Halloween was several days ago, which can only mean one thing.  Christmas is upon us.  Yes, yes, I know Thanksgiving is in there somewhere, but so far our WalMart overlords haven’t figured out how to commercialize that day beyond a good sale on canned cranberry jelly.  So it doesn’t count.  It’s Christmas dammit!  Why aren’t you out shopping?

Actually several members of my family (those with a preponderance of X-chromosomes), started the Christmas season months ago.  I know this because they started pestering me in July for what I wanted for Christmas, and for what they should buy my teenage sons.  Some consider themselves behind if Labor Day comes and goes and they aren’t wrapping presents yet.

I don’t believe for a minute they simply enjoy gift shopping so much they have to start 6 months early because they can’t wait.  Catch them overtired or with an extra glass of wine and they’ll even admit that while they love the idea of Christmas gifts, the reality is a pain in the tuckus, and they are just trying to get it out of the way.

In fairness, it’s not all downside. Pretty much everyone relishes seeing the unmitigated joy on a young child’s face as they open a Christmas gift.  And kids’ needs and desires change so frequently in those early years that shopping for them is often fun.  But shopping for anyone over 15 gets a little dicier. When shopping for older folks, gifts tend to fall into one of two categories.  Stuff they don’t want, and stuff you can’t afford.  Which explains why on Christmases-past you may have wanted an HDTV, but instead exclaimed, “Yay! Socks!” while quietly dying a little bit inside.

Retailers recognized this problem, and in recent years the advent of e-commerce and online wish lists have made things easier for shoppers to buy gifts people actually desire and value.  In theory, you just hit up your intended’s Amazon Wish List and select from the bounty of gifts he or she has expressed an interest in…  And a couple of clicks later, you’re done.  Which would be bloody brilliant except that most of us don’t bother adding things to our wish lists.  All of which earns us the ire of our loved ones who berate us for depriving them of the opportunity to conveniently show us how much they love us.

So now, instead of struggling to find the perfect gift for Mom, you struggle to find the perfect gift for Mom to give you.  It’s not clear this is better.  And whatever element of surprise there was in the giving of gifts has vanished.  “Oh look!  The new razor I picked out for me.  What a splendid wrapping job you did on it.  Is there any pie left?”

It’s tempting to argue that maybe us older folks should just mutually agree to wallow in each other’s company, embrace the warmth and the strength of our familial bonds, and forgo the whole gift exchange… but apparently that’s just crazy talk.  “These are traditions dammit, and it wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t get to open something.  So, just shut your heretical pie hole and tell me what to buy you!”

Looking at the evolution of gift giving on Christmas we see the following progression of things we give to others to celebrate the day:

• Myrrh from afar or the occasional drum solo
• Small handmade crafts, toys, or edible treats
• Small elf-made crafts or toys
• Thoughtfully or desperately chosen commercially produced stuff
• Commercially produced stuff chosen by the giftee

Our entire economy is now dependent on Christmas shopping, so we can’t return to just offering each other a little pa-rum-pum-pum-pum without risking a collapse of the entire stock market, and I am not living through 2009 again.  Instead, let’s push this forward.  I think it’s time we move this along to its next evolutionary stage.

Why don’t we all just take responsibility for not only selecting, but for purchasing and wrapping gifts for ourselves from all our loved ones.  Just put their name on it and place it under the tree.  This is a sure way to restore the magic of the day, or at least the element of surprise.  Sure, you’ll still know everything you’re getting, but you’ll have no idea what you’ve given.  Maybe you’ll choose to have the whole family chip in on that TV.  Maybe they’ll each give you an individually wrapped Oreo.  Have you been naughty or nice this year? Who knows?  You do!  (Certainly they don’t.)  Oh, the fun of Christmas morning is back.

Who’s with me?

It's just a bend to the right... And then a crash to the le-e-e-e-ft.

I’m scouring the paper this morning looking for police reports of yelling and other peace disturbing behavior coming from the home of a local elderly couple.  But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

You see, I live near the Erie Canal, and there are several elevated one-lane bridges that are still the main way to get from here to there.  These bridges usually have blind approaches, and so have their own protocols for who gets the right-of-way and who has to back-up and yield the bridge.

Usually this works without a hitch, but last night, one old lady and a particularly non-linear bridge approach combined for a physical comedy routine that was funny and painful at the same time.

On this particular bridge, you need to bear to the right as you approach, which the old lady did with aplomb. However, as she reached the bridge, she found me about ready to exit the bridge on her side.

As per the protocol, and without hesitation, she popped her car in reverse to yield the bridge.  She needed to back up about 10 feet while steering gently back around the curvy apron in order to let me by.  Easy-Peasy… or not.

Instead, she backed up twice that distance while keeping her wheel dead straight, meaning that she now blocked the entire street.  My son and I watched as her head flipped back and forth and the reality of her current predicament settled in.

As we all know, nothing solves a problem like doing more of what you’ve been doing, but doing it harder and faster.  So with renewed zeal, the sedan starts again down the hill… on a straight trajectory… heading toward the guardrail on my side of the road.  The car jerked slightly to the left and right as the woman tried to see over each shoulder in turn. Yet she remained oblivious to the the outcome that was obvious to me as well as the cars now queued at the bottom of the hill behind her. We all watched, helpless, as the stupidity unfolded.

It was just a Yakkity Sax soundtrack from watching a Benny Hill skit.  Traffic was frozen as the car stuttered towards its demise.  There was nothing to do but add voice-over commentary for my son. “No! Stop! Turn right! DOH!”

It didn’t take too long before the sound of metal-on-metal filled the evening air as the driver’s side of her car was molded to the unyielding guardrail.  I expected to see a look of horror and/or panic on the poor woman’s face, but the incident didn’t appear to register.  In fact, she even gassed the car a bit to make sure it was firmly seated against the rail before making her next move.

Fortunately, her next move was forward, a direction that she was more comfortable with.  She managed to pull the car back to her side of the road and come to a stop.  And trust me, no one else on the road last night was going to move until she finally came to a complete stop.

We rolled past her, looking at all the crinkly sheet metal.  I gazed at her face to see if she was okay after her ordeal, but from her expression you couldn’t tell that this wasn’t just another trip to the grocery store.  Who knows?  Maybe it was.  Maybe this was not an atypical bridge negotiation for her.  Maybe that’s why I didn’t see a police report in the paper about her yelling husband.  Maybe.

I’m a hero.  And no, I don’t mean I’m a long tubular sandwich, although the fact that I’m not should put to rest once and for all the notion that you are what you eat.  I mean I’m now an actual American hero. I’m in league with the likes of John Glenn, Abraham Lincoln, and Superman.  My time has come.  I have arrived.

I know I’m a hero because I’ve been recognized by a major celebrity on national television as one of our nation’s heroes.  And it only cost me $50.

This screen capture came from last night’s Colbert Report where Stephen faithfully acknowledges those who contribute to his SuperPAC by shamelessly pandering to them.  This is also evidence that I’ve fulfilled the promise I made to my kids last month that if I was lucky enough to sell my ancient boat for a fair price that I’d send a donation to the organization dedicated to making a better tomorrow tomorrow.  Done and done.

It’s not at all clear my kids really care about this, nor is there any obvious connection between boat sales and snarky political activism.  It’s perhaps more that I’m prone to the unwarranted linking of disparate thoughts running through my brain after 11pm.  But at least I follow through on them.

One of the joys of working from home is that my post-alarm clock commute time is about two and a half minutes.  About two minutes of that involves stopping in the kitchen to put the coffee on before stumbling down to my office.

Sitting bleary-eyed in my office this morning I had already managed to fat-finger in a couple of passwords and comb through the email that had accumulated since the end of the day yesterday.  It was a promising and not atypical start.

Sensing the coffee should be about done, I ambled back up the stairs to the kitchen only to discover to my horror that my mug was missing from its perpetual perch next to the coffee maker.  A quick check of the cupboard and the dishwasher to be sure I hadn’t accidentally washed it… but yup, it was gone.  My mind reeled.  I began entertaining the notion that someone broke into my house overnight, passed up all the computer equipment and the big flat screen TV, and made off with my vintage Digital Equipment Corporation coffee mug.  At the moment, it was my best working theory.

It did cross my mind that I could pour a cup into one of the other dozen mugs in the cupboard… but that was just crazy talk.  Shaken, I wandered back to the office… coffeeless.  Maybe I could Google police reports to see if there had been any other mug thefts reported in the area.

As I set there pondering my plight, the heady aroma of fresh coffee wafted by my nose.  It was then that I noticed a hot cup of Joe, in my precious DEC mug, resting on the corner of the desk.  I didn’t know who stole my mug last night, but I was grateful the pangs of guilt made them bring it back, and returning it full was a thoughtful touch.

It’s almost noon now, and having finished the pot, and possessing a lucidity that earlier evaded me, I’m loathe to admit my earlier analysis of the situation may have been flawed.  So now I’m wondering how to solve the coffee bootstrap problem.  Apparently, I need to work on a new caffeine delivery system that will allow me to be conscious enough prior to having my coffee that I might function adequately enough to actually get it.  I can’t risk another morning like this one.

Who knew Reagan was a MaSheen?

I was reading a somewhat interesting article on my computer called “The Backfire Effect,” when my 16-year old son wandered into the room.  He did what he always does… made a lazy circle around behind me and perused whatever was on my screen.

It just so happened, I was far enough down the page that the picture of Reagan (shown to the right) was on the monitor.

It was at that moment I became comforted my boy had not fallen in with any Young Republican groups at school, nor had he been sneaking out at night to attend Tea Party rallies.

He looked at me and said, “Is that Charlie Sheen?”

And I have to admit, there is a resemblance.  Maybe that’s why Reagan has become a sacred idol of the Conservatives.  He’s got tiger blood too.

There is apparently no end to the amount of money people will spend to convince themselves they are doing something about their weight.  Witness, leggings with impregnated caffeine micro-capsules, designed to slim inches off your hips and thighs.

The marketing premise is that the micro-capsules are essentially made of Shea-butter with a metabolism boosting caffeine center.  As you walk around during the day, (Wait! you still have to walk?) your natural body heat melts the Shea butter which is absorbed into your skin along with the caffeine.  The result being that you’re then delightfully jittery with smooth supple legs.  Or maybe your cottage cheese riddled butt is now just sloshing around inside greasy skin tight pants all day.  I report, you decide.

These puppies will set you back $70, and according to the instructions should be worn 8 hours/day, 5 days/week , for a month to get the full benefit.  This means you’ll need several pair, or you’re gonna work up a funk by month’s end that will make your weight problems the least of your anti-social attributes.  P.T. Barnum was right.

Yet, don’t get me wrong, the notion of clothes with built in aerobic benefit is brilliant.  But rather than caffeine, they should have gone with “Ants in the Pants“.  Let’s be honest, you get a few dozen creepy-crawlies toolin’ around your tuckus and you will be out of your chair and dancing in no time.  Feel the burn.

You realize it is April 1st, right?

An FDA advisory committee is evaluating the strength of the evidence surrounding a link between food dyes and behavior changes in children.  Scientists and academics are accusing the dyes of exacerbating hyperactivity in children and are advocating for a ban on the eight dyes they claim are dangerous.

Sarah Palin was quick to dismiss the finding saying:

Those ivory tower elites just think they know everything.  How dare they accuse our Froot Loops of exacerbating? There’s no call for that sort of language. I think maybe, you know, they’re the ones doing that, and if they don’t cut it out they’ll go blind.

Glenn Beck was also on the defensive as he accused the FDA of kowtowing to First Lady Michele Obama’s food Nazi agenda. He asserted that Skittles were the last line of defense against the rising tide of socialist Muslim oppressors intent on taking our freedoms away.  Beck then waxed poetical, paraphrasing Pastor Martin Niemoller.

First they came for the saccharine,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a coffee drinker.

Then they came for the trans-fats,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a McDonald’s customer.

Then they came for the red dye 40,
and I didn’t speak out because I wasn’t a Pop-Tart eater.

Then they came for my high fructose corn syrup
and there was nothing left to eat.

Beck then went on to note that this country was founded on corn.  Our founding fathers recognized corn was God’s gift to them.  It was fuel, food, oil, sugar, and vegetable.  John Addams called corn “American manna.”  Beck reminded that the Indians didn’t want us to have corn and tried to confuse our ancestors by calling it maize.  He said, this is why we make corn mazes every fall, to honor the confusion and disorientation the pioneers suffered at the hands of the cruel Indians.  Beck concluded, “And you know who else hated corn?  Hitler!”

Politicians were also quick to rise up against the outrageous actions of the FDA.  Rep. Mike Pence (R-IN) introduced yet another rider to the 2011 budget prohibiting the FDA from using federal funds to restrict food additives whose primary purpose was aesthetic.  Pence claimed America has the single greatest looking snack foods God ever gave man on this Earth, and he would not sit idly by and let our Twinkies take a back shelf to Chinese knock-offs.

House Majority Leader Eric Cantor’s office also released a statement that he was backing a no-bid contract with Haliburton to lease America’s Ritalin riddled children as part of the GOP’s green energy plan.  The press release said this is not the time to be thinking about reducing the hyperactivity of our youth. We cannot possibly cut our addiction to Middle Eastern oil on hamster power alone.  Experiments at powering wheels with seniors in exchange for Medicare coverage didn’t pan out.  It turns out, arthritic men with heart conditions simply can’t sustain the velocity needed for reliable electricity production.  Cantor emphasized, “Children are our future.”

Christine O’Donnell added, “It’s just food coloring people, not witchcraft.”

Even sweet old ladies can be driven over the edge by tech frrustration.

I stopped to get gas today, and pulled up to the pump behind an old lady who seemed to be having some trouble.  As I was parking I witnessed her jam her card in the pump, then whack the pump selector button somewhat indelicately. This was followed by a repeated two-handed thrust of the pump nozzle into her car, into the pump, and then back again… and again, as if she was the center attraction in some weird mechanical ménage à trois.

What stuck me was not the rage against the machine, but that this sweet little woman would have looked right at home at a church social, undoubtedly uttered the phase, “Well aren’t you a dear,” several times a day, and couldn’t have weighed 100 pounds soaking wet and carrying a bowling ball.

Stepping out of my truck I called forward, “Would you like some help?” She turned toward me, muttering something about the kid inside the store not doing his job.  She then returned to her jamming, whacking, and thrusting.

I set my pump up to run and she was still at it—a relentless geriatric machine.  I called forward again, trying to be helpful. “Did you answer all the questions on the screen?”  Her head pivoted my way again.  She stopped momentarily, considering my words.  She glanced back at the pump, then flung open her car door to retrieve her glasses.  You could feel the tension in the air as she squinted at the pump.

“Why the hell do they need me to answer questions? They have my damned card!”  And undeterred, she jammed, whacked, and thrusted again.

I finally decided to intervene anyway, and approached her.  “Here, let me try,” I offered, and I pressed the cancel button on the pump thinking we’d start over.  But before the pump had a chance to reset… you guessed it… jam, whack, thrust.

“I don’t know why it’s got to be so damned complicated,” she said with exasperation.

“Let’s just start over,” I said a bit more firmly while taking the nozzle from her hand.  I reset the pump with an eye out this time for any flailing hands, asked her to put her card in again, then asked if she wanted a receipt.  Once the pump was operating I told her I thought she was all set and returned to finish filling my own vehicle.

As I was walking back I could hear her mutter, “That’s the last damn time I let him tell me to stop for gas. It’s not my job!”

I’m sure she was grateful in her own way… and I do not envy her husband when she gets back home.  This is one sweet old lady you do not want to piss off.

Tiffany Booth says the pole is her temple.

Church-going women are spinning and slithering around poles in the quaint turn-of-the-century Houston suburb called Old Town Spring. While pole dancing fitness classes are gaining in popularity nationwide, the women in this group claim the stripper poles bring them closer to God.

Not surprisingly, the Christian gift shop owners next door and the community in general are a bit less open minded. Dee Bovati, who owns the Lord and Nature gift shop says, “We have to watch those boundaries that we cross over and not allow the enemy to take it in another direction.” After all, Satan is long and lean, and apparently made of brass.

Meanwhile, pole dancing instructor Crystal Dean says, “God gives us these bodies and they are suppose to be our temples and we are suppose to take care of them and that’s what we are doing.”

By all accounts, pole dancing is great exercise, and there’s nothing sacrilegious about keeping your body toned and healthy.  But it does take a fair bit of rationalization for dancers like Tiffany Booth to claim that pole dancing, even when set to Christian music, creates a spiritual connection to the Lord and makes her feel closer to God.  Although, maybe it’s God who is long and lean, and made of brass.

Clearly some force is flowing through those poles. After all, the Best Shape of your Life studio only holds Pole Fitness for Jesus classes on the second Sunday of each month. And if attending a fitness class once a month keeps you in shape, that’s clearly an indication of divine intervention.  So God’s hand is in this somewhere.

While you were off at work, your Roomba got freaky with your video camera and now Samsung is selling their unnatural hybrid love-child.  The TangoView is a robotic vacuum cleaner with built in web-based remote control, video surveillance camera, and external lighting.

The  mechanical chimera prowls your house looking for dust, Cheerios, pet hair, and prowlers.  In the event it encounters an intruder the unit is able to helpfully illuminate the area being looted and then clean up after the thief.

Perhaps the only practical use for this odd amalgamation of tech is that you can now terrorize the cat from the comfort of your office.  This should provide a nice diversion from an otherwise grueling day of checking Facebook and updating your Twitter feed.

Don’t hesitate. Order yours today. For only $711 you can say to the world, “I make more money than I know what to do with!”