of Simply Red songs?
Benny & The Sharks?
Stormin' Norman's Crotch Stank?
No?
None of them?
Exactly.
And I had the bank balance to match that obscurity.
But since joining Crown of Thorns, I'm famous.
And flush.
Got my credit cards paid off. Bought a new car. I even put a down payment on a house. For the first time in my career, the money is good. So I guess that kind of makes me predisposed to being pro-Jesus, but not enough to go to church and worship him; just enough to, you know, rock it out in his name night after night in front of screaming, adoring fans.
Of course, the fact that I'm not partying anymore also helps with the whole finances thing, even though clean, sober, and celibate isn't the most rock and roll lifestyle in the world. I try to tell myself I'm straight edge again. That makes it a little more tolerable, I guess.
But mostly it's all about appearances. Get a headline about the guitarist from Crown of Thorns getting a DUI or something and we can kiss this gravy train goodbye.
Same goes for groupies, and man, it is agony. Just total agony. They're so hot. But they're drawn to us because of this chaste and pious rocker image we have. And the second any one of us so much as kisses one of our fans, it's all over. Such a cruel irony. It's like Midas or, I don't even know what. Like, we have this power to attract all of this honey, but as soon as we taste the honey it disappears along with our ability to attract it. Or something. I'm sure there's a parable about this. If we haven't done a song on this type of thing yet, I'm sure we will.
Actually, maybe we have. Isn't that what Forbidden Fruit is about?
Anyway, this buddy of mine Fred (aka Polar Bear Underwear) does children's music and he's in a similar spot. No, I don't mean he's attracted to children. Come on. What I mean is some of the moms that bring their kids to his shows are just unbelievable. You know, like the really hip, in shape hot moms. Their kids love his music, which means they're predisposed to like him and all that, and there's flirting after the shows, which he says is great, but if he ever started getting with the moms, that would be the end of it.
By the way, he's the only one who knows I'm not really a Christian. He's always making fun of how much more successful I am as a Christian Rocker than I was before, and accusing me of selling my soul for Christian Rock, etc. And I'll admit it feels pretty weird to be lying about such a thing on a regular basis, but I don't think it's really hurting anybody. The fans like the music, I get paid, and I get to rock out. I mean, granted, our lyrics are pretty churchy and all, but the music itself pretty much rocks like any other rock music. So what's the harm? You know, besides not being able to hook up with our fans.
Anyway, like I said, I don't think there's anything out there, you know, supreme being wise. But I like to think that if there is, he or she or whoever would have a sense of humor about this whole situation.