Just two or three of my favorite things ever in the whole history of the world.

Debbie Harry and Kermit lift my cold, gnarled knob of a heart.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

That song is one of the most irritating holiday songs ever penned. You're welcome. I know you wanted an earworm for Christmas.



Here's what I got:

-Ironman. You knew it. I knew it. There was not a way that this movie was not turning up. It was one movie that surprised me with its goodness this year; everything else was more or less exactly what I expected. I still feigned surprise, and Cap'n Jack saw right through me.

-New knives. They are lovely, but I only use three of the ones I have already with any regularity. I think these will not be used half as much as the giver intended. I apologize.

-A sparkly purple box. I asked what was intended to go inside it, and HRH replied, "Your THINGS." Oh. Sorry. How could I have asked such a ridiculous question?

-A sweet, meandering conversation with the man I hesitate to put a label on. It was not long enough by half, but it went a long way to luring the proverbial lemur into the light. It also made me long for his face and his hand to hold, but I will take whatever crumbs the universe tosses me at this point.

- A rousing game of Zombie Beauty Shop. This consists of sitting in a tiny purple playhouse, training a fake hairdryer on a ridiculous toy purse-dog, and alternatively shouting, "BRAAAAAINSSSS!" and attempting to lick the wriggling child opposite you. It is the best game ever invented, especially if it makes your eldest child shriek, "Quit staring at my forehead! You're freaking me out!"

I hope you got the things you wanted the most off your list, and I hope that you had your own Zombie Beauty Shop moment. Someday, your loved ones will be able to look back and say, "We're not sure why we love you so much. You are a sick individual." And that is the best present you can get.

Now stop complaining I never get you a present.

Stella is sorry you didn't get everything you wanted, as she did not wake up under anyone's tree with a bow on her head. Maybe next year...

Wishlist

Okay, grinches, I get it. You are fed up with the crass commercialism of the holiday. You are disgusted that you feel obligated to buy the $12.98 dried fruit basket shrinkwrapped in the aisle closest to the register at Rite Aid while you're picking up antacid to see you through another soul-sucking office Christmas shindig. You don't know the person whose name you picked in the Secret Santa exchange, and you'd rather spend the $15 allotted for their present on two sophisticated cocktails at the salsa bar down the street. You hate that inane Alvin and the Chipmunks song that is playing on the radio with the same frequency as Maoist propaganda in Cold War China. You have been over it since finding out the truth about Kris Kringle when you were eleven.

Quit ruining it for the rest of us. Some of us are ready to surrender to the jingle jangle, and I don't want you pissing on my sparkle. If you are going to fly into a tirade at the mere mention of mistletoe, eggnog, or good cheer perhaps you should go someplace else for a little while, because it's time for my letter to Santa.

Dear Santa,
Remember two years ago? Because I do. I never did get the complete Sun Records Story, although I can forgive that because I have managed to cobbled together most of the most important or interesting bits. Actually, I didn't get my motorcycle jacket that year, either. OR my stereo receiver. That motorcycle jacket is still on my list.

Also on my list this year, Santa, is the Fishman ProPlat Bass Preamp. The longer I play with my set-up, the more convinced I become that I could use a little more control than I have. This would do the trick nicely. Of course, I would accept the Boss TU-2 tuner, because using a handheld tuner on a dark stage is for the birds.

While we're on the subject of my bass, I'm ready for an upgrade. I really love the vintage Kays (here's Bill Black with his) and American Standards, but I really want a King Double Bass 1/2 size Sparkleking. I thought I wanted a cherry candy coat over gold diamond flake, but lately I have been thinking about how cool it would be to have a sunburst, cherry into black or wine into black over a metal flake. That would be so pretty I would sleep with it every night. And I know it's custom work, but you and Brad at King are tight, right? I mean, you are both in the business of making people's dreams come true.

I know that it's a bit of a cliche, and that apparel with flash on it is losing its edge (thanks a million, Hot Topic!), but I still think these are the bomb. I would wear them every day. Or, you know. When the occasion warranted.

You know my favorite author is Neil Gaiman, right? I still only have the first four Sandman collections. And Mr. Punch is one I have searched for unsuccessfully: it's finally back in stock at Amazon, so that's one less thing in the elf sweatshop. Um. Factory, I mean.

I could prattle on and on about the things I want, but what I want more than anything is some lemur chow. You and I both know we're not talking about banana slices. I need enough to share; there is more than one now.

Seriously, though, Santa, I know as well as anyone that Christmas is not about the ribbons and wrappings or the presents inside. The real Grinch taught us that many years ago. No, Christmas is about staying in your pajamas all day and eating chocolate for breakfast and curling up in a huge pile under blankets on the couch to read all the books that Santa brought you while sipping hot cocoa. It's about being forced into scratchy starched shirts to take pictures and eat dinner while your cousins decimate one anothers' brand new toys. It's about believing in a palpable magic - you did come, you DID! It's about joy existing. If there is a prayer I could offer up for the season - and you must know that I am not the praying kind - I would ask: Let me be the vehicle for joy.

this was last year. I imagine this year will look much the same.

Bless us, every one.

Spooked

Sometimes there are real predators. Sometimes they are shadows and rustles in the grass. A smart primate must learn to distinguish between danger which is imagined, and danger which is real. You know what helps? Someone to confer with. Thank heavens there are two of us.

-you hear something?
-no. did you?
-nope.

You know what else helps? According to A., good warm soup, a hand-knit sweater, and staying out of the rain.

I only sort of love the sushi.

I have concluded that the real reason I always want to go to Little Tokyo instead of ordering in like a normal person is because of my love of craptacular music and their commitment to showcasing it while I consume my tekka maki and miso soup. What I mean to say is, the restaurant never disappoints when it comes to reaching in my head to get the scratchy FM station of my childhood and play it out loud. On Friday, HRH and I had ourselves a little lunch date, and I was treated to a guilty pleasures playlist that even I would never admit to aloud.


Doesn't it seem like playing the drums on a bar of soap might be sort of a risky proposition?


Seriously, this man claims to have slept with thousands of women. Thousands. This guy. Yeah.


This is not from my childhood, but it does play on the radio in my mind. And that hat. Oh, that hat!

Okay, this is the part where Youtube fails us by not allowing embedding. This song is a pivotal piece of instrumentation from my tender years, having formed the basis to a fifth grade talent show dance act complete with neon pink stretch pants and, if I am not not mistaken, headbands and huge sneakers. I could write a whole post just about this song and its attendant video... the sweet falsetto stylings of El DeBarge, the faux calypso keyboard work, the Jheri-curl mullets, the ballet dancers dressed as hookers dancing in front of the malt shop, the fedoras!, the unlikelihood of those boys cruising the strip in THAT CAR... And there's blue screen work at the end. Just go watch it. Go see for yourself.


This man, on the other hand, has never touched a naked woman. I know, weird, right?


Amy Winehouse WISHES.


I always wanted to steam up a man's glasses. I still do.


I had no idea this song was about roller skating.

I really had no idea what would pop up next, unlike Soft Rock Cliche Day, and I was not anxious to find out. If I had my druthers, though, maybe a little Madonna back when she was still fun instead of work?

Plus, MORE HATS!