More Holiday Cheer

Why stop with just a Christmas list? This is the holiday season, after all, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Diwali, and whatever Wiccans celebrate... I dunno, the Winter Solstice or something? So here are some non-Jesus, non-Santa holiday things.

Let me preface this by saying I loathe Adam Sandler. A lot. An awful lot. Along with Will Ferrell and almost everyone else from the last 30 years of SNL his one-joke shtick got stale decades ago. But Adam Sandler did write The Chanukah Song, even if he didn't sing it very well. The good news is Neil Diamond has done a cover of The Chanukah Song and his version not only does not suck, it's very good. And who doesn't love Neil Diamond?

Did you know there are Kwanzaa songs? Me neither, but why shouldn't there be? I don't think Kwanzaa has been around long enough for it to become as commercialized and subverted as Christmas has, though. But if I have to sit through the barking-dog version of Jingle Bells, why shouldn't people celebrating Kwanzaa be just as annoyed?

Okay, so Diwali fell in October this year, months before Christmas, but it's the closest thing in the Hindu faith, so I'm lumping it in. It's the celebration of good over evil so it's pretty much in the Christmas spirit anyway. I'm guessing there are Diwali songs - there's lots of music in India for everything else - but I'm fairly certain there aren't any barking-dog versions of any of them. I could be wrong, though. Can anybody tell me if there's a Diwali version of 'A Christmas Carol?' The British Raj ruled India for almost 100 years, some of that Dickens stuff had to have rubbed off.

Three years ago I was in Australia for Christmas - technically Chanukah, since my friends are Jewish - but since December in Australia is the middle of summer, Santa isn't the jolly German elf we know from the Thomas Nast illustrations, rather he wears shorts and is ably assisted by koalas and kangaroos. It was very odd having a barbeque cookout on Boxing Day, with the chance of thunderstorms.

Tis The Season

I am extremely difficult to buy gifts for. I know this, and, honestly, it's partly by design. When people ask me what I want for my birthday or for Christmas I tell them 'I don't really want anything' and I truly don't. I don't need gifts, I don't need any more stuff because I already have too much. But gifts aren't really about the having, they're about the giving. What I really enjoy are gifts that show me someone took some time to think about me. My nieces are particularly good at finding absurd things they know I'll like, but other people have stepped up to the plate as well.
   I prefer to remain an enigma, but this year I've decided not only to make a Christmas list, but to put it out there for everyone to see. Now no one can say I'm hard to buy for.

Dear Santa, please bring me:
   A jet pack - one that fits me and can lift me, I want to sail over castle walls like James Bond.
A posse - anything that's good enough for Tupac is good enough for me.
   A three-finger ring that spells out 'TCB' - if it's good enough for Elvis it's good enough for me.
A Sinatra breakfast - if you don't know what I mean, you aren't meant to. If you do know what I mean, then get busy, daddy-o.
   TCR slotless slot cars - it's the one thing I really, really wanted for Christmas but never got.
Three wishes from a genie in a bottle. And I don't mean Christina Aguilera, what she's got I don't want. An alternative would be a monkey's paw that grants wishes, I'm not all that particular.
   My '72 Chevelle, best car ever. Good luck with this one, I know where the engine is, and it's not with the body. And I'm pretty sure the body's now been recycled into a Weber grill.
The still-beating heart of Bill Gates. I'm not particularly mad at him, not anymore, but he still has a lot to answer for.
   One good, solid punch in Alan Greenspan's face. I know, I know, he's old, but he's got a lot to answer for too. Bastard.
That one day in 1982 when my friends Jeff, Bob, and I were out in Jeff's front yard playing football in the rain. It's all been kind of downhill since then.
   For the guys in charge of Google to come clean and admit they really are in it for the money just like every other corporate bastard. Time for the charade to end.
Leather shoelaces for my f**kin' boots. And not the square ones, those suck, the round ones, like what I have now. But not broken.
   A chance to visit the 18-year-old me, to tell him what he did right and what he did wrong.

There you are, that's all I want. Some of it's gonna be hard to wrap.

Tell My Shame

I have this thing wearing on my conscience, a personal failing that I've hidden for days now. It's always there, lurking in the darkness, my own Telltale Heart that's slowly driving me mad. I have to come clean before it becomes the end of me.
   I bought a copy of 'O' magazine.
   I'll give you a moment to pick yourself up off the floor. Yes, I did it, I have no one else to blame. I didn't even try to get someone else to buy it for me, like a teenager begging beer at the convenience store, I walked right up to the Vroman's magazine rack, put my hands on the Christmas issue of 'O' magazine, and surrendered my five bucks. And then I took it home.
   Why? Why would I have anything Oprah related in my house? For the chance to win free stuff from Ellen.
   Okay, hold on, let's back up. I'm digging myself deeper here. See, Ellen has her 12 Days of Giveaways, and, in grand Oprah fashion, is buying the loyalty of her audience with loot. And if you buy an 'O' magazine and read it to find the code to enter online, you can be one of the people who wins said loot without being in the studio audience.
   How do I know this?
   Oh boy... all right, here's what happened. See, I was in my apartment, minding my own business, flipping through the channels. The TV seemed to tune itself to Ellen and then there was a tiny micro-earthquake - centered on my living room - that knocked a bookcase over. I was stuck under hundreds of pounds of books, the remote just out of reach, and I was forced to watch an entire hour of Ellen before I could find the strength to dig myself out.
   Yeah, that's what happened... All right, I'm gonna stop now. Nothing to see here, just move along.

Where's My X-Ray Vision?

If you're a science geek you've no doubt been following the progress of the Large Hadron Collider, and you know that it's once again operational, and set to come up to full power some time next year. If you're not a science geek, you've probably heard about those crazy particle physicists who are trying to smash protons together over in Switzerland (and France, the thing is huge). It's the largest science experiment ever, it's the largest machine ever built, and is the most expensive pure research project ever. Some misinformed souls also think that when it comes up to full power, the LHC will create a black hole that will destroy the Earth; they've even tried to get court injunctions against turning it on. This is all just ignorant panic and crazy talk, and hides the truth of the real purpose of the LHC.
   It's designed to give people super-powers.
   Stay with me on this one. The LHC is a colossal undertaking, huge tunnels and giant magnets and elementary particles slamming into each other at the speed of light. It cost $9 billion - that's billion with a capital B - and involves the coordination of people and materials from Europe to North America to Asia to Africa to Antarctica (really). Who else could manage that but some sort of evil genius like Lex Luthor or Blofeld?
   I've stripped away the veil, haven't I? It all makes sense now. There's no way that scientists and governments could come together to see a project through almost 40 years of planning and construction... but an evil genius could. An evil genius is almost obligated to do that kind of thing. And all this 'Higgs boson' talk, it's just a smoke screen. It's obvious to any thinking man that the real purpose behind this whole endeavor is to make regular people into super-powered heroes. Why else go to all the trouble? For science? Yeah, sure...
   So I want my super-powers. And I want something cool, not something lame. No giant stilts or some gloppy glue gun, I want wings - angel wings, not bat wings - or the ability to turn my skin to steel or super-speed or control over the elements. Something like that.
   It's only a matter of time, once the LHC powers up all the way next year. Watch the skies...

Lost In The Sands Of Time

The other day I was cleaning out a closet - more like rearranging it, really - and I found a small can of paint. So I got to thinking, somebody must have invented paint. Somewhere, some time, some dude thought that it would be a good idea to coat a piece of wood in a layer of stuff that would keep it from getting wet or keep bugs away. But that had to have been so long ago, thousands of years. We know who invented the light bulb, but there's no way we'd ever know who invented paint.
   Thinking further, I wondered what other ubiquitous things had to have been invented by people we're never going to know.

Forks
   Soap
Mayonnaise
   Thread
Coasters - the kind you put under glasses
   Ink
Boat oars
   Fences
Hammers
   Erasers, either chalkboard erasers or the ones on the end of a pencil
Buttons and button holes
   Wire

This is the kind of thing that occupies my day.

Eating Alone In Your Car

Back before I was 'between assignments' I would occasionally go out for lunch with colleagues. If we wanted to go somewhere just out of walking distance we'd all trek into the parking garage, pile into somebody's vehicle and take off. Nine times out of ten, in the garage we'd see this guy sitting in his truck - he was a white-sunglasses-worn-on-the-back-of-his-head, spiky moussed hair guy - listening to really loud music, or sleeping, or eating. Sometimes all three. I used to wonder how lonely he was that he thought he needed to take his break in his truck, in a cement parking garage, alone. I would have felt sorry for him if he wasn't such a complete douchebag. White sunglasses. Seriously.
   Fast forward to this week. I've been out doing some Christmas shopping (scored an Elmo cap for my little nephew), and I've seen more people sitting in their cars alone than ever before. And most of these people were eating. Maybe I'm just not in touch with the whole American car zeitgeist, but the only thing I like to do in my truck is drive it. I don't eat in it, rarely drink in it, and I certainly don't sleep in it even though it would make a dandy bed. On the rare times I go to Sonic, I'm usually one of those people sitting at the benches up front, not horking down a burger behind the wheel.
   So what's with all the people eating in their cars? I'm not talking about utility workers or dump truck drivers or cops or firemen, those guys I can understand, they eat when they can where they can. I'm talking about secretaries or students or accountants or white-sunglass-wearing douchebags, people who don't have to be anywhere at a moment's notice. Why? Go inside, sit down, have your artery-clogging meal at a plastic table with the rest of society, don't lock yourself away. For God's sake, today I saw a lady sitting in a McDonald's parking lot, eating the meal she had just gotten at the drive-through. Does that make any sense at all?
   Am I completely out of touch with this one? Is this more of my impending old-man-ness showing?

I'm Back - And So's My Mojo

Okay, so it's still a little unsettled around here - it's not supposed to be this cold in SoCal - but I'm back and I can handle cold weather. You may recall a few weeks ago I was concerned that nothing strange had happened to me in a while. I think the Universe was taking pity on me, in preparation for my father's passing. Still tough to take, but things are getting back to normal. And I mean normal for me, not normal for you.
   The weirdos are back.
   Wheewww... That was me, heaving a huge sigh of relief. I was at the Post Office this morning, the big, fancy one down by City Hall, not the grody, tiny one down by RiteAid, mailing off a few query letters. I was standing in line beside that table they have, the one with all the forms you can fill out for everything, including voter registration. A puzzled-looking lady was standing there, filling out several forms. She wasn't particularly dirty, so she probably wasn't homeless, but she wasn't entirely present in the moment either, if you know what I mean. Her hair was scattered around, and she kept glancing up at every new person who entered as if they might want to steal something from her. I know the look, it's common among the crazy people who flock to me. Another clue was the very loud conversation she was having with herself; I was part of the conversation, I just didn't know it at the time.
    'Temporary... temporary... what do they mean by temporary?'
    'If I can just get these jerk-offs off my back...'
    'What day... day... what's today? What day is it today?'
(a very kind older lady answered for me, not realizing I was supposed to be taking this bullet)
    'Return? When? I don't know when I'm getting back from New York. Maybe I'll send a pizza back, take care of all this bullshit.'

   All this while the line was slowly advancing. And guess who had just stepped to the front of the line when Crazy Lady finished filling out her forms? That's right, yours truly. She came up to me, reached out to touch me, thought better of it, then waved the forms at me.
    'I'm gonna.... they told me to finish... when I finish with these just to go back to the first window. So I'm not cutting in front of you, okay?'
   Of course I let her go, I would never impede one of my people in their daily lunacy. Besides, I was just glad to have them back.

Thanks, Dad

My father passed away Tuesday, December 1st. His memorial was today, Saturday, December 5th, and I spoke in tribute to him. I've included below the text of my comments at that service.


   He was my father. That tells you almost nothing, but it says everything. He was what fathers are supposed to be, stern but compassionate. He set the rules but he knew when to let me break them. He taught me many things that fathers should teach sons, how to throw a ball, how to dig a hole, how to saw a piece of wood, how to mow a lawn, how to walk on a roof and not fall off, how to change a tire. Guy things, stuff you need to know how to do if you’re any kind of man.

   He also taught me the most important thing a son can learn from his father. He taught me to tell the truth.

   When I was a boy I was smart and sneaky. Probably a parent’s worst nightmare. I figured out early that all I needed to do to control a situation was to control the flow of information. What my parents didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. But my father knew. I couldn’t get anything past him. Turned out he controlled a bit of information I didn’t know. He used to be me. If I fought or cheated or stole or lied, he’d tried to do exactly the same thing 30 years before. I can only imagine what it must have been like for him to watch me working my mojo, letting me play things along, giving me just enough rope to hang myself before he pulled the noose tight. I know he was exasperated, but I imagine he was a little bit proud too. Just like seeing your boy take his first steps, it had to be the tiniest bit gratifying to see me try to change the grades on my report card.

   I did get caught. Repeatedly. And the lesson that I finally took from that is the truth is always better than any lie. My dad taught me that.

   So here’s the truth. He wasn’t an easy man to love. Those who knew him understand what I mean. He had his faults as we all do. I have a card on my desk that says ‘maybe the hardest people to love are those that need love most of all.’ I think that’s true. My father was a big man, physically and metaphorically, and his passing leaves a very large hole in my life that will never fully be filled in.

   I am the man I am today because of my father. I love him and I miss him.