I've the monkey on my foot

So this was Christmas and what have I done? The usual stuff, I suppose. At some point, I may post a litany of the numerous offerings intended to buy off my support/friendship for another year. This is not that time nor can I imagine why anyone would care if I'm the proud owner of a Stylophone (Chris is awesome) or some new trousers. So really nothing good can come from any of that at all. I apologize for ever mentioning such things.

I'm into the home stretch of marathon training with an 8-miler the only run of any consequence left. Last week's 12 miles was uneventful and went quite well, 1:45. Somewhat of a relief after the disaster that was my 20 miles the previous Saturday. Let's not mention it again, shall we?

The past two marathons have been hot and humid. This is rather uncharacteristic of Florida, so I'm hoping that the four winds will shine on me a bit more this year. Or more accurately, Mr. Cold Mizer. Regardless, after two years and over 2000 miles run in total training I know what's in store physically. Which is precisely what I'll tell myself when I'm gassed at mile 21 and getting passed by a dude on crutches.**

Though I guess it's ultimately hard to top the birth of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ in last week's event department, a relatively close second would have been the wedding of the EPJ's second or third son (I don't remember who's actually older since she got them at a 2-for-1 discount) on Saturday. Since they know how much I love social gatherings and am particularly partial to any that require formal attire, I was among the chosen few invited.

I felt quite the member of some exclusive club until I got to the church and saw enough people to overthrow a small island nation off the coast of Mexico. Apparently, the last couple of Sunday papers included a invitation for you and a guest along with the requisite coupons.

Regardless Marisol, Madeline, Maureen allowed me to drive them to the shindig because big city traffic is scary and whatnot. My luck runneth over. So we headed out into the Saturday afternoon fog towards Atlanta.

Maureen: It sure has been foggy this week. How long has it been foggy?

Me: Since we left home. (rim shot)

Though I was pretty confident in my ability to find the church (I'm pretty familiar with Atlanta at this point), they insisted on plugging up the Garmin. Ostensibly to help me navigate, but in reality just to complain that it wasn't correcting itself fast enough.

Marisol (annoyed): It's telling us to turn after we get past the turn.

Me: Oh, gosh. Hopefully I'll be able to find an alternate route before we hit Mississippi.

Since there was a wedding going on down the street from ours, I started to pull into the wrong church and see how long it would take anyone to notice after we sat down. Plus, I've always wanted to be one of the "speak now or forever hold your peace" crowd. What could be more fun than popping in unknown and annoucing to the assembled that you were friends with the bride in high school. When she was a boy.

I resisted the temptation, however. My being shot by a stranger will have to wait till another day.

As luck would have it, we arrived at the right church in plenty of time to get prime seats right down front. This would have been great for most but since we were hoping to sneak out if things got bogged down, not exactly the best for us. Nevertheless, we sat down and spent the rest of the time before the ceremony looking backwards trying to see who was coming in.

As one does.

Eventually things got under way with the arrival of the 17(!) brides attendants/maids/golfing buds/street urchins. Can't help but wonder how unloved that unlucky 18th gal must feel--I really appreciate you naming your first born after me and all, but I'm sorry I simply cannot have more than 17 people clogging my scene. Cheers.

Then there was the paltry by comparison groomsmen. Only 4? Really, gents you must try harder.

As for the ceremony, I suppose my companions would say it was lovely or beautiful or romantic or something equally mushy. With no disrespect intended to the lovely bride and groom, I sort of zoned out once the minister got going with his message. The title of which was "Lovingly loving the lovely word 'love'". Not sure how much he got for the gig, but since he was paid per usage of the word "love", I think he did pretty good for a otherwise unemployed Saturday evening.

Anyway, next thing I new we were being presented with the bride and groom and the prospect of free booze. Not being a drinker this held little excitement for me but Madeline and Maureen could hardly contain themselves. Or so Andy thought.

No doubt a relief to the bride's family, I believe everyone who was at the wedding took in the reception. There was enough food to feed, uh, a small island nation off the coast of Mexico and a bar in every corner. Hallelujah. When we got there the band was already kicking out the jams to an indifferent bit of older folks only wishing to critique the proceedings. Our arrival lowered the median age of attendants somewhat but did little to enliven the dance floor. Youth and alcohol would take effect soon enough.

Actually, much quicker than I expected.

The bride and groom had scarcely arrived before I heard the announcement of the "first dance". Much to the relief of the groom and probably everyone else, I let him have his moment since Marisol wasn't much up on dancing. Next thing I know the EPJ was cutting her own rug with anyone she could find.

I hid in the corner. For my own sake.

Once the EPJ decided to take a breather, my crew figured we better seek her out so she would know we were there. Kind of like how celebrities make it a point of telling how they give to some charity. What's the point of attending anything if you're not going to the payoff of being thanked for coming? Actually, the honor for me was in being invited but my companions insisted she know we were there. Fortunately, I don't need such constant reinforcement.

I keed.

We all wanted to make sure she knew we there.

Again, I keed.

Actually, it was a rather nice evening out. And nice to be in the audience instead of up on the stand as I've been for the two previous weddings this year. Nevertheless, I'm in no hurry to attend any more any time soon. On the way home, Madeline asked Marisol with a wink and a nudge if she was bummed that we didn't stay for the bouquet toss and subsequent scrum. "No" was her immediately reply. Amen, my dear. Amen.

I keed.

**My first marathon was an exercise in extreme highs and lows. Jazzed and feeling stupidly confident that I was in no danger at all of not completing 26.2, I noted with some condescending sadness the fellow on crutches ahead. I quickly got passed him. "Man," I thought, "He's got a long day ahead of him. What a trooper though."

Flash forward 4 hours and it's taking everything I've got to make it to the medical tent at mile 22. Hoping to stave off the impending vomit, I noticed a familiar chap on my right: my becrutched friend. While there's undeniably an encouraging thought in there, namely, "What a trooper! If he can make it, I know I can," when one is finding it hard to literally make another step, it's closer to "Bloody hell, I'm getting outwalked by a guy on crutches. That I passed four hours ago! Better get to the side before some Rascal-riding, oxygen-masked septuagenarian plows me down."

But through sheer determination, I eventually finished and got my medal.

And that becrutched man went on to become the next President of the United States, Barack Obama.

So I guess we both won.

Laziness pt. 7

Suck it, MTM!!!

Addendum: Yes, all original music. God bless the black market.

Listen, the snow is falling

I suppose most of the world attention is focused on various holidays this week. If one is not then one has no one to blame but one's self. Glancing at the calendar last night, I noticed that today is the only day this week that has no significance. Outside of whatever significance one's ascribes to the 23rd of December, of course. (Personally, I don't have one, but maybe you do.) Since I'll presume that most have better ways to spend the time besides gazing wistfully at the calendar herewith a rundown of this week's dates.

1. Sunday December 21/first day of winter--a.k.a winter solstice, a.k.a. modern-day pagans shut out by all the warm fuzziness of the other, more popular, December days, gather to run naked and chant or some such. Best I can tell, serves no purpose for non-pagans other than being an all-too easy joke/comment on our godless society and how no one says "Merry Christmas" anymore. Except to me and everyone I know and come in contact with. An aside, is there a more manufactured modern outrage? Apologies, Mr. O'Reilly.
2. Monday December 22/first night of (C)Hanukkah--thanks to that formerly ubiquitous Adam Sandler song, Christians and their other non-Jewish friends, i.e. everyone outside of New York, Hollywood and Israel, know that this Jewish soiree is the Festival of Lights and that instead of one day of presents, they get eight crazy nights. Beyond that, one seeking further information should probably consult the Torah. Or at least Wikipedia. Be sure to ask any Jewish friends if the "ch" in Chanukah is hard or soft. The tribe loves to be asked that.
3. Tuesday December 23/day of nothing much--The Federal Reserve was created on this date in 1913. The first human kidney transplant occurred today in 1954. Both events worth celebrating in any way of one's choosing. Personally, I'm getting my hair cut. Thankfully unless you're kin to Adrian Belew (King Crimson), Dave Murray (Iron Maiden), Jorma Kaukonen (Jefferson Airplane) or Anthony Phillips (Genesis) you needn't worry with a guitarists' birthday getting in the way. Andy will find that as oddly weird as I did. I suspect no one else will.
4. Wednesday December 24/Christmas Eve--Not really an official holiday but one that's a source of controversy for some. Gather together tonight or tomorrow? Open presents now or later? Split the boozing over two days or just drink straight through to numb the pain? A day/night unique in being the longest for children and the shortest for parents. My personal record from childhood: making my mother get up at 4-ish to play Mr. Mouth before going back to bed. To get up at 5:30. That is in the a.m., folks.
5. Thursday December 25/Christmas Day--Before I was cynical, i.e. 4, I used to think that this was the one day of the year nothing bad would happen. There would be no crimes committed and terrorists wouldn't blow anything up. That a child would be concerned with such things probably says a lot about the early onset of my neurosis, but hey. And then the tsunami hit in 2005. And the Godfather of Soul shuffled his last in 2006. Of course, balancing that out was the birth of Ruth Young, the most amazing person ever, in 1993. Or so says Wikipedia.
6. Friday December 26/Boxing Day--Unknown to most Americans and incorrectly presumed to have something to do with pugilism by most of the few who have, this is primarily for our Anglican friends and the remains of their empire. As best I can tell, it's another excuse to take off, give presents and get drunk. In other words, a typical Friday for the Brits. Hey-O! I'm sure it's all very important to some, but to me it's little more than one of the few days of Christmas Bob & Doug McKenzie come up with whilst hunting for 12. Worthless music historical fact: The Beatles Magical Mystery Tour movie was first transmitted on this date in 1967 by the BBC. Folks snoozed through it then, too.
7. Saturday December 27/first day of Kwanzaa--Unknown to most Americans until about 15 years ago and then promptly forgotten. Except by those wishing to complain that it's celebrated at all and news outlets wishing to score cheap PC points in between fear mongering stories of black crime, this celebration of all things black and beautiful was actually created in 1966. I believe the original intent was to give the black nation a celebration of, by and for themselves. Presumably because all that familial fighting, depression and alcohol with which white folks celebrate Christmas and Jews, Hanukkah was just too good to pass up. One can hardly blame them.

And a ho, ho, ho to all.

With new supplies, you ought to be all right

One of the many (well, not too many) hats the EPJ wears is Justice of the Peace, i.e. issuer of wedded bliss. Given the environs/speed, most who come through here for such silliness want to keep things on the DL or at least as little fanfare as possible. Sometimes it's a pregnancy, sometimes a couple together for decades(!). Still others just don't want the small town hassle of everyone knowing one's bidness.

Natch, we put a picture/announcement of the newlyweds we marry in the local organ. Oops.

Through the years we've had tears of joy shed at the prospect of a life of wedding bliss, and we've had tears of sadness over a couple of months of married hell. Before leveling charges of cynicism (moi?), please know that I actually am asked at least once a week variations on "How I get out of this mess?" Thankfully, we have nothing to do with that. The EPJ's standard response, "I may have got you in this mess, but somebody else will have to get you out."

Figures, the EPJ's been married for 74 years. My figures may be off. Slightly.

So after so many years of fulfilling these duties, the happiest day for some has become pretty routine for us. (EPJ: Do you? Him: Yep. EPJ: You? Her: Yes. EPJ: So be it. Cheers.) Surprising then just now we have a groom showing up with his uninformed bride for the wedding. He thought it'd be fun just to spring it on her once they got here. Whee. Glad she was keen. Obviously, this occurred after much thought, prayer, discussion, animal sacrifice or some such. Or so I'd like to think.

Moving on...

Readers who go back to the old Mailbox days may remember Andy's rather extraordinary Christmas list of a few years ago. It was about 6 things including a Star Trek DVD, some egghead book and the highlight: more RAM for his computer. That year, thankfully, St. Nicholas did not disappoint. An enraged geek not being one of the more desirous sights on a Christmas morn. I hasten to point out that while he's no Frank Stallone, Andy is far from the Egbert that list would make him out to be. Well, he's married anyway.

He may have outdone himself this year: 3 cds and, wait for it, floor mats for his ride. Proper! Unfortunately, I'd already purchased him some weather stripping for the house. It is non-returnable.
-------------------------
So Bonnie wishes to summer in my fair town? This she is most welcome to do as there is much housework/cleaning that needs to be done. Cleaning supplies, ladder and any materials necessary for repair work will be provided. I require one full meal daily, preferably in the evening, with light but filling morning and noon meals. Lunch may be substituted for the biggie occasionally but never breakfast; my schedule does not permit such. Rising at 7:40 to be at work by 8 does not give me the time needed to enjoy a full breakfast, English or otherwise. I do not care to waste food because there are apparently starving children somewhere and my not eating food on this side of the world would somehow cause them to go hungry. The chaos theory, true, but nor do I enjoy having guilt harsh my otherwise unharshed mellow.

But all work and no play would be a bit too Cinderella-ish, therefore, a weekly allowance of one movie along with a 15-minute discussion on any topic, but preferably one of tremendous interest to me will be offered. Understand, this will be as my schedule permits. Furthermore, I will only require being addressed as "Mr. Jeremy, sir" when company is present. Otherwise, Mr. Jeremy is sufficient. A sitting/sleeping room for those activities will be provided though furniture, including bed, and linens will not. Proper attire will be required, also not provided. While French maid outfits make a great Halloween cliche, this would be wholly inappropriate for my dearest Bonnie. I simply cannot have any guest leering. The likes of which would require me to defend Bonnie's honor, and I generally wish to avoid jail. Hands, deadly weapons, etc. But for attire, something less industrial than a hotel cleaning outfit is suggested.

If these terms are suitable then this post can be considered a binding contract. There will be no negotiations as I have neither the time nor the inclination.

Teaching Barbara Harris to waterski

A weekend filled with all sorts of big news. Well, maybe not big news. Actually, I don't really know how much is news, more like stuff that happened and since I feel the need to let the world into my own little enclave I'll relate. To wit:

1. Got my 12 miles out of the way Saturday morning. Decent enough time for me though no PR (1:50), particularly considering I had a cold most of last week. Oddly, I felt better after 19 (3:16)the previous week than I did the 12 this week. That leaves the big 20 miles for Saturday and then things drop off precipitously before the marathon. Urgh...I mean, bring it on.
2. Christmas tree is up and decorated as of last night. Definitely the latest that task has been accomplished, but it's done with now so I scoff at all the slackers who've yet to get theirs up. Unfortunately for those expecting gifts from me, I've been equally tardy on said purchases so it looks increasingly likely that bars of soap, q-tips and whatever else I can find cheap and easy will rule the day. If there's a particular brand of sundry one so desires please notify me posthaste. Of course, if one doesn't assume one is getting a gift, one will not be disappointed. That choice is ultimately yours, dear reader.
3. Most of yesterday was spent listening to records and ripping music to my ipod. This was as relaxing as it was pathetic. However, I'd suggest it was less of a wasted day than watching various No Fun League games on the telly whilst slovenly reclined on the sofa. First day I've had in a long time just to sit and listen. Plus, I've now got 49 days worth of music on the ipod which is as exciting as it is pathetic.
4. Attended Marisol's Christmas cantata on Friday night. It was all very lovely and spirited and v.v. mobile. Difficult to describe, but they were constantly moving around the sanctuary. On second thought, I suppose that description wasn't all that difficult. Anyway, there were songs, shepherds, angels, a nativity and pretty much what one would expect in such a production. This is not to imply it was so predictable as to be less than enjoyable; churches generally follow the gospel account of the whole shebang and there ain't a whole lotta room for surprises, besides that whole virgin birth thing, of course. Therefore the sudden appearance of, say, Aquaman while cool and totally unexpected wouldn't really be all that appropriate.
5. Patty Hearst has finally grown enough to make the giant leap from the floor to the kitchen counter. Consider her world dutifully rocked with new possibilities and views. Her BFF, Missy, having been doing this sort of thing for a couple of years was unimpressed. In addition to the ever popular toilet (yes, it's regularly flushed. Not by those two, mind, that would just be amazing) as her water source of choice, Patty Hearst can now lap up any puddling on plates, cups or general sink moisture. I suppose when one's tongue also doubles as toilet paper any concerns over water potability are forgotten. Please realize that there are not one, but two, bowls of fresh water that are refilled daily for Patty Heart and Missy. Virtually ignored, the bowls secondary purpose has become acting as water-filled paperweights. This they do surprisingly well.
6. Thanks to Turner Classic Movies, I reacquainted myself with a couple of old Disney faves last night, The Apple Dumpling Gang and The Apple Dumpling Gang Rides Again. Yes, they're stupid with plots that are mere hangers for the zany hi jinks of Don Knotts and Tim Conway and most of the jokes are more telegraphed than Macon. So what? They're fun and I loved them as a kid. Still do. I fully admit to being a film snob, cinephile or whatever pretentious term we're calling ourselves this days. However, it is with no embarrassment or irony that I admit I lurv all those '60s/70s' Disney flicks just as much as I do the 'films' of Buñuel, Godard or Roeg. Dare I say it, the existential crisis played out in Freaky Friday (either version) is far more entertaining and human than in some ponderous snooze fest like Bergman's The Seventh Seal, regardless of what any best-of list says.

With all the excitement the weekend held, it's a wonder I managed to make it to work this morning. Thankfully, I have steered clear of the ditches for now.

A moment in which to refill pens

P.S. I don't know why there are no paragraph breaks after the pix.

I, like most sensible modern peeps, lurv the internet. A little over a decade into its dominance, I already can't imagine a world without it. Yet I made it through the first couple of decades of my life not even wanting. Giving you, dear reader, some credit I will presume you are aware of just how vast, deep and wide the nebula of worthless/not-so-worthless information is within our beloved interwebs.

Therein, I can find more information than anyone in his/her right mind would ever want/need on what the members of Faust were up to in between 1975 and 1990. I can find legitimate discussions on the oeuvre of Jerry Lewis. Hell, I can even find stills from his abandoned, king of what-were-they-thinking movies, The Day the Clown Cried* with little trouble.

Alas, I cannot find what I really want at this precise moment: a certain picture of Scott Christian. Or at least I think that's his name, the microphone-haired reporter from The Simpsons early seasons. Perhaps it says too much about me that yesterday when I kept seeing the bozo soon to be ex-governor of Illinois all over, the Simpsons character was all I could think of. So apologies, this is not the picture I'm looking for and I realize the hair color is different, but you get the drift. Perhaps it's just me.

Forget all that hand wringing jibber-jabber about morals, ethics, politics. This scandal is about one thing: hair. Clearly, a man who's got the courage to walk into the barber, (or more accurately, out of) and order the Sam Malone is a man devoid of fear. See also, Hal Mumme. Yes, I know Tim Matheson will probably play him in the probably no-doubt-already-in-the- works-made-for-tv flick. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the former Eric 'Otter' Stratton isn't somehow related to all this hullabaloo becoming public. Fletch was a long time ago you know.

Apologies for making this entry one endless pop culture reference. Turn it into a game and see if you can figure them all out.

But first...

*The Day the Clown Cried is the holy grail of bad moviedom. Few, if any, outside of Jerry Lewis' inner circle have ever seen any of it and the man himself has all but disavowed any knowledge of it. Ask any obscuro, trash, exploito movie fan what movie they want to see more than any other and I guarantee you, this flick will be their immediate answer.

In it, our favorite Dean Martin sidekick, plays a Jewish clown in a concentration camp (you may already see where this one is going and why it shouldn't). Apparently, although that whole Final Solution plan was seemingly airtight, those absent-minded Nazis forgot about the bitch that is self-preservation, i.e. folks might not be too keen to just march into those waiting gas chambers on their own.

And you try shooting 6,000,000 people. One would presume any such attempt to be quite tedious. What's the point of world domination if you're too busy killing everybody one by one to enjoy it?

Enter the former Julius Kelp, Jerry Lewis. Self-preservation being no less important to him, the Nazis convince ol' Jer to befriend the kids of the camp and gain their trust or face his own extermination. Once the kids trust him, so goes the logic of the SS, they'll follow him anywhere. Even into those zany gas chambers, like some Auschwitz pied piper.

Presumably, there's some hi jinks mixed in with the inevitable soul searching. Perhaps Jerry does a cracking Hitler impression to the delight of camp kids and stormtroopers alike. Regardless, the movie ends with this new found pied piper burying what's left of his humanity and leading the kids into the gas chamber. Wah, wah, waaaaaaaaaa.

Somehow in the early '70s, (and I don't mean this as flip/sarcastic/anti-Semitic as it sounds) in a industry largely run by Jews, some having direct connections to the holocaust(!), this movie was proposed, scripted, green-lit, budgeted, cast and filmed. Apparently, Lewis thought this to be his meisterwerk, the film that would catapult him into the auteur stratosphere with the European greats like Truffaut, Fellini, Bergman, etc.

Honest.

Only after it was completed did he decide that this was, perhaps, THE WORST IDEA FOR A MOVIE EVER MADE. And yes, Chris, I'm including Robot Jox.

Various rumors have persisted since then regarding the film's survival, ranging from all prints being destroyed to a sole print being locked away in a vault in Jerry Lewis house, the combination to which he vows will die with him.

One more worthless pop culture factoid re: the above, Harry Shearer (genius humorist/satirist)is one of the few who has seen the finished movie. His comment: the movie was even worse than you would think it could possibly be.

He knew better

Though it was a day that will live in infamy, I heard nary a word about Pearl Harbor yesterday; I guess like most of our history, Pearl Harbor is far enough removed from the present that only every 5th anniversary is considered noteworthy. This is understandable. There is little need to remember, say, the 78th anniversary of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. Watch out for that 80th, though; bathtub gin for everyone. With any luck will be in a depression by then as well. Whee.

Some events however should transcend these unwritten observance rules. Like, say, Pearl Harbor. Perhaps that's just me. Certainly, it's worth more than a mention every five years and some Michael Bay explod-o-rama craptacular with Ben Affleck. Affleck?!?! It's pretty bad when a flick with a sci-fi-ish bend (The Final Countdown) is a better history lesson about the event than the titular movie. Hollywood can't even make quality jingoistic flicks anymore.

Speaking of movies, that's exactly where my grandfather was on December 7, 1941. He was already in the army at that time and his company had taken in the matinee in Columbus, Georgia (I forget the movie) when the military police rushed in, announced what had happened, that all R & R had been cancelled and that all were to report by to base immediately. Buses were parked outside ready to take them back to Ft. Benning. No refunds or rain checks were offered.

I can't be sure, but I suspect the Germans and certainly not the Japanese were much on my grandfather's mind that Sunday when the lights in the theater dimmed. By the time he left his seat, though, he was an active-duty soldier during wartime, unsure if he would ever see his home again.

Life can change quite drastically rather quickly.

Usually when one least expects it.

About this burning of our yearning

Being as the town had its big Christmas deal last night, I suppose it is officially the Christmas season in my little corner of the world. Although if one had asked about Christmas' official status last night about 6:30, townsfolk would have suggested that everyone's favorite holiday (except the Jews, I suppose) was cancelled. At that precise moment, statewide, perhaps even countrywide, there was one blob of green on the entire radar. Guess where it was? Fortunately, it didn't dampen things too much nor was it the biggest hurdle of the night to leap.

That honor went to Father Christmas himself, whose sleigh was slightly tardy in its arrival from the North Pole. By sleigh, I mean truck. And by North Pole, I mean the other side of town. Not exactly sure what part of "Santa will arrive at 6 p.m. by carriage" our particular Claus misunderstood. That a gaggle of excited kiddies with a median age of 6 had no trouble understanding said message is somewhat unfortunate on a couple of different levels. Nevertheless, after a brief tale to the kids that Santa's reindeer had run afoul of some poachers and a non-committal on Santa's eventual arrival, all was all right. Since all that Christmas-myth destroying had made me slightly hungry, Marisol and I headed for dinner.

As one does.

Upon our return to the festivities we found a queue heading out the door of Santa's crib. The furnishings of which, I regret to add, were a bit paltry this year with only a chair in front of a non-working fireplace upon which was placed a tattered copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas and some other holiday-themed volume. The bright side being there was little point for impatient, disgruntled kids and their enraged parents to trash the joint; the decorators had beat them to it.

Somewhere in the midst of all the commotion, Mr. Claus apparently arrived. The cries of disappointed kids were replaced by the tears of Marisol. Tears of rage, that is; she takes her reporterette duties very seriously. Again, with no real property to damage, her rage was largely impotent. So much for documenting the grand arrival, but she did manage to snap a few photos for the local paper of kids begging at the St. Nicholas teat.

So to speak.

Bored with all the hoopla, I assumed my position behind the counter at the bake shop for the rest of the evening. My main duty therein being sure no one absconded with any rice krispies or brownies without doling out the cash. I thought of myself as a glorified bouncer, or cooler as we Roadhouse fans call them. In reality, I was just an assistant cashier who's primary duty was to 'reassure' the good folks that everything was indeed homemade. Clearly, all those years of schooling have paid off.

Aside from Santa and the rain, the big event of the night was the cash giveaway. Our original plan was to give away $1000, but when ticket sales didn't turn out quite as good as we'd hope (I sold two, thank you very much), the grand prize was reduced to $330 for some unknown reason. I considered adding $7.43 just so we'd have an even odder amount to give away, but decided against it.

Never did exactly understand all the rules of this particular game; apparently, they involved drawing numbers and removing them from a board. The difficulty of which I can only presume is immense. Sort of like a lottery for people who never play the lottery, I suppose. A v. big event, basically, with the lucky few getting more and more excited as fewer and fewer number remained. Unfortunately, since the 40 or tickets were scattered amongst 10 or so people there was little drama. In fact, I didn't even realize it all took place until, uh, it all took place. Oops.

Luckily the ensuing riot tipped me off to everything. If it's one thing we townsfolk hate more than Christmas giveaways, it's rigged Christmas giveaways. Out of all those tickets and all those people, the lucky winner was none other than the EPJ herself.* She purchased 4 tickets, 3 of which were winners.

Chairs were thrown. Molotov cocktails were mixed. Chaos ruled. Santa wondered why couldn't we all just get along and was promptly decked by the head of the Masonic Lodge. Blood mixed in with the rain flowing down the street, decorating the streets with a different, yet still festive, shade of red. It was utterly macabre.

Oh yeah, the other 'winner' got $20 which, considering the other results, probably seemed like awfully cheap hush money. But you know, $20 is $20.

In short, it was the best Christmas festival, pageant, celebration, bazaar, hootenanny, what have you ever. We're thinking of doing it again.

*We really did give away $330 and 3 of the EPJ's 4 tickets were winners. The EPJ took this to mean she's now got luck on her side and began planning a trip to Vegas. Downer that I am, I suggested that rather than having good fortune on her side, her luck, to put it bluntly, sucks. 3 out of 4 winning tickets? $330? Pencils out, matheletes; what are the odds? Though it indeed may have come in, her ship resembles the QEII not so much as a trash barge off the coast of Long Island drifting aimlessly. Selah.

Nary a word about Burl Ives

With election day and Thanksgiving finally behind me, hopefully things will slow down a bit. Thankfully, there's only the minor events of Christmas, the marathon and all the attendant build up to both left. I can feel the boredom already. The main thing, however, is that elections are over and done with for at least a year. This should give just enough time for everyone to forget how much they actually hate an election year. If not, just ask me and I'll gladly remind. And I'm on the election payroll.

Whether because of the above or other factors, I've yet to start anything resembling Christmas shopping. This fact is probably not as big a deal to me as it is to any potential receivers. I did manage to get Christmas decorations up this weekend because otherwise the Grinch would win. Plus, as grand poobah of the local organization putting on the town Christmas hootenanny tomorrow night, I guess I need to show some solidarity with the season. Here goes: Yay, Christmas.

There.

In Baby Hansel news, I attempted to get a feel for potential names with Millicent at Thanksgiving dinner. She made it clear there would be no discussion with me on said matters. Being as I only want to help, I can't imagine what she's afraid of or why. The world has enough Bob and John, right? Apparently, she feels I'm inclined to names which would single out said child as different. Perhaps, but if only more people knew of Zeigler or Renaldo or Absalom then they would not be quite as rare. Who could possibly resist the joys of parenting such a name? "Unhand that toy, Absalom. Insolence will not be tolerated."

I'm looking forward to Hansel's college graduation since that will probably be the first time I'm allowed to see him. Oh, Millicent. How I love to keed thee.