American Fez

Goodbye 2006

New Numerology

Gesundheit 451: the total number of times a dragon must sneeze before he can completely engulf in flames all the unsold piles of Eragon merchandise reduced for sale in my local bookstore.

Et In Arcadia Lego

Christmas is dead.
The new toys are already broken.
Memento mori (batteries not included):
Et In Arcadia Lego.

The Artisan

In desperate need of creative diversion, my inner-craftsman persuaded me to take up glass blowing. So far I can only produce a sort of smudgy mist on the pane. Not very decorative. But I can at least sign my work by writing on it with a finger. It may not be common knowledge, but glass blowing is actually extremely dangerous, especially if the blower lives above the third floor. I have nearly fallen out of the window twice already. I am trying to make a vase.

T.S. Eliot's Christmas

Twas The Wasteland Before Christmas

Christmas Eve is the quietest night
No beast stirs beneath floorboards, creaking
Not even The Kraken, lurking.
Stockings hang as did the unrepentant thief
Stille nacht heilige nacht
Chimney hollow, ho-ho, hollow, ho-ho
Hark, the fatman cometh.

Somnus, thy children slumber soundly, dreaming
Of sugar plums that explode, kitchenward
Where Mama shrouded in her 'kerchief, and I
In the Bellman's cap, take our wintry nap.

A-ding-ling-ling-a-ling dong.

(Vivienne, Vivienne ....Vivienne?
Did you devour the last segment of Terry's Chocolate Orange
Already?)

Oh tannenbaum oh tannenbaum
Merry xmas Jesophaia
I already have this Luciano Pavarotti CD
But ta muchly anyway.
Hosanna kneedeep in excelsis Deo
Deo, day-ay-ay-o!
Daylight come and we wanna open presents.

The Gift That Also Receives

What can you possibly buy the girl who has everything? The answer, obviously, is somewhere to put it. This is why I always give the gift of storage.
Last Christmas Eve, for instance, while she was at work, I removed all of Queenie's furniture from her apartment and took it over to mine. When she came home - "Merry Christmas!" - there were no more cumbersome antique armchairs cluttering up her living room, and that unwieldy Regency armoire wasn't taking up valuable space in her boudoir anymore.
Of course, such a gift doesn't cost me any money, but it's the thought that counts as we all know. Indeed, her friends told me later that Queenie actually wept openly when she came home and mentally unwrapped the gloriously empty space she could now live in. Although that wasn't the impression I got from her. In fact Queenie called up later that very night, asking me if she could return her gift immediately. Rather rude, considering the effort I had put into picking it out. Naturally, I tried to talk her out of this rash and ungrateful course of action: You might like my gift better in the morning, I told her, so why don't you sleep on it, because that's exactly what I'm doing right now. Then I hung up the phone, rolled over and went back to sleep on my new four poster bed.
Christmas morning, in addition to the sparkling furniture under the tree and scattered elsewhere around my apartment, I awoke to discover the local Police Department Choir at my door singing that old traditional English hymn, "Plod Arrest Ye Merry Gentleman." I don't know. It seems that no good deed goes unpunished, even at Christmas.

Christmas Musicke

In the spirit of Desert Island Discs, here are my Lowly Cattle Shed Discs for the holiday season. In other words, if I were stuck in some miserable, dung-filled shack on Christmas Eve with a pregnant woman, these are the tunes I'd be listening to.

Trad: I Saw Three Ships
I've always wondered about this song because, I mean, so you saw three ships come sailing by on Christmas day in the morning. Like ... who cares? Big deal. I saw a bowl of figs and a moldy tangerine on Christmas day in the morning but I don't go writing high-pitched songs about it, do I.

Trad: The Holly and Ivy
A great carol because despite the title and chorus the verses don't mention ivy at all. Not one word about the ivy! The actual lyrics are all about holly! Should have just been called "The Holly" if you ask me.

Mykola Dmytrovich Leontovych: The Carol of the Bells
Quasimodo's least famous Christmas carol. Interesting tune, but for some reason it sounds to me like the background music for someone going insane.

Peter Warlock: Bethlehem Down
Rather depressing tune to traditional words written by a suicide whose real name was Philip Heseltine. He was caricatured by Aldous Huxley in 'Antic Hay' and described in Anthony Powell's memoirs as "mephistolean". Bethlehem Down? Well, the song doesn't bring you "up" that's for sure.

The Fall: No Xmas For John Quays
Over a cacaphonic background of poorly played instruments, Mark E. Smith delivers his seasonal harangue about a man in room with needle in his arm not receiving any Yuletide comfort or joy. Available on the CD called "Totale's Turns." There's another song called "Choc Stock" on the album, which, although it's not about Christmas, is about chocolate.

John Mason Neale: Good King Wenceslas
Mentions the "Feast of Stephen" which is obviously the best kind of feast you can celebrate. But otherwise has little to recommend it. Still, much better than most Christmas songs, I suppose.

William Dix: What Child Is This?
Oh come on! Take a wild guess. What child do you think it is for Christsakes!

The Road Not Taken

Directions. Surely it is rude to fingerpost, so follow your nose; the route snoot; coming, runny or not.
How the West was won, how the South was lost, how the North was divided, and how the East really didn't matter very much to anyone in particular. Er, is this the way to Valparaiso? I seem to be lost in the dire straits of Magellan.

CNN Xmas

Since the only news these days is either Iraq news or celebrity news, I thought we could simplify our coverage of such current events by dispatching all the celebrities to Iraq, thereby creating a sort of simple, single paragraph news digest type thingy, as in: "This morning in Iraq twelve celebrities were kidnapped from the green room compound in Basra. They were cast members of the popular, long running soap opera, Afraid For Our Lives. A spokesman from the Ford Talent Agency told reporters that if the celebrities were not freed within the next twenty-four hours then the show producers would just be simply forced to hire another load of blonde bimbo actors and actresses to do the parts. The show must go on, he added, in no uncertain terms. Our programming schedule and Fall line will not be held hostage by these anti-entertainment insurgents."

... Six Twits A-Paying; Five Gold Cards; Four Dollars Left; Etc

Oh dear. Yet another credit card purchase today: eighty dollars worth of celebrity fragrance. When the evil January statement arrives my personal  financial Esmerelda shall no doubt find me leaping about the house from bookcase to armchair like Quasimodo, a demented look upon my face, shrieking "The Bills! The Bills!"

Black Messiah

As we immerse ourselves in this Christmassy season of greens and reds, it seems the air often turns blue with silver-tongued debate about Jesus being black ... or white. Certainly, one could pen reams and reams of purple prose on the subject of exactly what shade the Saviour might have been, but the actual skin color of the Messiah will always remain a grey area. Personally, I've always imagined the Christ child as boasting a very becoming medium eggshell tone with taupe hair. Mind you, I suppose the as seen-through-rose-tinted-glasses, politically correct verdict is to announce that Mary's son was supernaturally multi-hued when in the manger, perhaps exhibiting a slightly yellowish highlight across his nose caused by the glow from the gift of gold deposited beside his simple, brown wooden crib by the Three Kings of Orient. But, you know, at the end of the day, I really couldn't give a zebra's turd about any of it.

Fabulous Gift Ideas

As usual, this holiday season I am making available my fine collection of lovingly hand-published books. I am sure one of these handsome tomes will be a fine addition to that empty area beneath the Christmas tree. All of these beautiful volumes are bound in sumptuous, plague-free rat skin leather and cost $19.99 excluding shipping and handling. Orders received by December 3rd will be dispatched in mid January. So brighten your family's Christmas morning by telling them that a couple of these delightful books will be delivered in a few weeks time, subject to availability and applicable state fair-trading laws.

The Resentful Dog
A beautifully illustrated tale of a large bulldog called Rambo who awakens on Christmas morning to discover that his owners have forgotten to leave any presents for him beneath the tree. In retaliation he savages Auntie Agnes to death with his viciously razor-like jaws.

So, My Little Ones, You Never Thought You'd Hear From Uncle Herod Again
A charming pop-up book for children of all ages that follows the colorful adventures of maniacal monarch Uncle King Herod as he victimizes the local kids with a yet another seasonal bloodbath.

But Where Will The Fat People Live?
Evil Squire Scrawn has been narrowing cottage doorways in the village. Can Friar Plumpo crush him to death before it is too late? All will be revealed in this, the first installment of the justly celebrated "What About All The Fat People?" series of gripping adventure tales featuring overweight ecclesiastical sleuth Friar Plumpo and his heavenly sidekick, Saint Obesia.

Alyosius Shits By Candlelight
One fro the children. A heartwarming tale in which little bow-legged Alyosius learns all about potty training from a farmyard goat that talks. Unfortunately, the goat must also tell Alyosius that he is dying from Goat Leukemia.

Jane Austen's Poorly Knee
While researching the life of the glamorous 18th century romantic poet Rupert Boore, busty Oxford professor Joanne de Crappe-Scollar unearths secret correspondence between Boore's mother and Jane Austen revealing that Jane Austen may have grazed her knee once while bending down to pick up a piece of needlework on a visit to Primly House in Somerset. A treat for all Jane Austen fans or anyone else who is a sucker for this sort of crap.

Christmas at St. Obesia's

Every December 12th, Friar Plumpo withdraws the Holy Christmas Fat from its reliquary and places the blessed blubber upon the altar. Hymns are sung, degrees of wobble are ascertained, and more drippings are ladeled upon the quivering mound. His appointment as Keeper of the Holy Christmas Fat is a position of sacred trust that Friar Plumpo does not take lightly. Indeed, some observers often remark that Friar Plumpo exhibits a rather unbecoming solemn and sanctimonous air. A holier-than-thou "I've read the Bible more times than you've had turnip soup" sort of smug, hair-shirt wearing, self-flagellating superiority that makes his fellow monks want to break their vows of silence and tell it to Friar Plumpo like it is. Fortunately the smell of the Holy Christmas Fat serves to remind those agitated brethren that Christmas is a season of peace and goodwill to all men - even pharisaical wankers like Friar Plumpo - and so an atmosphere of beatific calm finally prevails during the ceremony:
... "And the Angel of the Lord did giveth unto Obesia a goose. And then the Angel of the Lord said, Hark Obesia, Christmas is coming and goose is as thin as a rake. Pray thou then for a gift of fat from the heavens, else ye and thine shalt not have enough to go around. And then Obesia prayed for twelve days and twelve nights and suddenly there was a great oozing and a lump of lard appeared beside him.
And the Angel of the Lord said, here is a lump of lard numbering six thousand and eighty six calories..."
And it is this holy heap of fat that the monks of Saint Obesia's have honored every December 12th ever since.

The Birds of Christmas

Despite the divine aura of peace and goodwill to all men that bathes the Christ child's manger with hope and unconditional love, it is worth remembering that those poor dumb animals who surrounded it on that wondrous starlit night were later slaughtered and turned into Sadducee sausages, Bethlehem burgers and Biblical foods like that. It may well have been a silent night, as the carol singers claim, but morning was undoubtedly filled with the screams of butchered beasts.
This is why my family always celebrates a purely non-violent vegetarian Christmas dinner of boiled cabbage and carrots only. We do devour a succulent roasted goose, too, obviously, stuffed with foie gras, but that's because birds don't count since they play no part in the birth of Jesus at all. At least I can find no reference to our so-called "feathered friends" in any of the accounts of the Nativity I've read.  Apparently the creatures of the air offered absolutely zero assistance to Mary, Joseph and the infant Saviour in their hour of need. It's feathered fairweather friends more like! - so to Hell with them. Turn the oven up to full power.

Merry Gentlemen

Today I embarked the prickly process of distributing my priceless seasonal ornaments around the house. Alas, the elf figurines from my Santa's Workshop got mixed up with the Dickens Christmas Village collectibles, creating an undesirable "Lord of the Old Curiosity Shop" type effect. Still, it's better than parading an army of those vicious-looking Nutcracker soldiers around the fireplace with their weird cylinder-shaped heads and evil grins - or even kiln-dried effigies of Santa Claus for that matter. Too modern for me. In our house we follow the ancient Yuletide Norse tradition of watching the late December skies for signs of Odin riding his eight-legged horse across the stars, sack of bread slung over his great shoulders, dropping loaves of bread on unsuspecting Vikings. Then we string glittery tinsel and twinky lights around the branches of Yggdrasil and go to bed.

Baby's First Christmas

One of the truly magical aspects of baby's first Christmas is that he won't know what it's all about, which means you don't have to buy him anything. Baby's ignorance can be your financial bliss so why add another name to your already extensive shopping list if you don't need to? In fact, fiscally responsible parents understand that keeping their children in the dark about Christmas for as long as possible pays enormous economic dividends. Look at this way, sooner or later your little so-and-so is going to discover that Santa Claus doesn't exist, so why bother to tell him about the irresponsible fat fool in the first place? Let's face facts, if baby is completely ignorant about Santa Claus he certainly won't be expecting any expensive toys to arrive on Christmas morning. A penny saved is a penny earned, if you know what I mean. In fact, smart moms and dads can even earn a little extra Yuletide cash for themselves by hiring their newborn out to local nativity plays for fifty bucks per show. Easy money and wonderful Christmas memories can be enjoyed by following these simple, super-saver festive tips. Feliz navidad, from the bottom of my heart.

Unsavory Foods of Christmas Past

If you ask me, only maniacs like Ali Baba and Lawrence of Arabia eat dates, yet for some reason my parents would regularly purchase a box of these disgusting, beetley brown "fruits" every Christmas. As I recall, 'they" were packaged in a balsa wood box featuring an illustration of an emaciated and sorry-looking camel. Festive fare? Yes, if you've decorated your toilet bowl with tinsel and candy canes. The annual appearance of small, rhomboid-shaped lumps of multicolored marzipan was another affront to my seasonal dignity. I've always thought that marzipan possesses similar Yuletide qualities to those vibrant red berries that grow on holly branches: both are cheerfully colorful, both are probably poisonous and will make you violently ill.
There was one Christmas I remember, in particular. It must have been the winter of '82. The snows were especially heavy that year, and so, equipped with an enormous sack of chestnuts, I camped out beside a raging fire that I had purposefully kindled in my portable brazier. After commandeering a Salvation Army choir that had been caroling on the street corner, and wrapping myself safely and securely in an old Eskimo blanket, I began the time honored process of roasting the chestnuts on the open fire. I'd probably only roasted about two or three before I felt a sharp pain in my nose. It was then that I noticed Jack Frost hovering several inches in front of my face, his vicious fangs dripping with fresh blood. Needless to say, I didn't wish that brute "Merry Christmas" at any time at all during his disgraceful attack on my person, nor were seasonal greetings of any kind conveyed to him in anyway whatsoever.
So there you have it: the Unsavory Foods of Christmas Past. I tell you, that's why these days I just make do with a large goose stuffed with caviar which I wash down with a bottle of port and call it a day.

Advent Thoughts

The Three Kings: Yet Another Frank Reappraisal

I mean, what sort of maniac would ride unprotected across the lawless desert and then simply stroll into some lowly cattle shed with an armful of gold? It's a wonder the Kings weren't mugged on the journey! Would have served them right! No. That can't be right. I mean, not only were they Three Kings of Orient, they were also Three Wise Men to boot, so they can't have been that naiive.
This is why I believe - although many Biblical scholars will dispute this - that the gold really was a group gift from all three Kings, and that the frankincense and myrhh were actually ingredients of a primitive form of mace which the three Kings carried to protect themselves against robbers and bandits. After depositing the gold with the holy family, they would obviously have left the frankincense and myrhh in the lowly cattle shed since they did not require it anymore, and the holy family, armed only with a shepherds crook to defend themselves against gold thieves, obviously did.
But here's another thing: after the three Kings had presented their gifts, why did they leave the holy family stranded in the lowly cattle shed with no crib for a bed? Surely it would have been a simple matter for three Kings using their combined influence to find the baby Jesus and his parents a room somewhere. There may have been no room at the Inn, but I am sure the Bethlehem Ritz or a similar establishment could have found a nice little suite if the three Kings had pulled their weight on that starry night. The Three Kings of Orient, indeed! The Three Washouts of Disappointment, more like.

Meanwhile, the brown, frothy flotsam and cinnamon grit in my morning cappuccino are harbingers of the grungy roadside snow sludge to come. And so with a spoon I begin to build Frothy the Snowman in my half-empty cup. Mind you, I suppose the Bethlehem equivalent of our brown snow would have been the massive heaps of sandy camel dung created by the Three Wise Men's moode of transport as they followed their star. So we don't have it all that bad, considering. After all, even Frothy the Snowman is a vast improvement over Filthy the Sandman.

Paleostyle

Of course, besides the invaluable scientific insights it will provide, the best thing about regenerating dinosaurs from fossilized DNA is that important designers like Fendi and Kate Spade will be able to make expensive handbags and shoes out of Tyrannosaurus Rex skin, and then fashionable ladies can conduct rich and absorbing conversations such as:
"Your new feather boa is absolutely divine, Arabella."
"Thank you. It's Pterodactyl by Givenchy."
"Lovely. But I hear that Pterodactyl turns brown and starts to smell after three months."
"Yes, but I'll just throw it away and buy a new one when that happens."
But it is surely the kinky leather S&M "Jurassex Park" crowd who will undoubtedly enjoy the biggest boons. For what disreputable pervert will not want to be seen cavorting about on the Sabre-Toothed Tiger rug while wearing Brontosaurus hide underpants by Big Boy of Bond Street?
... Hmmm. Come to think of it, Extinct has always been one of my favorite words.