The Ballad of Trip Fallwell.

Catching the bus at Third and Pike has always been interesting. I mean, pretty much any place where untreated mental illness meets drugs and alcohol is going to provide some gloomy theater to a guy waiting for his ride to the suburbs every weeknight. But the past couple of nights have been a bit—interestinger. 

Two straight nights, someone has fallen to the ground directly in front of me. 

Wednesday, when a woman toppled into the street while stepping off the curb, two other bystanders and I converged on her. Reaching her last, I immediately became odd man out as each of the tripper’s arms had already been claimed in this odd game of musical limbs. Unsure what to do and already invested in the scene, I sheepishly patted her on the shoulder and retreated to the shadows.

Then on Thursday, while staring glazy-eyed into the murky twilight, I heard the icky sound of cloth-wrapped meat spanking concrete. If I had to onomatopoeviate the sound, it was something like, “thwarckshhhlip.” It was a woman again, and this time I made it to her first. “Need a hand?” I asked. She looked shaken and embarrassed as I helped her off the sidewalk, hobbling away and rubbing her shoulder.

So yeah, two falls in two days, which made me realize that people, even able-bodied adults, wipe out a lot. I know I do, and since I’m kind of a freak of nature athletically, the rest of you must have serious challenges staying vertical. 

Kidding, of course. How often have I hit the pavement? Put it this way: I’ve left more skin on the streets than a blind skateboarder with dandruff. And it doesn’t bode well for my golden years. Sprinkled in with all the head smackings and toe jammings are several more alarming occurrences each year where my feet have rescinded their citizenship.

So, in keeping with the holiday spirit, I’ve worked up a little ditty to summarize my travails. It’s sung to the tune of The Twelve Days of Christmas, and we’ll just start at the end and work backwards.

During five decades of clumsy,

I’ve wiped out constantly,

Twelve feet from a treehouse,

Eleven people saw me,

Ten times at Target,

Nine stairs down in jammies,

Eight achy ankles, 

Seven feet off a truck ramp,

Six puzzling grass stains,

Fiiiiiive pulled hamstriiiiings.

Four times last month,

Three people gasped,

Two friends laughed hard,

And that time last month when I skinned both my knees.

While we’re on the subject, here’s to a speedy recovery for my papa. He tweaked a couple ribs, so he’s gonna wear sweats on the sideline this weekend and hopefully be ready for the Cardinals game.

Please, have a safe holiday season.

Santa Isn't Just White. I Have Proof.

“For all you kids watching at home, Santa just is white. Just because it makes you feel uncomfortable doesn’t mean it has to change, you know? I mean, Jesus was a white man too. He was a historical figure, that’s a verifiable fact, as is Santa—I just want the kids watching to know that.”

-Megyn Kelly, Fox News television host

Apparently, Ms. Kelly felt obligated to set the record straight. Her comment arose in response to a column for Slate last week by Aisha Harris, in which Harris wrote that she had always been confused as a child because the Santa in her home had brown skin like her, but the Santa in malls and on television was always white. 

If you've read my shtick before, you're probably expecting the same old formula, right? I post the ignorant quote, then spend the next three thousand characters lampooning it…

…which would be so very easy in this case, but no need to this time. A very special someone else has stepped up to ease the burden, and this someone packs some heavyweight caché.

I hung with Santa last night. I really did. That's not some euphemism to describe a random freeway rest stop encounter with a fat guy. I chatted with The Kris Kringle, legendary President and CEO of North Pole Air Freight. We always exchange a few pleasantries while my kids place their orders, something that has gone down every year since they were small enough to gum dust bunnies:

But last night was different. The moment my eyes met Saint Nick's, I could tell the chap was chapped. His cheeks weren't the usual cheery cherry, they were  more of a pissed off purple, much like the enduring facial tint of Tom Caughlin, New York Giants head coach.

Then I remembered—he was still feeling salty about Kelly's comment. The ignoramus had obviously gotten to him a little. Skipping the usual small talk, he reached into his fuzzy lapel, pulled out a note and thrust it in my direction. It smelled of mint and single malt. "I need you to share this with the world. I'm only going to say it once," he said. As my daughters propped themselves onto his lap, his mood changed instantly.

But I had a job to do, and by Dasher and Dancer, who can say no to the Godfather of Gastric Bypass? So here it is—Santa Claus' response to Megyn Kelly, word for word:

Dear Ms. Kelly:

Let me tell you, I don't watch your network, but since I assoicate with multitudes of pointy-eared goblins, many around me do. I think it was that dentist elf that brought your comments to my attention, and I felt the need to respond.

Usually I prefer to travel the high road. Do I take it personally when some kid thinks I'm Ted Bundy in tinsel?

Nah. Usually, they just want to get through the photo op fast so they can fill my ears with pleas for pink and purple plastic shit.

Here's what steams my humbow, Kelly—what gives you the right to label me as white? Does this look white to you?

Or this?

Remember, it's totally cool. Even my elves get a little separation anxiety while waiting on the roof.

I'm freaking Santa Claus. If I can manage to reverse burgle a billion houses in one night, why wouldn't I be able to change my ethnicity?  Let me tell you something, toots, nothing keeps a marriage fresh like turning into Spanish Santa after putting the reindeer to bed.

Oh, and as far as you're concerned, Fox News news fox, I could be Typhoid Leper Santa as long as you find your friends Dolcé and Gabanna under the tree in the morning. 

Why do you even care what color I am? What does it matter? Look at me now—Bam! Asian Santa:

And by the way, historical Jesus was about as white as a milk chocolate Toblerone.

Step off, Barbie. 

Where It's Christmas Every Day. God Help Us.

Another one in the books.

Hopefully, I'm not boring you to distraction with tales of family vacations. I've expounded on so many—Vegas, Disneyworld, San Diego—yet each trip drips with the newness of a thawing icicle teetering over an exposed cornea.

Yep, these trips continue to evolve.

Each excursion we embark upon with our kids drains a few more grains from the vacation hourglass. Every "cargument" (I've begun abbreviating this term since we've engaged in so many) marks one less time we'll yell at each other over who gets the last Red Vine.

Who knows? Before long, I may be pulling those pre-frozen Ensure-sickles out of the Playmate to stay relevant while my grandchildren dig into their double brownie fudge waffle cones.

Papa needs his calcium.

This time, we paired up. Since my wife and I, after calculating that our kids' average getting-along time amounted to the length of our driveway, allowed one BFF per daughter. Sure, it cost a little more, but anything which prevents my ears from absorbing the E above double C from the backseat is worth at least four figures.

When the girls were little, family vacations were a lot like hosting Thanksgiving. The main differences were that the preparation was harder, we slept less and there were two turkeys. Ultimately, the little darlings outgrow the need for constant stops, snacks and that pink medicine, and thus their amusement quest turned outward.

That's why they were allowed to bring friends on this one.

Leavenworth, Washington was a struggling mill town prior to 1962, when Project Life (Leavenworth Improvement For Everyone) revitalized the city's economy by transforming it into a mock Bavarian village. Nestled on the eastern slope of the Cascade range, this quaint hamlet is all German, all the time.

Hankerin' for some polka tunes? Check. Burstin' for some Bavarian baked buns? Check. Lookin' for more sausage selection than the Downtown Seattle YMCA? Done and done.

And corporate branding be damned, you're in Leavenfreakingworth now. If you want to set up shoppe here, you'd better strap on some leder or consider yourself hosened. Here's what Safeway looks like:












 And Wells Fargo:

Kind of reminds me of Dick Cheney in a Barney costume.

Most of Leavenworth's shops peddle either ice cream, candy or Christmas goods. Is it just me, or is there something inherently evil about walking into a place called "Kris Kringl" on a ninety-degree July day?

But let me tell you, this Kringl joint would even seem sinister on December 24. You see, it's filled with open-mouthed trolls, all shapes and sizes.

I think they're supposed to appear smiling, but they look more like the death sneers of third day possum road kill. Trolls in baseball uniforms, trolls riding unicorns, trolls wearing watering cans on their heads like drunken uncles at a toddler's birthday party.

And then, there are Santas—Santa looking casual in a nice sweater, Santa crushing grapes in bare feet—even "Level Three Santa" barely peeking out from behind a Christmas tree.

Okay, maybe he's just holding it. Well, you know what I mean.

I'd have to brand our Leavenworth trip a success, due in part to the substantial kitsch factor of this Alpine Christmas town which is neither in the Alps nor celebrating Christmas. And when your biggest concern is where you'll eat dinner or which flavor of truffle sounds the best, all the rest is gravy...

...ladled thickly over some curry wurst.

Time to crank it to eleven.

T minus one week to go—this is when things get serious.

Up until now, Christmas preparations have jogged along, with a three-quarter sprint a couple of weeks ago for tree procuring and hall decking. Since then, a few online presents ordered here, some gift cards purchased there, but no huge dealio.

As of today, however, the figurative holiday oven has heated up our entire household, and many of those miscellaneous tasks have embedded their tentacles into my consciousness with greater urgency than that constant beckoning by my leathery man bladder.

Christmas cards, still not completed, are always a multi-step process, one in which I never allow myself enough time to accomplish. Choosethefamilyphotoorderthecardsbuythestampsaddresstheenvelopesandmail. Each letter of the preceding word represents roughly one minute of the chore, and I always seem to break the delicate chain at "buythestamps," thereby adding "drivetothestoretobuymorestampsandahugekitkatbar" to the end of the original word.

Another obligation which has leaped forward on this Christmas Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve Eve is my role as the official procurer of holiday baking raw materials. Thanks to my family's gluttonous needs, Safeway is now lighter two large packages of chocolate chips, four jars of marshmallow cream, ten bars of baking chocolate and two huge bags of peppermint candy.

While it may seem like an average Friday movie night for Rush Limbaugh, that's enough sugar to choke a woolly mammoth, and by the end of tonight, the kitchen counters will be lined with fudge, bon bons, sugar cookies and peppermint bark. Hot damn.

I've decided that my my wife and daughters should consider themselves quite fortunate to have someone—well, to have me—as their support staff, their shopping Sherpa. After reading this morning's paper, I've discovered that a lot of dudes were a little too predisposed this time of year to run down to Safeway and home, and back to Safeway, and home again, to contribute to their friends' and family's sugar comas.

For example, here's what happened on this day, December 18, in history:

1865—The Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution, abolishing slavery, was declared in effect by Secretary of State William H. Seward.

Wow. That's a big one. Free pass for Mr. Seward from doing holiday errands for his family. And if there were any way I could thank him today, I'd regale him with an entire nation's gratitude and some Crest Breath Strips.

1940—Adolph Hitler ordered secret preparations for Nazi Germany to invade the Soviet Union.

Yeah. How'd that work out for you, Dolph? You probably should have run to the store for some strudel mix and refilled your Thorazine prescription, like Eva asked you.

1972—The United States began heavy bombing of North Vietnamese targets during the Vietnam War.

Nixon should never be mentioned in the same sentence as Hitler, but each committed some serious military blunders on days where they would have been better off just stuffing their Haggar slacks with rocks and slowly shuffling into the Atlantic.

2010—The United States Senate approved repeal of the military's seventeen-year "don't ask, don't tell' ban on openly gay troops in a 65-31 vote.

Okay, so two useful moves and two bonehead ones on this day in history. The ironic aspect of the 2010 event is this: Can you think of anything positive our Congress has accomplished besides the don't ask, don't tell repeal? I can't.

They must've been pressured to adjourn and get some shredded coconut before the store ran out.

It's butt crack time.

It wasn't just any weekend.

It was that weekend.

Tape, very small nails, electricity, butt cracks...you heard me, but I'll get to that later.

After flirting last year with the notion of a prosthetic tree, my family and I opted to go the unnatural natural route, because, even though we wouldn't be purchasing our green friend from inside the hardware store, we'd decided to buy one out in the parking lot.

We also made the collective decision to nix one of those tree farm scams thirty miles outside of town, where you're compelled to drop fifty bucks for the five-minute privilege of sawing your own pre-sheered tree, loading it in the car and choking down a complimentary, yet chunky, cup of Swiss Miss and a broken sugar cookie prior to heading back to the city in a cramped, overheated Ford Ranger.

Nope. Not this time. The kids and I were finally on the same page. We unanimously agreed that the tree farm route was synonymous to vetoing the frozen turkey from Safeway for the honor of driving to the sticks, paying three times as much and killing the poor beast ourselves.

In other words, why mess with the gobbler when you can go right for the breast.

This time around, for as long as it takes to sing "Oh, Tannenbaum" between six and seven times, Dougie Fur, in all his deadness, had traveled to his final resting place.

Anyone who tells you that wedging a tree into its little green stand is easy, is either lying or reasonably competent, because by the time that tree stood upright in a water-filled basin, the only man sweating around his wife more than I was on Saturday was Herman Cain.

My daughters like to enter the picture after most of the heavy lifting has been completed; sort of like the dentist who cruises in after the hygienist has ruptured her S5 disk trying to chip the filth off your teeth, and pokes around for thirty seconds before slapping off his rubber gloves and charging you a couple of Benjamins.

Sorting quickly through everything with which they hadn't either held a personal connection or made, the kids decorated feverishly, until no space existed to place another ornament or pillow, snow globe or angel.

Once fully decorated, the living room assumed a festive, yet slightly disturbing ambiance. A delicate nativity scene, one in which stepfather Joseph was conspicuously absent, was dwarfed by its bookend neighbors, a giant Christmas penguin and a chillingly lifelike Saint Nick doll in a baseball outfit.

A large Santa head fabricated from half a Clorox bottle stared out from the wall, giving the house the feel of a home which had bagged itself a Christmas elf and proudly displayed the trophy.

Finally, after having completed the day's garnishments, the family relaxed together in a room lit solely by little white, green, red and blue lights while Dean Martin crooned a slurry verse of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" on the old CD player.

"Hey, Dad, can you help me put up some lights in my room?" asked my sixteen year-old. I knew what she actually meant was, "Hey Dad, can you single-handedly put up lights in my room?"

"Sure."

"Thanks, Daddy." She knows I melt when she calls me that.

We rose from our seats, trailed by my eleven-year-old, and entered the minefield, the floor strewn with shoes and hairbands and hooded sweatshirts. I proceeded immediately to the task, as this would be the day's last demand upon my talents. Standing on a stool, my teenager handed up pieces of strapping tape, which we soon surmised would not affix the light string to her plaster walls.

I exited and returned with a hammer and nails. Quickly stringing the lights along the ceiling line, I hit a snag at the corner, as the string continually slipped out of its anchorage.

With each failure, I struggled against the urge to mutter profanities. After all, come on, it's Christmas, damnit.

After the fifth attempt, the string again slipped. "Shit!" Oops.

"Hey, Dad, I can see your butt crack," offered the teenager.

"Okay, do you want me to put down this hammer and this really small nail and this huge string of lights which is teetering on collapse and get down from this stool and pull up my pants? Huh? Is that what you want?"

No answer.

"Just look the other way or something."

I pounded. I taped. I failed. I pounded some more. I swore some more. I pounded. Finally, success.

"Dad, guess what?" This time it was my younger kid who had been steadily giggling while sitting on the bed.

"What?"

The older one chimed in. "We filmed you on my phone."

"You filmed me? Are you serious?"

"Yeah."

"You filmed the whole butt crack conversation, too?"

"Yeah."

They erupted into throes of purple-faced hysterics, high fiving and rolling on the bed.

"That's pretty funny," I deadpanned. "That's clever. Nice work. Well, I'll tell you what. You might want to leave these lights up after Christmas...because I'm never doing this again!"

I gathered up my stool and tools and stumbled out of the room.

"Don't you want to watch it?" The laughter hadn't ebbed.

"It's okay. I'll save it for when you guys are grown up and not around to decorate anymore. It'll keep me from missing you."

Actually, I'm not sure it will.

You people disgust me. Any good deals?

My biggest fear in writing this post is apprehension toward being construed as a hypocrite.

Perish the thought of getting myself clumped in with other colossal two-faced charlatans, like the meth-snorting Pentecostal preacher who seemed to think he could exorcise the gay out of himself by confessing how Daddy didn't toss the Nerf football around enough during his formative years, and hence Satan and his alluring penis flytrap club swallowed him whole.

Of course, a solid six-week course later, he was cured. And just to prove it, he harbored no qualms about moving the Top Gun poster from the bedroom ceiling to the bathroom wall right in front of the toilet.

So, yeah, please keep in mind that I don't want to come across as a super-sized hypocrite when writing about today's subject: Christmas shopping. With Black Friday approaching, this whole conspicuous consumption fiasco just keeps worsening.

It's a beast which must continually be fed larger and larger animals to maintain its expanding girth. At first, rodents suffice, but before long, Mom and Dad must lie to little Johnny that his wonderful Golden Retriever, Mark, has been sent to a farm where he'll be much happier.

But we know where Mark really went.

It's also similar to when you arrive at the Mexican restaurant starving out of your gourd and immediately commence stuffing yourself with chips and salsa. After a three-second respite to catch your breath, you realize that the salsa is so spicy that you're drooling tonsil sweat, and must therefore maintain consuming the liquid inferno to avoid mortal agony.

You're then lucky to finish a third of your enchilada platter.

Enough with the similes. I think you'd agree that the Christmas advertising onslaught ensues earlier each fall. Wal-Mart, ever the trailblazer in ethical retail practices, actually published a listing of its "door buster" items barely a couple of days after the kids had separated their Halloween candy between the good stuff and what's probably still sitting in a plastic bowl in a corner of your kitchen (Smarties, trail mix, definitely raisins).

Wal-Mart, as inherently evil as it is, employs highly effective marketing strategies to maximize profits during the holiday season. Taking a page out of the Jerry Springer manual, where Donnie Ralph is already so fired up before he goes onstage, he's pissed even before he finds out his sister's baby isn't his, the Wal-Mart shoppers are equally as worked up before the sun has risen and their oyster stuffing has fully digested.

And this is where my hypocritical nature enters the scene.

I love getting ridiculous stuff for Christmas. I don't care if it's something I don't need or never wear, like a t-shirt that says "I'm With Stupid" and the finger points to my crotch. Hopefully, no one had to stomp on an elderly lady's one remaining kidney to acquire that last extra large, but boy, will I enjoy opening it and slipping it on before watching "A Christmas Story."

Do I need anything, anything that exists on God's brown earth, for Christmas? Heck, no. Not by a long shot.

Maybe if a home liposuction kit or DVD of my greatest high school sports moments suddenly populates the shelves, I'll mount Saint Nick's lap and beg like a yippy Pomeranian, but otherwise, I think I'm good.

Let's just have a good time, watch all the great old Christmas specials and dig in to those Triscuits, cheese logs and Frangos. That's what it's really all about, right?

Well, there are some funny doormats out there, too.

Counting down to the big one.

He hadn't set the alarm; he knew that the following day would probably be a long one. After forcing himself to sleep for a few additional hours, he hopped out of bed around 10:30. As usual, he pulled the scale out from under the couch and weighed himself: 277. "Whatever," he mumbled dismissively. "I've weighed more."

His volatile stomach usually prevented him from consuming much caffeine, and because of this, he had forgotten to change the auto-brew on the coffee maker. A thick, brown liquid which had already been sitting in the pot for three hours poured into his "World's Greatest Coach" mug. "Oh, well," he thought, "I'm used to cocoa, anyway. I'll just choke it down."

All season, he'd grown accustomed to sleeping on the office couch; there was just so much to prepare for. His wife had barely seen him, but he had warned her about this time of year and she'd been a trooper. He plodded into the conference room, towering over his six of his most trusted protegés, who sat reviewing the game plan. Laptops littered the conference table.

"Hey, what's up, guys? How's everyone feeling?"

Silence filled the room. His lead coordinator spoke first. "Coach, we're tired, we're a little stressed...but let me tell you something: We are ready. The world will never forget the performance they're about to see."

"And that's why you're sitting here right now" Tears welled in the boss's eyes. "I don't need to tell you this, but even though you're the best in the business, every darn one of you is family. We've had our disagreements, our little crises, but in my opinion, we're truly on the verge of greatness. Lombardi, Wooden, Rockne—they had nothing on us. Now let's get out there and show some pride in the red and green."

"Coach," if you don't mind, "I'd like the honor of feeding Rudolph his pre-game meal." The number one elf looked up yearningly at Santa.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," Herbie. "Ho, ho, ho!"

His thunderous guffaw rattled the conference room.

Christmas and our Pavlovian traditions

Most of us love traditions. These comforting rituals affirm some predictability in our sometimes chaotic, always unpredictable, lives. Some are so old, no one is really sure what they mean.

For instance, before the arrival of the Queen in the State Coach, the Yeomen of the Guard, now usually seen at the Tower of London, search the cellars beneath the Palace of Westminster as a precautionary measure. This is as a consequence of the Gunpowder Plot in 1605 when Guy Fawkes and a number of other conspirators tried to blow up King James I and his parliament.

Guy Fawkes—dirty name and tradition starter.

On a far lesser scale, traditions and rituals can be more provincial. Back in my high school days, whenever our team won a football game, some of us went out to the country (a three minute drive) and tipped over a cow. For those who are offended by such behavior, take solace in the knowledge that we only tipped three cows in three years due to an abysmal football squad.

Breaking things down even further, each family possesses its own traditions. In fact, my kids manufacture new traditions every time one of the acts involves a treat at the end. My older daughter once accompanied me for a haircut, and afterward I bought her a chocolate cupcake, a really, really good cupcake with bits of cherry in the frosting. Boom—new tradition. Now, my little Pavlovian salivates instantly whenever we pass Rudy's Barbershop.

Summer acting camp = root beer floats after the Friday-night performance. Dinner at Elliott Bay Pub = ice cream afterwards at Husky Deli. Thanksgiving at Grandma's = shrimp with cocktail sauce. A trip to Safeway = a slightly illegal two-pack of saltines from the soup area.

During the holiday season, traditions thrive, and ours shift into overdrive. This morning, we visited Santa Claus at the Downtown Seattle Nordstrom store. We've done this with friends for twelve straight years, and it's gotten to the point where Santa's lap loses feeling if my daughters plant on his jolly thighs for too long. And now, when one of us says, "Looks like someone needs a nap," my wife and I aren't referring to our kids.

Afterwards, we ride the holiday carousel and have lunch at the Nordstrom Café (If you've noticed a particular corporation mentioned twice, it's possible that I work there and now is the time to stock up on cushy UGG® Australia boots for her before sheep go on the endangered species list.).

Christmas Eve is all about visiting Pike Place Market, buying fresh crab, going home and preparing crab cakes and "Oprahtatoes" for dinner, opening one present each and watching "The Polar Express." This stuff runs like such clockwork, I'm expecting one of my kids to say, "Dad, the train's sliding on the ice. It's time for you to go to the bathroom and blow your nose."

Christmas Day is spent with the kids' grandparents, where we eat dinner around 2:00, recline in, well, recliners, and watch "A Christmas Story" and a more abstract holiday movie called "A Matter of Principle." My kids can quote each movie like Rocky Horror groupies.

With all of these traditions already firmly established, I'd still be willing to begin a few new ones with the kids, like the daily remembering-to-flush-the-toilet observance or the sacrifice of the empty popsicle box still sitting in the freezer.

Please reply in the comments section with your strange or cool traditions.

Artificial Christmas trees: What would Santa do?

Christmas season is upon us, but you don't need this old scribe to tell you something so obvious. Between Halloween and Thanksgiving, it's like a lawn mower that takes a couple of cranks, sputters two or three times and then, usually on Thanksgiving night, roars to life with more decibel fury than the 1977 Motörhead arena tour.

I witness it every Thanksgiving evening on the ride home from Grandma’s house in our sapphire blue 2003 Kia minivan. Before the take-home turkey has even cooled inside the washed out Cool Whip container, my family’s thoughts and comments have shifted to Christmas.

Naturally, mine do as well. I can't help but ponder the new set of ads I'll see, and how long it'll take to become disillusioned with the rampant consumerism in our media. I envision the following holiday campaigns:

“Cialis for the holidays. Isn't it time you got that tree up?”

“From our children in China to your children in the developed world, Merry Christmas from your friends at Wal-Mart.”

“America, you ate 46 million birds on Thanksgiving. What's the big deal about a few more who died a slightly different way? Come back to us...please. Happy holidays from B.P.”

This weekend, we solidified our seasonal plans. It's almost like a little board of directors meeting, deciding for whom we'll bake or buy something, when we'll we get the girls’ pictures with Santa (Sure, they're fifteen and ten years old, but traditions die hard.), and most importantly, when we'll get the tree.

Naturally, the Christmas tree is the central focus in any Yuletide setting. Your house can ooze with Christmasness, but if there's no tree in the corner, it's like...I don't know...Rush Limbaugh without a bra, or a McRib sandwich sans ground up cloven hoof. 

We've always come home with a real tree; that's all I've ever known. One of my earliest memories is venturing out with my dad into rural western Washington to legally chop down a tree along county power lines. Hopefully, yearly exposure to high tension wires isn't the reason my elbow sprouted a couple of molars and a goatee, but I grew really fond of the hunt for the perfect tree out there with my old man. That woodsy living room smell is synonymous with Christmas.

That's why today's board meeting left me reeling a little bit. The family decided to finally get a fake tree, but to pick up some seasonal greens to garnish our house and soften the blow of no more wood pitch on the carpet. We asked ourselves, what's the point of driving forty miles to a tree farm, sawing down a nicely manicured, conical evergreen, paying sixty bucks and driving back? 

None, really. We resolved to channel the time and expense toward hosting friends for a Christmas open house. Sure, there are some upfront costs, like the artificial tree and a new red reindeer sweater and pipe for the man of the house. 

And I should probably go to the dentist about my elbow.

A few Christmas wishes

God rest ye merry gentlemen, and women. Here's a quick listing of people to whom I'm wishing some holiday rest, clarity and peace of mind.

1) To my family: Thanks for another year putting up with me. I'm surprised your eyes are still in their sockets from the endless rolling.

2) To the children of Barrack Obama, Tiger Woods, Jon and Kate and the balloon hoax couple: I hope things are going okay, because you didn't sign up for all of this.

3) To my co-workers: As you know, the fashion retail industry never sleeps, but it does occasionally offer free shipping.

4) To Rush Limbaugh, Sarah Palin and others who stew inside the right-wing crock pot: May you be visited by the spirits of tolerance, reason and empathy.

5) To my brother-in-law, who is currently deployed to Iraq, and my friend, who awaits a trip to Afghanistan: Hold your heads high, but keep your heads down. You each epitomize bravery and sacrifice.

6) To my sister: I see a Newberry Award down the pike.

7) To Canada: Thanks for being the neighbor who keeps his yard mowed, and not the one with the meth lab.

8) To my brother: Even though you're a Republican, it's understandable because you hit your head on our rusty swingset when you were eight.

9) To the beer industry: I love you more today than I did when we first began our relationship.

10) To all of my Facebook friends: I wish I knew what you're doing right now. 

11) To my dad and step mom: You are living examples of love and generosity.

Merry Christmas.

The Winter Pageant: A little American pie

Some random observations from my daughter's elementary school annual Bake Sale and Winter Pageant:

1) The bake sale was a bit sketchy. One kid, who was obviously someone's little brother or sister, insisted on taking money and handing out treats, without the napkin buffer on his grubby, little paw. His brownie-encrusted face wasn't much of selling point, either.

2) Another little kid decided his goal for the evening was to stare at me. Do I have a Barney-shaped birthmark on my face or something? The first time, the little dude held a vanilla cupcake while unflinchingly scanning me for about seven minutes. He repeated this behavior two other times throughout the evening. Security?

3) When moms gathered to chat with each other, they stood face to face. Dads stood in semi-circular groups, as if a quick escape route was mandatory. They seemed to float in and out of listening to each other and scanning the room, while the mothers seemed much more engaged in their conversations.

4) Once the show ensued up on the cafeteria stage, each class possessed at least one show-off, who emoted to his parents' embarrassment, and one wallflower, who only sang while hiding behind the Washington State flag.

5) The style of the children's attire spanned the spectrum. Some kids looked like they were dressed to appear on a Trinity Broadcast Network fundraiser, and others appeared to be recovering from hernia surgery.

6) The music instructor almost jumped out of her skin trying to herd all of the singing tempos together. Her face glistened with that type of perspiration that springs from stress, not exercise.

7) My teenage daughter, seated beside me, betrayed a look of sheer boredom and pain. An hour without texting privileges is obviously similar to an hour of water boarding.

The show also had a heaping helping of cuteness, giggles and forgotten lyrics. And hey, what's a good secular holiday pageant without a few Christmas songs?

Falling for Christmas

As of today, the holiday season takes up a greater portion of everyday living than that huge chunk of Heath bar in a single spoon-full of Ben and Jerry's; it's Christmas full-speed-ahead.

My family and I shifted into Yuletide fifth gear yesterday. We trekked out to a tree farm east of Issaquah, Washington, along with every sixth vehicle on the freeway. Only on the second Saturday before Christmas can someone get caught in a traffic jam to a rural, King County two-lane arterial, stuck behind other urban families hoping to grasp a country Christmas somewhere other than the Waltons special on the Hallmark Channel. It's a strange tradition we have: driving 45 minutes, walking through a field, sawing off a well-manicured, adolescent fir tree, and paying $60 for the privilege.

I think the best part, however, is the conversation we had on the way out to Trinity Tree Farm. For some reason, my younger, nine-year-old daughter was locked in on Judy Garland.
She recently watched The Wizard of Oz, and was interested in the starlett's subsequent life.
"Dad, is Judy Garland still alive?"
"No, she died a long time ago."
"How did she die?"
"She overdosed on pills and alcohol."
"Why?"
"I don't know. She just had a troubled life."
"Did the men in her life take advantage of her?"
This was my chance to drive a moral home run over the fence, by saying something like, "Yes, so don't ever get involved with men. They're a bunch of selfish monkeys and they're nothing but trouble."
But I didn't. I think I just said, "I'm not really sure."
So at the end of the day, with the tree set up and the house festively trimmed, day one of our holiday boot camp was complete.

Enter, stage left, day two—a visit with Santa Claus. It's another tradition we've had for the past ten years. We join our friends in downtown Seattle for a visit with Saint Nick, who just so happens to reside in one of America's premier fashion retailers, also based in Seattle, whom I won't mention by name since they've employed me and provided my babies with shoes for the past eighteen years.

As we scrambled to get out of the house this morning, I hurriedly pulled our portable dishwasher into the kitchen. I was wearing some shoes that I got a screaming deal on at the previously unmentioned retailer, but they're about a half-size too big. Hence, the clown-shoe effect forced the tip of one of them under the dishwasher as it moved along the floor. I illogically kept pulling, thinking I could yank out my foot without missing a step. Wrong again.

Have you ever tripped on something, and experienced a moment where you realized that you're actually going to hit the ground, so you positioned your body to cushion the fall? That happened to me this morning. I remember thinking, "Whoa, okay, I'm okay. Nope, nope. I'm going down." Since my toe was trapped beneath the dishwasher, my only option was to land on my shoulder to avoid slamming my head. It made a huge thud, and one daughter came to see if I was okay, while the other laughed hysterically. I won't say which was which, but I know which one is going to visit me in thirty years after I break a hip.

That's how my day began, so by the time we got in to see Santa, I was ready to move on to Valentine's or Saint Patrick's Day. It didn't help that Claus was a little cranky himself, saying, "Okay, that's enough pictures, folks. We've got a four-hour wait outside. Ho, ho, ho!"

I think Santa might have closed down the casino last night.

My Christmas present Hall of Fame

I've spent the past couple of lunch hours shopping for my family's Christmas gifts. I especially enjoy buying the kids' stuff, as it reminds me of the quirky, non-adult presents which only the young are interested in requesting. With that in mind, I've compiled the top ten Christmas gifts I've received (all during those formative years between Zero and Twenty):

10) Superman pajamas—I know, they're just pajamas, but I've always been a sucker for a cool logo, even at four years old.

9) A silver trumpet—My parents wrapped up an old, rusty trumpet without a case and watched me feign excitement at the sticky valves and bent bell. Then they discreetly slid the shiny, new instrument next to me after milking as much anxiety from my sixteen-year-old psyche as possible.

8) Electric football—A lot of people probably don't know what this is, but its a metal board that vibrates and moves two opposing teams around in random patterns. I loved it, and my mom spent all night painting tiny Ram and Packer uniforms on the miniature, plastic players.

7) A KISS album entitled, Love Gun— At thirteen, I wasn't yet savvy enough to know the true connotation of the title, but I'm sure my parents did, and they bought for me anyway.

6) Ten-speed bicycle— It wasn't the Schwinn Continental that I desperately desired, but it was all my parents could afford, and I learned some new words while watching my dad assemble it.

5) A Los Angeles Rams jacket— I loved that coat, especially after "accidentally" stumbling upon it in my parents' closet two weeks before Christmas.

4) Fright Factory—This was a little machine put out by Mattel, which cooks "goop" into scary, rubbery figures, like skeletons and shrunken heads. At age six, I also discovered that it could melt army men like the Wicked Witch of the West.

3) An AM/FM clock radio— At age 12 (1974), it opened up the world of album-oriented rock. Say hello to Led Zeppelin and goodbye to the Carpenters (at least for a while).

2) A Steve Martin album, entitled, Let's Get Small—I don't want to sound overly dramatic, but this record changed my life. My friends and I memorized the entire album, and from that point on, I turned my back on the knock-knock joke.

1) Pong—now there's no debate how much I'm dating myself. And I'll still take it over a Wii any day.