Early Detection of Holidays Winding Down

It's one in the morning and I'm dwelling on a couple of problems: ringing in the ears, light-headed, fuzzy-brained, forgot what I was just thinking about, you know, the usual...

oh, and the number of things I've dreamed up that, it turns out, were already in development and were about to make someone else a lot of money. For example, sometime in 1997-98, I had been writing a screenplay, the working title of which was Set. Six months later, The Truman Show was released, with my premise intact...however I had planned for Terry Gilliam to direct mine. Next, I expect to see my Christmas invention in Walmart during the 2005 holiday season. I won't provide the details for my invention here, for obvious reasons.

Yes, I know. What am I waiting for? The real story to start?
"You never stop waiting for the real story to start, because the only real story, in the end, is that you die."
- Johnathan Franzen, "Caught" from The New Yorker

Anyway, the tsunami...hey, that word is more fun to write than it should be...reminds me that we ought to get to work on that Asteroid Early Detection System. Seriously, what the hell would we do if we had, say, a month notice that human life was about to be wiped out? What do you do with a month like that? I mean, Christ Almighty!

So, Happy New Year.

PlastiCity

We use 12 million barrels of oil to manufacture our annual glut of plastic shopping bags. Most plastic bags are made from polyethylene, which is made from crude oil and natural gas. Five of the top six chemicals that the EPA reports generate the most hazardous waste are necessary for plastic production. Plastic bags can take five to ten years to decompose.

Wake up, citizens of PlastiCity! You can do your part, and I don't mean by choosing paper bags either. The answer is so simple: use a sturdy, reusable bag.

I brought a couple of big cloth bags to the grocery store yesterday, and before I could take them out, the cashier was already cramming my stuff into a paper bag inside a plastic bag. "No!" I shouted. "I don't need that!" I turned to get my cloth bags, and turned back to find that he'd removed the paper bag, and had reordered my groceries inside the plastic bag. We've been trained to use plastic bags. It's going to take some readjustment, but we can change for the better! Don't wait for the government to tax or ban plastic bags. Find some big, reusable bags and keep them in your pantry or in the trunk of your Hummer.

For more about recycling and reducing waste, check out these sites:
Consumer Handbook for Reducing Solid Waste
Recycling in Flagstaff

Holiday Giving

In an attempt to spark reaction and foster the holiday spirit of rebellion, I've decided to give away all of my friends' gift-giving secrets:

Al, you're wife is planning to surprise you with a week in Bermuda. She's made all the accomodations and the small box wrapped in green paper contains airline tickets and a certificate from Edgehill Manor.

Kris, on Christmas morning, your husband will tell you to close your eyes. He will guide you to the back door. When you open your eyes, you will see a jacuzzi wrapped in a red bow. The installers will arrive on December 28.

Pete, your entire family has been pretending that you're not going to be exchanging gifts this year. Actually, they've pooled their money and have made a down payment on your dream house in Camden.

John, your worst nightmare is about to come true. Yes, she is coming for the entire weekend.

Sandy, Paul was going to arrive at your apartment on Christmas morning with a bottle of brandy, and then he was going to tell you how he really feels about you. But now he'll probably stay home and rip his retro telephone off of the wall.

Jack, when you disappeared again, we all decided to give ourselves the gift of forgetting that you ever existed in the first place.

As soon as I find out more secrets, I'll post them here. Happy Holidays!

A Holiday Memory

I remember that day the way one remembers dried egg on a dinner fork in a posh restaurant. The shock of it, a revulsion that closes the pores, like fumes in a port-a-john.

Almost ten years ago, I packed the car with Christmas presents and drove off, anticipating a weekend with my wife (with whom relations have been rather strained since the incident I’m about to relate) and her family up North. I drove along the river on a familiar stretch of road, until I reached the main thoroughfare. Here, I’d intended to turn left, as I had many times before, without the aid of the traffic light that would be installed years later. I waited for a break in the flow of traffic and proceeded to make the turn. With a screech of metal, I knew I’d been involved in an accident. Another car had crossed my path, and had scraped the bumper off of my front end. The driver, whose name has been etched on my Plaque of the Damned for all time, was a thumb of a woman in a red exercise suit. She came at me like a Grizzly Bear on the tragic magic, screaming, “Stay right there! Don’t you move!” The proliferation of cell phones had not yet occurred, so she ran to the nearest house to call the police. Meanwhile, I sat, reflecting. The officer ruled the accident “No fault,” and I limped away, my jostled load of shiny presents glowing in the back seat, a lasting tribute to the happy times that might have been.

The day after Christmas, I received a summons in the mail, a gift from the Grizzly. She had lodged a citizen’s complaint against me. To prepare for my day in court, I photographed the crime scene, hoping to prove that the shrieking dervish had been driving well above the speed limit. But as I croaked into the night court microphone, I ran my fingers along the 8x10 glossies so lovingly prepared by my own hands in my closet darkroom. Drained of innocence by the convincing performance of my nemesis, I knew I would never produce the photographic evidence, and I accepted my fate.

“While I’m sure there was no malicious intent,” said the Judge, “I hereby order you to pay the fine.” To complete my humiliation, I wasn’t allowed to leave until I paid $70. Standing there at the pay phone down the hall, an officer of the court at my side, I asked my wife to leave work early and rescue me.

So, every year around this time, I slip into my basement and raise a glass to the memory of the Grizzly as I hover above the mound of dirt at my feet.

Holiday Fear Number 254

I am sitting on the train. Outside, holiday lights blink and blur, and my slumbering childhood stirs in a moment of remembered delight. But the echoes are tempered by urban teenagers who sit across the aisle, their saucy language peppered with explosive laughter. They are intimidating and I am a thread, straining to connect two folds in the world, the dangerous and the magical. It’s a world I wish to share with my young daughter, to introduce her to the enchantment of my youth. Yet I fear this world, where teenagers lurk like demons behind stalagmites, watching and waiting to poison the innocent with the ills of the chaos from which they've sprung.

ATTENTION COLLEGE STUDENTS -

Switch your major to SCIENCE before it's too late!

We are facing a mounting crisis in science and engineering education. If we don't do something soon and dramatic to reverse it, says an expert, we are not going to have the scientific foundation to sustain our high standard of living in 15 or 20 years. Solution: a crash science initiative for alternative energy and conservation to make America energy-independent in 10 years.
Read Tom Friedman's column.

Dressing Down

This morning, a man approached me on the train platform and asked, "You don't have a match, DO you?" Emphasis on DO. Defying me to answer in the affirmative. Why did he assume I didn't have a match? How did he know? Could he tell from the healthy glow of my skin that I'm not a smoker? Even wearing my Friday dress-down jeans and my black Big Smith coat, do I seem to be such a clean square fellow, untainted by the costly allure of the wild tobacky?

Later, while waiting in line at Dunkin' Donuts, I spied a young, White panhandler sitting in a corner. Apparently, he beseeched the woman in front of me, who rebuffed his beggary with an admonishment that nearly elicited my applause. She was Black and she spoke with one of those magnificent Island or African accents as she said, "Don't even ask me. You're young and strong and you can get a job."

After ordering my toasted bagel and green tea, I stood near the young man. "Sir," he said in a half whisper. I wanted to say, "You heard the woman," but I could not muster the energy to respond.