To All The Children I Never Sired

Today's one of those bittersweet moments for me, not quite sweet, not quite bitter. Certainly sweeter when I’m not thinking about it, and a lot more bitter when I’m not not thinking about it, which I am now.

It could just be something that goes with the holiday season. All the little rugrats that would’ve gotten their little gifts from me over the years are once again not looking at anything under the tree. My shopping list remains unchecked, for there aren't any to list. Little Bertha, Edna, Tommy, Daniel, Wally, Florence, and Red, they’ve never seen the light of day, let alone worried about their gifts. Damn! That hits me hard, especially Red and Edna, two names I’ve always had a thing for.

I probably should leave this article for some other time, some better time. But when would that time come? That’d be just like me, shunting aside the pain and refusing to address it. But aren’t the holidays a time when you should be happy and raise hell, party, and blow party horns? That’s what I should be doing instead, not lamenting my lack of horny output, ruing my paucity of progeny. So there’s no hell-raising this year, no partying, with my party horn already blown, the opportunities all gone.

That’s something to think about. Are my opportunities really gone? This isn’t like women, you know, whose biological clock’s batttery’s shot by the time they’re 40. I’m a full fledged male person, and I’ve at least heard we’re capable of shootin’ the moon well into our 70s. But when it happens at 65-70 it’s a sad accident. Old man has sex, then a stroke, in that order, but with the last ounce of his life-force manages to squeeze out little Rodney. Who grows up always questioning ‘why Papa doesn’t live with us,’ then learns the bitter truth and ends up in a home for perplexed kids, eventually featured in TV ads for that home, begging for just 63 cents a day so other kids won’t lack a dad. What would they do with the money raised but fix old guys like me?

I’m glad I used the name Rodney. Since I hate that name and would never name a kid Rodney. That gives me some comfort, some shelter from this feeling of dread, the dread of lost opportunities. I hope it gives me not just that one step, but 10 steps toward leaving this terrible funk! Maybe I could think of what people who have kids go through. Childhood illnesses, injuries, mistakes, crimes, desires, various resentments, the whole slate of life’s misfortunes.

I was downtown the other day and saw some random beady-eyed shrimpy kid tramp looking at me, like “I’m gonna steal your wallet, mister.” Maybe it was my imagination, but I got the hell out of there, and reported him as a malevolent street urchin. He should be in jail now, and it’s a pity if he isn’t. He’s definitely some stupid dad’s kid! At least I haven’t given life to such a creature! I’m a good person...

That’s a good way to get rid of the pain, Eureka! Balance it out, the pain of nothing, no wild honyocks to worry about, and by none I mean nil ... against the pain of actual flesh and blood duplicates, who’d likely as not have deep-seated resentments of their own, and be just the kind of willful little morons who'd take it out on me mentally and physically for giving them life, and I would’ve been done in by now. The way kids are, I'd be a goner. Why would they allow me to live to a ripe old age? I’d be dead. A corpse rotting away...

Happy holidays, everyone!

Have A Mercy Mild Christmas To All

Hope you're having the best-ever Christmas season, etc., etc., that your Yule is bright, and all your wishes come true, and Santa doesn't have any trouble reading his list in a snow-laden sleigh that very well could ruin his computer system.

It's a great one for me so far, except I'm getting sick and tired of the Salvation Army bells everywhere I go. That coming from a guy who actually rang the bell one Christmas, now fairly far back, in the 2000s some time. I look at the current crop of Salvation Army ringers and wonder if they feel as uncomfortable as I did doing it, but none of them betrays the slightest reticence about it. And I'm one of the world's best readers of body language; if anyone feels remotely uncomfortable, my consciousness swoops in like a hawk and picks up on it. I saw a bell-ringer, I believe it was yesterday, who was even singing "White Christmas." It gave me the chills to think she'd put herself out like that, as though the bell itself isn't annoying enough. But of course it does a lot of good, presumably, that's what they say, but who can really tell? There's probably an annual report at the website.

The family has basically given up Christmas as a thing. Mom and Dad are of course passed on, which definitely saves money on gift-giving. I always had a hard time trying to think of something to give them every year. Then they died and that challenge was gone. Yes, I miss them something awful. There was a picture of them on the table today, how it got there I don't know. (I've been cleaning out boxes and it might've fluttered to the floor, then I picked it up -- let's say -- and didn't realize what it was.) Anyway, they're in their later teens. Dad's got glasses on, which he didn't usually wear. Mom's in a fancy dress, like maybe they were on their way to get married. I stared at it. Dad's staring at the camera, so I'm looking right into his eyes. Mom's looking to the side. I wouldn't know what to get them if they were alive. Maybe a tin of Topsy's popcorn.

I could go to church for Christmas. But don't think I will. It's almost better to celebrate the Blessed Story on your own and in your own way. When I read it and meditate by myself it doesn't sound as trite, not as much of a rerun. And really I am into it. I've got a whole system going of getting to the nub of everything in a holistic way. I'll keep the details to myself. The more I publicly explain it the worse it sounds. In which case I may as well go to church. (I love church, usually, but sometimes I don't as much.) I wouldn't mind going to a Catholic thing. Even though I'm not Catholic. The only reason I don't go to the Catholic church is because I'm not Catholic. Otherwise, I think it's cool, exciting, and profound. But probably one look at the priest thinking "This guy ain't Catholic" would do me in, and that'd be it. Last thing I'm ever going to do is take any kind of initiation. Am I right? Screw it. And I don't especially want to go to my own church. I've been through all the possibilities there, and for personal reasons I've been a lot on edge there. Yes, I know the objections to that kind of attitude.

About the picture above, that's my hand. I can't remember what I was doing, but it involved the camera on my phone. I somehow accidentally snapped a picture of my hand when I was taking a blue wastebasket out. I looked at it and thought it was inscrutable enough, it ought to be a Christmas-greeting picture. Something Hallmark would pay big bucks for, if I were money-grubbing enough to sell it. Let 'em take their own pictures, and leave me the heck alone.

OK, friends -- far and wide -- people who read this blog, people who used to read it but got sick of it and moved on -- Merry Christmas. Happy New Year. Other holidays that may exist, I respect your various greetings, too. And would say them to you if I knew them. Seems like there's something called Kwanzaa, which is something. Happy that. And Hanukkah, that means something very great. Happy that. If you're a native of somewhere and you have a tribal greeting, Merry that, Happy the other thing. Happy Holidays to those who are politically invested in exploiting the holiday bullshit ... I have no respect for that at all. Live and let live, leave well enough alone, eh? Happy Solstice, which was a few days ago, maybe ... I didn't hear a word about it this year. Hasn't the moon been dark lately? I don't usually look at the sky, but made the mistake of looking at it recently when there wasn't much to see. Merry Meet to all my Merry Meet friends. I recently bought a Porta-Potti, so Happy Holidays to other Thetford toilet owners. All the best to Catholics, those who go and love it and those like me who would love to go but hate to give priests the heeby-jeebies (See above).

I hate to bring this post to an end. But what else can I say to keep you dangling on the line? Most of you dropped off already. I'm happy, though. You be happy! OK? I'd love to be like Santa Claus, and come down your chimney and give you a big happy hug, or talk you into happiness, peace and harmony. But obviously that's not going to happen. Me out!

The Great Piss Storm of '013

I'm wistful today. You see, it's the time for the Holiday Extravaganza, a wonderful event that's timed every year to coincide with winter and Christmas. Which was fun to go to until they changed some of their policies.

Someone asked me to go several years ago. And they were right, the various handiwork holiday crafts were nauseating to see, but, as it turned out, were especially a delight to piss on.

This is true. It's one of the few Craft Sale/Holiday Extravaganza-type events I'd ever seen that had a lenient policy on pissing on the merchandise and exhibits. Which was especially welcome to me, because when I see a lot of that stuff, Santa Clauses with the rounded heart bored in his chest area, denoting the heart of Santa offered up to the world, etc., I experience one of two reactions: 1) A spinning feeling that makes me feel faint; and, 2) The need to piss on it, thereby expressing my revulsion.

But enough about me. Except to add, I went to the first Extravaganza I heard about, and was unprepared for what I would see. Which is to say I'd relieved myself sufficiently at home, then when it came time to express my feelings I could only muster a few minor tinkles, something like an eighth of a cup were it measured. Hardly worth my time.

The second Extravaganza was in '012 (Ought 12). Again I didn't make a production of it, just enough of an output to say I had one. Because, frankly, these days no one cares, really. You tell someone what you did and they always answer with something they did. Leaving my story to wither on the vine and get no kudos. I hate that about life these days. It's almost enough to make me strain real hard, like right now, till my face turns red, and, oops, there went about an eighth of a cup...

The third Extravaganza was in Ought 13. This time I didn't care what anyone thought. So I crammed for it. I knew -- by now I knew what they'd have -- I'd see lots of those Santas with the rounded heart, PLUS -- and this was really what got me going -- some touching sculptures of Santa kneeling at Jesus' manger. I had drunk probably three pots of black coffee. The level in me was something like this, starting at my groin and going to my nostrils. I was noticeably yellow with jaundice, the liquid I was packing.

Long story briefly told, I got to the Extravaganza and was amused to see a few of the better pissers taking little demur tinkles on the merchandise. Just enough, really, to season them, but not enough to put you in the books. But it's a big place, with plenty to piss you off. Like the little old ladies -- who were cool hippie chicks in the '60s -- fidgeting with their tablecloths, etc., and rearranging the merchandise for the best psychological presentation. I saw that -- and these are all things that push my buttons -- and went into a whirl.

When you go into a whirl, it's a brain function, I'm guessing. But it starts in the gut. You get a queasy feeling, kind of like what a volcano feels. You know you've got to do something; this thing is inexorable. Similar to having to sneeze when the sun's out. I took in the whole panorama of the place. The little old ladies, the holiday sprays, the "old-fashioned" children's horses, trees trimmed with ornaments, and especially those Santas with hearts bored in them -- tiny hearts, medium ones, and big hearts... Oh god!

What a terrific memory this is for me -- although for the others, I'm sure they regretted the normal liberal pissing policy. I went into a spin -- I was stirred in the depths -- and essentially lost my consciousness, having trained it nearly completely on the task at hand, destroying their Holiday Extravaganza with such a prodigious gushing output. It rivaled a small town's water tower rusting through, if it's not too immodest to say so.

I crossed my eyes and could see the yellow in my own eyes, the level sloshing back and forth as I walked. Walked? I strode, unzipping in a most determined, focused way. It'd ruin my pants if I didn't get it out. This son of a bitch -- if I'm permitted one vulgarity -- couldn't be stifled, couldn't be stymied. It was like a train coming through town; you might make an ordinance against it in the future, but it's vain to try to stop it in the present moment.

I literally saw the heavens opened, but I cried out, "Not now, Lord, I've gotta go!" And ... I did. Everyone dove for cover and I did what had to be done. Spraying, dousing, flooding that arena with so much piss -- they've literally got a marker on the walls 10 inches from the floor denoting the level. I know it was such a mess I got some on me and had to wash my jeans after all.

This was no small deal. The merchandise -- the good, bad, and in-between -- was all ruined. Leading to the rules change in Ought 14 banning pissing on the merchandise all together. Which I heard about from others, since the bastards banned me.

Ah well, and today's the day. I saw it mentioned in the paper just as I was finishing my third cup of coffee, and thought, "If only..." But it could never happen. Not again. Because I'm a good guy and respect the rules. Live and let live. I'll just pee later in a more appropriate place.

Beware the Ides of March

It's the Day of Days, folks, the Ides of March! I may sound happy about it, but really I'm not. Because if I learned anything in school, and I'm not saying I did, it was to be careful on March 15. Because if anyone's going to knife you, stab you in the back, it's gonna be today.

So I got up, kept my eye on the dog, watched out for neighbors when I had her out, and was even wary in church. The church has numerous hallways and hiding places. And a few of the folks aren't crazy about my completely dismissive attitude toward theology. A quick knife to the back would make short work of me, and even be divine justice of a sort.

Fortunately, though, I survived today -- I knew I'd survive through the offering at least -- and lived to tell about it. Not that there's that much to tell. Had I actually been stabbed, but not fatally, that would've been a hell of a story. Guess what, I was stabbed in church, right after the offering. This after an earlier argument on how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. This one guy comes at me, yelling, "Dance on this, heretic!" This isn't really beyond the realm of the possible, since the subject of angels and dancing on pins in fact came up within the last month.

But no, it didn't happen today, thankfully. Although back in literary times, of course it was common. Like in the days of Julius Caesar, when the other guy stabbed him, and Caesar said something in Latin, "Et tu, Brute?" In literary times they were always talking the Latin, you know, like when the guy shot Lincoln, "Sic semper tyrannus," literally translated, "I'm sick with distemper, like a dinosaur!"

Ever since that first tragic Ides of March we've been whooping it up when it comes along. Reminding me of the old story of "The Husband and the Wife":

One year the husband comes in and wishes his wife "Happy Ides of March," and immediately stabs her in the back. She falls to the ground. The next year it's the same thing, she immediately goes down. The third year rolls around and there he is again, "Happy Ides of March," she's stabbed and goes down. But the fourth year comes and she's smart enough to leave home and come back the next day. The husband shows up, says, "Happy belated Ides of March," stabs her, and she dies.

I hope that doesn't happen to you. And if it does, I hope you're smart enough to leave the guy after the first year. Call the police and send him to prison. You don't need a guy like that ruining your life. I should know, for I am the husband in the story. Maniacal laughter here ... and fade to black.

December's Real Day: Christmas

Yesterday was December 2. Tomorrow is December 4. And so on. Whoop de doo! Big deal...

The truth is, and everyone knows it, the only real day in December is Christmas Day, December 25. Everything leads up to it. And everything after it is a letdown. Nothing is redeemed until January 1.

We see the big number -- 25 -- and it tells the whole story of December. We always think, "How many days till Christmas? Get us there!" We might ask how many more meaningless days till the suffering's over and Christmas finally gets here. At the beginning of the month it's quite a few, over three weeks, three boring weeks, three weeks of days that may as well not even exist, except for one reason, no one's figured out what to do with them.

A guy hates to say three weeks of his life is simply worthless. Because those days, arguably, could be real life, life and potential that you shouldn't wish to hibernate through just to get to Christmas. That doesn't seem like how we should live. My instinct is to say that every day of my life should be meaningful, worthwhile, and lived to its fullness. But when you have a huge day like Christmas looming there, like a black hole, it sucks in everything around it, even three weeks out. We go inexorably toward it, then afterward we start breaking free of its gravity, and we wonder what happened.

It's amazing then that we have to crawl to December 31 just to get started again with normal life. Even as it itself is something of a semi-holiday, existing as it does right on the cusp of January 1. December 31 and January 1 are like parts one and two of the same thing. Like Christmas Eve -- to a lesser extent, because of the magnitude of Christmas -- and Christmas Day are sort of parts one and two. I like Christmas Eve for this reason, because Christmas isn't over; it's just beginning. But I have something of a problem with Christmas, because it gets here then slips through our hands ... just like that.

We hear how people are very depressed on Christmas. I know how that goes. It's because we tend to shrink in size (mentally, psychologically) the more magnificent our surroundings, in this case the day itself. Then, for all its magnitude -- and this in part is in the nature of the shrinking -- it's still slipping away like any other day. We're anxious! Have we done with the day what needs to be done? Have we done it properly? Are we anything like the Christmastime observers of old that we know from songs, cards, artwork, and memory? So many of us feel like total failures.

Now, of course none of us asked for this. We may not want it to be this way, but there it is. There's nothing we can do about it. The years, the decades, and centuries have set Christmas in place, the dominant day of the month, the black hole at the heart of it, and now the entire holiday complex it's become orders our lives as the month arrives and proceeds. Everything aims toward it, and the residue is full of Christmas leftovers and aftertaste.

This year, speaking for myself, I'm going to try my best ... not to fight back, that's not the word ... but to try to redeem those other days. I might go about it like this. "Christmas Spirits, past, present, and future ... I know you're listening and watching, and want me to maintain my allegiance to your day. I promise I will! But until then, please let me give these other days of the month some small attention. Perhaps, with your leave, I shall read for an hour, then burrow down again in hibernation. Would that be so much? You'd surely agree that's honoring time as well as honoring Christmas. Because I'm letting Christmas approach in its own time, not rushing it, not delaying it. Hoping for your approval,  your humble servant, etc., etc. Amen."

I hope that works out, because for once in my life I want a December that I can remember having lived, apart from Christmas Day. Which is a great day -- Spirits, don't get me wrong! It's just that I'm getting so old and want the other days of my life to be good, too, each one.

Veterans Day -- Sarge Enjoys Free Meals

If you run a restaurant, and a veteran shows up for his free steak, but is unfortunately missing his manhood, and you're somehow able to realize this, either by sight or his higher voice, you might wonder, Could this be the guy? Let me tell you about him, because his discharge papers are perhaps not up to snuff. He's a guy Sarge had to deal with...

It just so happens that I have a friend in the neighborhood, called Sarge (Walter), who's now a handyman, but in prior years was a sergeant in Vietnam. He was just recently over at my place; I think it was last Wednesday -- could've been Thursday -- no, it was Wednesday. Several years ago he made me one of those boards that has a row of jars nailed to it in which you store screws and nails. Well, I'll be damned, but some moisture got in there and rusted the lids shut! So there I was, actually breaking one of the jars for a quick screw.

Sarge came over to make it right, since it was still under warranty. In talking, we got on the subject of free food for veterans on Veterans Day, and I know he's definitely all set. By now, at this writing, he's surely had free breakfast at one of the grocery stores. And in a little bit he'll have lunch at one of the diners, since they've also jumped on the bandwagon. Then tonight, my warrior friend will sit down for a much finer meal at the steak house. The steak house is a very patriotic bunch and they've really led the way in free meals, with the only downside being a long line. Some of our older vets have been known to pass out waiting; one year one cut his head, but insisted on his steak before getting treatment. That's the way they're trained: Mission first, personal safety last.

Anyway, Sarge was over, and I thought, "No, I'm not gonna get him reminiscing about Vietnam. Let old wounds die." But as luck would have it, we got to talking about the tables at the steak house, quite innocently, how they're always loaded down on Veterans Day, literally to the point that they'd collapse if they weren't so sturdy. This led to him telling me about another table, the desk he had in Vietnam, under which he had duct-taped a gun, pointed outward at whoever sat across from him. I can't imagine, but that's the way they did things! Because Sarge is wise.

Day and weeks passed, when, lo and behold, who comes in but this one totally crazed son of a bitch, a guy no one could figure out, just loony bins, total bananas, hopped up on who knows what, caffeine, stronger drugs, illegal drugs, killer drugs... He also had what could only be called a general spirit of cussedness. This guy had no reverence for authority, being whack, either half out of his son-of-a-bitch mind or completely. I can barely stand to hear it, let alone put myself in Sarge's shoes, when that crazy idiot came in there loaded for bear, and every authority figure he saw -- whether he knew it or not -- was bear.

The way Sarge tells it, he immediately recognized the guy for the total bad news he was, and tried his best in the precious few seconds he had to bring him to heel. But then there's that flash in your brain, that trigger that once triggered tells you you have about three seconds to live, unless... unless you're prepared to defend yourself. I looked in Sarge's eyes as he recalled the incident and I could see fire where the whites should've been. In that split second Sarge knew it was him or the other guy... And just as that bastard was coming up, as if to strangle the life out of him, in a split second, Sarge reached down and pulled the trigger, and essentially blew the guy away, from the crotch down. He still had legs, that's not what I'm saying, but ... he was subdued. They carried him out and that was it. Sarge was cleared, and now here he is, my hero. And handyman.

With Veterans Day looming, as he was leaving, I did as instinct compelled: I snapped my feet, made my posture erect, and gave him a more or less convincing salute. Gotta love 'em, veterans!

Take the Thanksgiving Pledge: I Shall Shop!

I'm up in arms this year, as I understand there are various ones agitating for businesses to be closed on Thanksgiving. Of course this is just more of the same, the undercutting that we've unfortunately come to expect of our valued American traditions. Apparently their philosophy goes something along these lines, Anything old and established needs to give way to something new, something modern. And so it is, they want something different simply for the sake of being different.

Like I said, I'm up in arms about it and I'm not going to take it lying down. I'm fighting back. By making a pledge, along with a warning to businesses, that I will be shopping on Thanksgiving, as always. With the warning that if any store is not open on Thanksgiving, I will never return there. And that's a biggie, because I'm totally hooked on shopping, and it might be tough for me to keep that particular codicil. Still, surely there will be thousands joining me whose discipline in that regard might be stronger. Plus, just issuing the warning, stated as strongly as it is, will give businesses pause about daring to close on Thanksgiving.

I don't know exactly where all this trouble started, but if I had the resources it'd be interesting to trace it and find out precisely who is to blame. It could be the employees of the big stores and shopping centers who are merely lazy and looking for a way to take the day off. Laziness is epidemic, as we all know. I know some kids, for example, who don't have a single muscle on their skinny little bodies. All they do is vegetate on couches, sometimes mustering up the strength to play video games for a few minutes before collapsing. You figure they have parents, and that some of those parents work at these stores. They're jealous of their kid's lethargy and dissipation, so they want a day off.

What I actually think, those I believe are probably responsible, are all the bleeding hearts on Facebook. You see their posts all the time. They're sentimental about every puppy, every kitten, every dying horse, every selfie their idiot kid comes up with, every Bible verse, every "witty" saying, along with cartoons of little old ladies saying ironic things that undercut their dignity, etc. Of course they've gone soft. Then there's grandchildren, and we all do love our families. But instead of taking the day off, that's a huge reason why I'm calling us back to our senses. Don't do away with Thanksgiving shopping! Your kids are depending on you!

I used to listen to my grandparents as they reminisced about the old days. Which would've been the 1920s and '30s. They got married in 1920. It's kind of funny, but the little old town Grandpa came from had only one general store. If they didn't have it at the general store they didn't need it! Anyway, that little store was run by some funny little man who spent a whole hour just lighting the stove. The rest of the time he was waiting on customers. As long as there was a dime to be made, he was there. And it's a good thing he stayed open on Thanksgiving, because that was the big shopping day back then. It took them a week to get there, and he'd better be open! And kids had muscles, too, not like today...

I venture to guess that today's kids have never heard a story like that. Everything today's so confused they don't know what to believe. So someone like me, who does know the traditions, and does value our past, has to spell it out, as I'm doing here. Whether they read my blog -- or even know how to read -- these are things I don't know. It could be I'm merely pissing into the wind with my words, but piss I will! As long as I have breath...

I hope everyone has Happy Holidays this year, and that you get your holiday shopping done, as it should be done, right away, bright and early Thanksgiving Day. Let me wish you all the best for a splendid and blessed Thanksgiving, as you accomplish your shopping, then gather to do ... whatever ... fatten up the little skeletons on your couch playing games ... introduce them to a turkey leg, and bring them back from vegetarianism and let them eat like healthy people. Meat, potatoes, and meat.

Happy Thanksgiving shopping!

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Lest any of this seems obscure, like you're reading this in the year 2034, when common sense has returned to mankind, the above graphic comments on the following graphic that's made its viral way around Facebook:

30 Days Hath Chicken Cacciatore

I almost forgot I have a past! I've been riding the wave of the present moment -- recently doing some rereading of Eckhart Tolle -- and for the most part I succeeded in putting my illusory past behind me. I've never done very much of evil, you should know, so that's not why I forgot, but like everyone, Adam and Eve, whoever, there's things I'm not proud of. But that said, there's also things I'm very proud of. Pride is good.

One of the biggies -- I used to think of it more often than now -- is the past of this blog. It's changed over the years, as I've aged, matured slightly, and all the rest. But all of a sudden, on some kind of lark, I decided to look back, and was reminded of a certain vibe that, with maturity, has been missing lately. A kind of "devil may care" attitude and acting on my impulses.

Two things became very apparent in this backwards glance, if I had to summarize it, to narrow it down to just two, as representative of those earlier days and years. That I basically love two things in life: The last day of September and chicken cacciatore. So there you have it! It's stark, I know. Seeing it in print like that -- I'm looking at it right now -- it's very abrupt, stark, and to the point!

It's not family, faith, my country, even the earth itself. It's not loyalty to abstract ideals, any kind of pride, spirituality, or any kind of adherence to values. Of course it's not sports, although, to be honest, I've wasted a lot more time in recent years watching sports. Heh, this is the first year in my life I've paid attention to the baseball standings! What a waste! Way back when (this goes way back), when the other boys were deeply devoted to baseball, and really sports of every kind, I was off in my own little world. Which, now, as I distill it down, having reviewed my blog archives, as well as my past as a boy, revolved (and presently revolves) around those two great things, the last day of September and chicken cacciatore.

The last day of September, for some odd reason, has always been a little different. With this difference, that I don't think about it a lot till it gets here. Whereas, with Thanksgiving and Christmas and even my birthday, I know they're coming weeks and months in advance. My birthday's a biggie, Christmas is a biggie -- especially back before most of my family died, and Thanksgiving's a little smaller, but still good sized. I still love seeing turkeys bound tightly, totally trussed.

Thanksgiving and Christmas always get big press, of course, apart from my interest in them. But the last day of September -- 30 Days Hath September, the way I learned about the calendar and time itself! -- isn't wildly celebrated. Except by me. I used to love it, and I still love it. So Happy 30 Days Hath September Day, everyone!

Then there's chicken cacciatore, the hunter style Italian dish that is so good. Look it up, it's fascinating: Cacciatore means hunter in Italian! Somehow they had the foresight to make that happen. Chicken cacciatore is good stuff, delicious to the very last bite.

Don't Call My Flag an "It"

Today is Flag Day. It's time to get the flag out and run her up the flagpole. Notice I said "her," not "it." That's something I insist on, and I correct absolutely everyone I hear say it wrong.

This is my biggest complaint, calling my American flag "it," because it's disrespectful. My flag is "she," or she goes by her proper name, "Old Glory." In saying that, she is called old out of respect, as she who precedes all other things through the ages, while at the same time being ever young. Her age isn't an age as other beings know age. Even Mount Rushmore is old, but not the flag.

I realize we all know this at some level, but not everyone keeps it in mind. And so you constantly hear the ignorant, out of ignorance, saying foolish things when Flag Day's over, like, "I need to put it away." Doesn't that set your teeth on edge? (Of course Flag Day isn't the only day to fly Old Glory, although that's her day of unique pride. Any day on which the elements are such as to provide for her proper respect is a great day to fly the colors.)

Flag etiquette is actually something I've been very good at from childhood. They told me the various rules -- not allowing her to touch the ground, etc. -- and I've remembered. So I'm continually annoyed at the ignorance of my fellow citizens -- oblivious, apparently, to all propriety beyond their own nose and selfish interests. Let's get it together, people...

If I could live somewhere absolutely by myself -- just me and a few flags -- at long last the carelessness of society would be a thing of the past, moot, and my flag could finally get her due. Until that happy day -- which realistically isn't actually going to happen -- I only have recourse to education for those who are capable of learning, and harsh criticism for those who can never get it. Naturally, I prefer education, bringing others into the fold, and seeing the benefits for my flag. But I'm not averse to lay into some idiot if he can't get it right. It'd be better if I had the authority to confiscate his flag, but our actual laws haven't yet caught up with what is best.

How happy I'd be if these matters could be resolved once and for all! Because as it is now the job is almost too much for one man, however dedicated I am. And it takes away in large measure my ability to enjoy Old Glory day to day if I have to continually be interrupted with educating idiots.

I hope this article will jog some memories in your head -- your addled wits are almost too much -- so you too will do what is right. My flag isn't an "it"! Got it? You're going to have to change. Because up next I'm clunking heads.

Memorial Day -- Death's Day to Shine

Happy Memorial Day! I always think about that "happy" and whether it's appropriate, but I've heard it enough, it must be right.

I'm not doing much for Memorial Day, as usual. They fought and died for my right to sit on my lazy buttootie, so I'll honor that. No trips to the cemetery -- I hate crowds. I'll miss the parade -- looks cloudy, hate to get wet. I'd put the flag out, if I had one. I'm just in a terrible way.

The parade, you've seen one truck of waving vets, you've seen 'em all.* Although it is quite cool how they have the trucks festooned with little flags. I can just see the folks doing that, taking hours sticking those flags on. I honestly can't remember how they even do it, tell the truth. Surely there aren't little flag holders everywhere on an Army truck. What would that be, some kind of retrofitting? Or are we spending so much extra time and money in military procurements to make sure our trucks have 800 flag holders?

That'd be worth looking into. That might be why a lot of guys died. They're trying to scurry off a truck that's been hit and they're caught on a flag holder. So many of them, it's like a mine field. Like all that barbed wire they had in World War I, between our trenches and theirs.

World War I. This is a big year for World War I, because it's been 100 years since it started. I was talking to a guy the other day, a geezer, really, except I've known him since high school. He reportedly spends a lot of time and money on war literature and other mementos. Civil War through whatever; probably has an empty room ready for the next war.

In our discussion, I quickly blew through my limited knowledge of the First World War. Which consists of everything I know of Eddie Rickenbacher, since I've been reading his book for the past six months and I'm still not done. It's interesting in places, a total boring bastard in others. I felt gratified that my old friend agreed with me on the WW I flying aces, that they wasted a huge amount of time after a hit, driving around the countryside looking for witnesses to sign for them, to vouch that it was indeed their hit. Isn't that dumb? Do you suppose every infantry man jumped out of the trenches and ran ahead to get verification that he shot a guy? Anyway, it was my theory -- and this guy, a self-taught expert agreed -- that it was only the novelty of an air corps in those early days that prompted such a stupid idea.

Grandpa was in WW I. I don't know what he did exactly. He never said a word about it. Don't remember him being in any parades. Exercising his right, too, I guess. I honestly don't remember him even going to many parades, for anything. Just sitting around the house here, going out on the half acre, moving the outhouse every couple years, and hunting and fishing. My uncles were all military guys, like in the heat of WW II, the three boys this side of the family. The other side of the family, I had a couple uncles in Vietnam.

Funny thing about that. You know how the government's always screwing the veterans in one way or another? One of my uncles who was in Vietnam, after the war, died, not war-related. Somehow the government didn't get his headstone right. They always put which war you were in, and they put "WORLD WAR II," which meant he would've been around 5 or 6 when he enlisted. They must have a big assembly line of headstones and a guy daydreaming and forgetting to change the matrix.

The way it worked out, my mom went through all the bureaucratic gyrations you have to go through, and for the length of time it takes the government to solve anything, including a relatively easy problem like this. It may or may not have involved a contact with a senator or congressman. In the end, though -- she would've made a great bull rider -- she stuck with it and they got the correct "VIETNAM" tombstone to her.

What happened to the old one? There was someone in the cemetery without a tombstone. So she took it to a stone-etcher, someone who does that for tombstones, and had a different one etched on the back, then flipped it over. So out there somewhere in "The Silent Centuries" cemetery  .... Someday, when archaeologists are excavating it, they'll go, "What the hell happened here? This tombstone has a flip side!

_________________

*My true feelings on a truckload of 90-year-old vets, is I'd love to hug and lip-kiss them and rub their head and celebrate them without end. But you can't do that. They'd look at you like a madman, which you'd be. Inside they'd be thinking, "I'm the same guy now as I was when I was 40 or 50, an average guy on the street -- or maybe even your mean boss -- and you didn't want to razz me. Why razz with me now that I'm old? You're looking down on me! You're demeaning my humanity, manhood, and sacrifice?" Which wouldn't be true, but you can't disagree with one of these beautiful old goats.

Go Away, Dad, It's Still May

It seems like every year it gets worse, the encroachment of one holiday on another, and opening up the shopping season way too soon. You hear people crying out about it, complaining, and even picketing stores -- Who can forget the great anti-Christmas sit-in of July '74? But they still do it, the moneygrubbing stores, worshiping the Almighty Buck! If they had their way we'd have the tree up in April and Easter in October.

Of course I see it personally every year. I've gotten used to the cycle, and, being as easy-going as I am, for the most part I just shut it out. I expect to see Valentine's merchandise the day after Christmas, and that's that. And the fact that 99% of retail workers have to work Thanksgiving to get ready for Black Friday, I'm OK with that, just as long as they keep their end of the bargain, the promise to keep Thanksgiving some time in the last six months of the year.

But give 'em an inch and they'll take ... Mother's Day!?

Am I seriously supposed to believe what my fool eyes and my other fool senses are trying to tell me?! There better be some mistake here! Even Mother's Day is up for grabs!? Excuse me, this is too much -- cough cough, let me catch my breath... Good Christ in Heaven, is nothing sacred anymore? I saw it the last couple years but didn't say anything, because I was hoping my mom wouldn't notice, and I wouldn't have to explain it to her. But now that she's passed on, I'm taking the gloves off. As for her, I'm glad she didn't hear. I can only picture her rolling in her grave, had we not opted for cremation.

But it's true! There's no mistaking it. It's still May, and has been for some time, close to a month, and I saw it right away, Father's Day gifts out and for sale so early. Of course I don't personally have a dog in this fight, since my dad's also passed away, traditional burial. But I don't think it's a very nice thing to give Mom (the memory of mine and everyone else's still-living Moms) the short shrift. Screwing her once again, this time out of her day-month of recognition.

No doubt there's some lousy dads out there -- deadbeats -- who are OK with this. You have to guess that some of the moneygrubbing guys in retail are dads. Either out to line their pockets, or, to put an even worse spin on it, to totally diss their wives and girlfriends by whom they've had children. Dads, does that show real care for your wife and the various mothers of your children, that you can't even make their day-month special? You have to take it for yourself? I remember when men were men...

The gifts on display are plentiful, too, no shortage. We're not talking about what they do for St. Patrick's Day, which is to have a 10 x 10 foot area of green hats and necklaces in the middle of January. Far from it! There's entire sections of the store, large areas, devoted to things Dad would like: Slacks, shirts, ties, sporting goods, fishing supplies, hardware... Go right on down the line. Anything and everything Dad might like, they've got it, nothing missing, no holding back. Just blatantly ... right there ... in your face, bold as life.

It takes away the specialness of Mother's Day and Father's Day. You know what I think a good dad would want, the all-American red, white, and blue dad? For the store to clear away all those things that appeal to men. Just get rid of them, put them in storage the last week of April. Then keep May, the whole month, centered exclusively on Mothers. And then all the workers work overtime the last day of May, starting around 10 p.m., bringing Dad's stuff back on the floor. So that Dad gets June, the way he's supposed to.

Happy Horny Bastard's Day

I was walking downtown today with my old friend, The Imaginary Stud, .... [pause for his links]

The Imaginary Stud
The Imaginary Stud -- Something So Precious
The Imaginary Stud -- Johnny Peopleseed
The Imaginary Stud -- Your Biological Clock
The Imaginary Stud -- What's In A Name?

... when we saw a young woman lugging a big laundry basket of baby clothes up the sidewalk. He ducked in a doorway till she was out of sight. Then he says to me, "I haven't seen her for nine or ten months. I didn't even know she was expecting!"

I thought, "You horny bastard! That's all you're good for, eyeing all the ladies, then coming on to them, offering them drinks and a friendly smile, then it's off to your place or, more likely, the cheap motel on the north side of town! Love 'em and leave 'em, yep, that's your one goal in life!"

And really, when you think about it, that mostly what fathers are, or what they start out as, horny bastards. Which I say in the nicest way possible. Because they can't help it. The good Lord put it in our mind, thanks to His great system of evolution and natural selection, involving sexual reproduction, to scatter our seed far and wide, and wherever it lands, there it stays!

Life is the same all over, this planet anyway and probably the others. If you want to populate the place you could have 40 women and one man. That's why during hunting season you can shoot buck deer and cock pheasants, but not does or hens. Because deer and pheasants only need a few males, but a bunch of females. The same thing goes for bulls and boars, which is probably why these animals are so potent and heavy in the sack, because their lot in life is to be very busy.

Along with eating and killing enemies, horniness is the man's biggest drive. He can be 14, which means he's underage, although of course that's a socially-determined thing, or 90 and in the nursing home, and he will think he's gotta find a woman. Before the other guy! Whom he just might kill! Which might be why we have homosexual men. Nature's way of preserving someone thought to be non-threatening in case all the other men of the tribe get killed. Then he would step up to the task ... I know, I'm digging myself a big hole here, LOL.

It's hard to believe that evolution and the whole natural selection thing is still behind everything we do, but we're as primitive as ever, primitive meaning the same as nature made us. So dear old Dad, that balding guy with the pipe in his mouth, sitting on the easy chair, now with something of an old man's slump and a very bitter look, is still a horny bastard. He was a horny bastard when he was looking at Mom, all those years ago. And he'll be a horny bastard maybe to the day he dies, depending on certain things, like unless he completely loses his mind, or somehow he gets testicular cancer and has to have them removed, God forbid. At that point I don't know what happens next, and I hope I never find out...

Imagine how horny of a bastard he was back in the day. Mom was a teenage girl, a fox, and Dad was a teenage boy, a stud. Enough said. Then they had all the advantages you read about in sociology books: A mobile society, kids with cars, places to go to be away from the family, increased disposable income, an easier access to prophylactics, social upheaval after two world wars and the Depression, the questioning of religious strictures, and reading the racy Scarlet Letter in high school. It's a combustible mix, with the spark that sets it off being Dad's raging hormones, a seething and smoldering in his pants, and next thing you know Mom is lugging baby clothes out of the laundromat. (Editor's note: We will save an account of Mom's raging horniness for Mother's Day.)

The fact is, however, that a lot of men, unlike The Imaginary Stud, stick around and fulfill their responsibilities to the mother and his growing gang of rugrats. For that, we honor them on this greatest holiday in recognition of paternity, of horny bastards everywhere, Father's Day. Natural selection honors them, too. Their staying around protects their offspring, so they'll grow up and continue his line with horniness of their own.

NOTE: I notice a lot of my Facebook friends are wishing a Happy Father's Day to their horny old dads in Heaven. I'm afraid you are suffering from a little bit of ignorance, however innocent you may be. Father's Day in Heaven is not till October. Everything's pushed forward like that because Easter's a three-month long holiday in heaven. Jesus takes His Resurrection very seriously. Christmas is about the same, but with that at least we on Earth are catching up, starting in September.

Memorial Day -- Honor Your Deceased Loves

Our condolences to the Burns family.
We know the summer of 1893 was a very tough time for you.

Memorial Day has to be one of the greatest holidays. It speaks to us of the weird rhythm of life: One minute you're here, the next you're gone. I know I've thought of this rhythm even since I was a kid, playing dead under my sheets. Our deceased loves seemed fine the last time we saw them, then the news came they were gone. We shook a vain fist at Heaven, but it was all so inscrutable, not a single word of response.

Of course, nothing has changed. So what can we do? There's not much we can do, but give them a Memorial Day they'd be proud of. And if we do, maybe there will be that much more chance somebody someday will do the same for us.

It's grim, death being no respecter of persons. I personally know my relatives were saints, every one of them, and yet this had to go and happen. There ought to be some benefit for doing so much good ... not that they'd ever expect it, that's how good they were. Whole cloth.

But no, Death is a reality for everyone -- the conqueror worm and all that -- the one great fact of life. We're here, we're gone, just like that. It's enough sorrow to drive us crazy. So thank goodness for Memorial Day, standing as it does as a little island of remembrance, a place between life and death ... even though it does cause me to get a little misty in the eyes. And morbid. I think curious thoughts, about how they look now, after all these years. Clothes rotting away, by now fingernails a mile long.

I've got quite a few deceased loves, so I generally make the long, tiring trek, traipsing out to the various cemeteries. Years ago, somebody in the family should've organized things so everyone would've been buried in one mass grave. It'd be a lot more convenient for me, but they did what they did. The worst thing about it is fighting the crowds on those narrow little cemetery roads, which weren't made for two way traffic. Horse and buggy days.

The biggest thing I hate about the crowds, besides the traffic, is seeing their disgusting plastic flower arrangements and other crap. Dime store windmills, styrofoam crosses. You think you're honoring someone with that stuff? Yeah, the stockholders of Tacky Industries, probably churning it out in Asian sweatshops with people paid a dime a year and no benefits, and locked in the factories besides. Give me good old fashioned real flowers, and crosses of genuine wood, and decent durable windmills that a ghost kid can play with for eternity.

I know I'm on my soapbox, don't get me started. But while I have the floor, let me rail against one other thing: The terrible "gravestones" (not even that) these cheapskate families have for their deceased loves. Now I'm started, I may as well finish! It's scandalous the number of temporary markers originally put up by the funeral home 30 years ago that are still there. I don't know what happened exactly. Maybe they went to Vegas and blew all the insurance money. Or maybe ... and I hate to judge ... their love for the deceased wasn't all it should be. That's not undying devotion, that's slovenliness, which I think is one of the Seven Fatal Sins, Seven Major Sins, or Seven Unforgivable Sins, whatever it's called. But ... anything! If you saved only $100 a year for 30 years, you'd still have $3,000 for a halfway small monument, which would be better than nothing. Those are the people I can't stand.

I'm proud to say, all my deceased loves have memorials erected. And I personally really didn't do much to make it happen. When they first gave up the ghost, those who were on the scene did what was necessary to make it happen, skipped meals, whatever. Then they died, and others died, and there's still a few left besides me. Hopefully, when I finally kick off, there'll be someone left to put up a modest 10 foot stone. I prefer they be bold. Tell the funeral director right to his face, we're going to be ordering a stone, so be in your office Monday morning bright and early. Go down to the quarry and get something good!

On a serious note, this Memorial Day, we as a nation have a lot of extra dead to be grieving over, of course. Just like every year, there's always some tragedy that hits the news, and strikes a cord with us, be it a mass murder, a natural disaster, or a plane wreck. It's especially bad if it happens all at once. We might have 300,000 people die one at a time, and no one cares, but you get 40 or 50 at once and it really hits home.

The 25 Days Of Christmas

Today, as I get into the spirit of the season, I'm going to start celebrating "The 25 Days of Christmas."

This is a personal celebration. I won't be checking in to keep everyone updated on it. I just feel that it's worth noting at the onset, with the additional hope that others might join me, also in their own silent way. We won't be communicating with each other regarding our joy.

The thought occurred to me this morning, that Christmas Day is the 25th. And what better way to lead up to it than with a thought, some token of recognition in advance of the great day? It could be anything, really, a holiday cookie, a special Christmas song, or perhaps a little eggnog, certainly a tasty treat if taken in moderation, because it always feels like I'm going to have convulsions if I drink too much.

But I have one little qualm. Today is already the 6th, meaning Christmas is around 20 days away. If you count the 6th as the first day, it's 19 days going through the 24th. That means I have a bunch of days to make up and no days to do it. So either I forget it till next year, or truncate it to "The 19/20 Days of Christmas," or just double up on Christmas moments to account for the first five days. I like to do things right, but in this case I simply can't. But to make something good out of a bad situation, like making lemonade out of lemons, I'm going to just do that, double up five times.

Obviously, I'm going to do this apart from blogging. If I put on a song right now, while I'm straining my brain to write, I wouldn't be able to enjoy as fully as I'd like. In fact I've always found that if I listen to music while writing the music goes incredibly fast. It might be a three minute song, but it feels like it's over in one minute, a testimony to how great my concentration is. I'm like a laser beam at the keyboard.

My thought, though, for today, celebrating the 1st and the 6th days of Christmas, would be much as I hinted at above, a holiday cookie and a great song. It might be "Rudolph" or "The Herald Angels." And of course I need to go to the store and get some cookies. I have plenty of Christmas music already. I'll try to get something chewy. Those are my favorite cookies.

This is going to be a great holiday for me ... and you. Christmas. 25 days for each of us to make the most of!

Happy Halloween, Thanks To A Payday Loan

We want everyone to have a Happy Halloween, which should go without saying. But of course there's always a few folks who won't be able to, due to the bad economy, or perhaps just because they're naturally poor.

Everyone's story's a little different; people's situations and circumstances vary, so you're likely to see anything. There's folks who are filthy rich, easily able to afford to hand out entire boxes of Whitman samplers to Trick or Treaters. Then there's medium-wealthy folks, going for the premium chocolates, only not by the entire box. A larger group is the middle class, giving away decent enough candy, but strictly limiting it, to say maybe one or two candy bars. You go on and people get progressively poorer, all the way down to the folks who steal apples just to have something, anything to hand out. Then worse, those who are so dirt poor, they not only don't give anything, they steal from the kids when their backs are turned!

In there somewhere, probably with the dirt poor and the apple stealers, you have a few well-intentioned folks, who really feel the embarrassment of poverty, and the shame that is theirs that they can't participate fully in the holiday. So kids egg their house, or tent, or what have you. Halloween can be a very dangerous holiday when you have disappointed kids. I remember when I was young. There was a couple of old folks. Their excuse was they lived on a "fixed income." So the old wife made this crap that we hated, called "Divinity." Big mistake.

So me and some of the bigger kids cut down a telephone pole, and muscling it as a gang with quite a bit of force, drove it right through their front door like a battering ram. Our momentum was so fierce we went right through the opposite wall, leaving their place a shambles. One or both of the old folks later committed suicide in their garage. And the story doesn't end there. Later some other people moved in, and I don't know what it was -- the bad vibe? the karma? the possibility that it was haunted? -- but the husband of the later couple also committed suicide in the same garage.

Obviously, it's important to get Halloween right. And now, finally, poverty isn't an excuse. Because you can take out a payday loan, or get a title loan on your car, to make Halloween as good as it should be! I got the flier above in the mail today, and I thought, Finally! What great news! If you need a costume, they've got money to lend. Or candy, decorations, and party supplies, they've got you covered. With payday loans up to $500.

Yes, you can get a good start doing Halloween right for $500. Although if you want to get one of the deluxe Kiss costumes, they're actually $499.95, so that might not be the costume you'd get. For that you'd probably need to take in the title of your car, because you could get up to $5,000, which naturally would be enough to cover quite a bit more celebration. Sure, your car's in hock, and you'll play hell getting it out with what are presumably fairly high interest rates, but at least you'll have the fun of that one day. If you're really lucky, or really diligent, you might get it paid off just in time for a new loan next year!

But just imagine, you really could have quite a bit of fun. A genuine Batman costume is also $499.95. Get one of those, a few Kiss costumes, a bunch of big tombstones for your yard, and some of the expensive animated ghouls that jump out of their caskets, plus candy, etc., etc., and you'll be the hit of the block. What kid wouldn't love you! Of course it's also nice to have a car, but as trade-offs go, giving up your car for a decent Halloween, it's a no-brainer.

Don't let your empty wallet scare you! Have a Happy Halloween!

30 Days Hath September

I came out of my self-imposed hibernation to wish everyone a Happy 30 Days Hath September Day!

This is one of the first days most of us ever heard of. When I was growing up, learning about the days of the year, no lesson would be complete without mentioning it. And thank God, because it rolls around every year.

Other than that, there's not much to say about it. Although, just giving it a minute's thought, wouldn't it be wild to have your birthday on September 30? As many people do, no doubt. Since no one can help when they're born. It's all up to their mom and dad. Still, let's say you were born on Sept. 30, and they were teaching you the calendar and your birthday and "30 days hath September" were the same day! You'd never forget it.

Is Christmas Always On Sunday?

I'm glad the paper answered this important question today, because there's probably lots of us who've been wondering the same thing, without having the courage or drive to write in.

I can truthfully confess, I've celebrated many Christmases, all of them in the past, without now remembering the day of the week they were on. But if I'm to be completely honest, I have to say I don't think they were always on Sunday.

Unlike the questioner, I was already more or less aware that Christmas is always on Dec. 25. More or less? I can actually be more definitive than that: I am very sure Dec. 25 is always Christmas Day! But, still, it's nice to see it in print, and to know it wasn't just a figment of my imagination.

So, thank you, newspaper! You've done us all a great service. If it weren't for the help, who knows, the questioner might have had to look at a calendar! Or googled multiple calendars for multiple years, which would make it a lot more complicated. And obviously not every calendar says when Christmas is, like little calendars. Plus, sometimes it's tough to know if the calendar is showing Sunday or Saturday, since sometimes they just say S M T W T F S (my emphasis).

I hate to gripe about the "Sound Off" column today. But if I could complain just a little, what's the big gap of white space for? If they had that much room, they could have elucidated with a few more details. Like how to reconcile the odd fact that Easter is always on Sunday.

Here's why I think that is: The church gives payoffs to calendar publishers to make it happen. Why the publishers aren't open to payoffs at Christmas is anyone's guess. You'd think they'd be more open, so they could afford more Christmas gifts. But you'll have to ask them.

Maybe "Sound Off" can get to the bottom of it! I'll write in! Why do calendar publishers accept crooked payoffs from the church to reserve Sunday for Easter, but when it comes to Christmas they turn and say "Bug off!"?

The Pink Professor -- Baby, Please Come Home

Well, it's officially Christmas Eve, and my guy is still officially away for the holidays. His dear mother lives out of state, there's siblings, etc., so he's with them for an old-fashioned family Christmas. And that's great.

It's been OK, really. I'm not one to begrudge. That'd be selfish. Except it feels like every other Christmas song is "(Christmas) Baby Please Come Home" or the similarly titled "Please Come Home For Christmas." Two great, great songs, just so you haven't got a significant other actually gone!

But that's the way it is and has to be sometimes -- it can't be helped. Modern physics, as advanced as it supposedly is, still doesn't allow us to be in two places at once, unless you're a quark. And having one leg in Iowa and one in Missouri doesn't count. If you go by that, there's a place where you can stand in four states at once, just so you don't move off the spot. But that's for another day, like if I'm spotlighting science and the accidents of geography...

The bright spot for me is I'm staying over at his apartment, keeping the plants watered, the cat fed, etc. And making the best of it, just padding around in some of his old slippers and one of biggest extra size shirts I could find in the closet. Quiet alone time. I just came back from making a cup of tea and I've got a candy cane in it for stirring and flavor. So I'm doing what I can to make it a happy morning. If you're reading this, I'm actually happy, like always. Tigger misses you. The Roadhouse called and they're quiet.

That's where he works -- in the Pink Professor role. He's an actual professor but he's at the Roadhouse a few nights a week, depending on what's going on. He helps soften the place -- my word -- from its coarseness, so it's halfway liveable for the average person. A bar has to deal with the folks they've got. If they're always wanting to fight and brawl, it's good to have someone to lead them away from that. And he does it in a great way, even helping them learn alternative behaviors. There's some deep friendships out there now that would've been the worst enemies, or dead.

So that's work, but right here's where his personal life happens. I said I was padding around in his slippers and the big shirt. I was going through some of his shirts and things, reorganizing some stuff, and enjoyed a few hints of his presence. Good deodorant. Other than that, there's tea and cocoa, some of his favorite flavors, bringing Christmas cheer to the place. I looked out, it's not snowing. Maybe it won't, and he'll get home faster.

I could use some laughs, like we do when his stomach gurgles, or mine. It's time to feed the lion! The funny question we always ask is, "Did someone build a zoo around here? Hope he doesn't get loose!"

Merry Christmas, Baby! If I said there was a rumble to break up, would you believe me? I didn't think so!

My Christmas Star

I awoke yesterday morning very early. It was pitch-black out. All I could see were the streetlights, an occasional car passing, and the twinkle from a few of the neighbors' bathroom windows.

It had been a cloudy night, and still, you could've cut the fog with a knife. Tremendously thick. It hit me hard.

The thing about it, why it hit me hard, was that my prayer before bed was that I might see the Christmas Star, and behold it. I thought, "Well, maybe next year. My prayers must have gotten stuck in the fog."

The Christmas Star. Just saying it instantly recalls the story of old that we all heard when we were just little tykes. It's one of the first stories I ever heard, and I remember the details of it even to this day. The Three Wise Men lived in their own country -- somewhere -- then they saw a magnificent star in the sky, appearing bigger than any other. The other odd thing is it went before them on their journey. They followed it, singing:

Star of wonder, star of night,
Star with royal beauty bright.
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us by thy perfect light.

It was an awesome sign, one they were privileged to divine. Whereas everyone else was at their wit's end, with no clue. Then as now, miracles are tough to fathom. They kept going, and kept going, from one country to another, inquiring after kings and prophets to enhance their understanding. But none of them knew!

In the end, they came to Judea, and made inquiry at the court of Herod. There they met with the same perplexity, but finally the word came as to where Christ would be. They hurried on, and found the Babe with His mother and Joseph standing over him. As they offered their gifts, they beheld for one last time the Christmas Star before it vanished into the mysterious slipstream of eternity.

So I said my prayers, that the world, and I, might behold the Christmas Star again. I felt we might grasp the sign today with greater recognition, since we've heard the story a million times. But could it ever again appear? Suddenly, I felt the conviction that I must get in my car and drive. Drive? Where to? Just drive!

I went a few blocks and saw a big red light. Which turned out to be the light on the water tower. I saw some other lights somewhere else, which turned out to be another dead end. Then other lights out by the interstate, flashing, which unfortunately turned out to be a cop who had pulled over some folks. Any time I see cops pulling over people, I have my own song:

Better him than me,
Better him than me!
One thing I can say for sure,
Better him than me!

I kept driving, and the thought occurred to me, "Don't follow lights. Just drive out into the country where it's dark. And have faith!" So I turned down the crummiest looking, scuzziest, worst maintained gravel road I could find. I kept driving. It was so dark, even the deer weren't awake. I had no idea where I was going. But I kept going, praying, "Show me the Christmas Star!"

It took a while, but finally I crested one unlikely looking hill and there was a star on a post over by a guy's barn. He either forgot to set the timer to turn it off at 3 a.m., or maybe the powers on high had turned it on, just for me. It was nailed together and trimmed with light bulbs, the energy-wasting kind that we used to use without guilt. I thought, "How humble. Yet how awesome." This has to be My Christmas Star. It doesn't have to float around in the heavens for it to offer its powerful message. Naturally, I broke down, and to compose myself again was not very easy.

That's when I remembered the story of Christmas, the rugged, humble manger and all the rest ... and I knew all would be well.

May you also find Your Christmas Star!

OUR CHRISTMAS CARD TO YOU:

On behalf of myself and the remaining members of the Board of Editors -- Dale and Delilah, our only female member -- I want to give you the best of all Season's Greetings, and our firm hope that you also will share in the richest blessings of the New Year.