I hate buying gifts for my father. There are more things on his list that he doesn't want us to buy (no golf stuff!) than he does want us to buy (a 4 foot plasma tv. Right). To make matters worse, his birthday is December 31st, so I have do buy him two things. Three if the kids want to give him something separately, which they usually do.

So, what do I buy him this year? I'll tell you a little about him.

Republic. Retired NYC Firefighter. Travels often to make presentations and speeches. Likes biographies and books about history. His favorite movies are War Games and Airplane. Loves the Mets, but I refuse to buy anything with a Met emblem on it. Loves the Jets but doesn't want that public knowledge. Gourmet cook. Wine afficianado. Likes buying gadgets even if he doesn't know how to use them.

Oh, and he has everything.

So, any ideas?

O'Reilly, pissed off that Matt Drudge actually had the audacity to print Bookscan sales figures that showed O'Reilly lagging behind Hilary and Franken, took to the airwaves to air his grievances, a la Festivus:

On his show, O'Reilly called Drudge a "threat to democracy."

On Imus's radio show, O'Reilly said: "There is no other cure than to kill Matt Drudge," and "I just want to tell everybody that Matt Drudge is smoking crack - right now, in South Miami Beach on Washington Avenue... And the authorities should know it."

Uh oh. Looks like somebody's ego has been bruised.

Note to O'Reilly: See your doctor immediately.

Hey, if you are in the NY area and you're pissed at Major League Baseball Players Union for nixing the A-Rod deal, there's a protest going on right now.

May I just say one thing?

Mwahahahhahahahah! As if I would attend, Dave. I'm throwing a celebration today!

[I know, it's not completely nixed yet - they have until 6pm today to work something out. I'm starting my countdown now]

It’s been a while since I’ve done an update on the Mepham case; things have been relatively quiet since it was determined that the rapist boys would be tried as juveniles instead of adults.

Today’s Newsday has new details about the attacks and they are brutal. You thought being raped with a mineral ice coated baseball bat, golf ball and pine cone was horrible? There’s more.

Those of you who have worked retail during the holiday season will understand my reluctance to speak about this before now. The memories are horrific, brutal and sometimes cause flashbacks that leave me curled up in a fetal position, sobbing and begging to be sedated.

1983 was my first holiday retail experience. It was a baptism by fire, as I landed a job at the busiest record store at the busiest mall on Long Island. Record World, Roosevelt Field, a/k/a/ RF#1. On my first day - two days before Thanksgiving - I was handed the requisite blue vest, a name tag and a few whispered words of advice: don't let them get to you. My co-workers were referring to the barrage of customers that were at the gated entrance to the store fifteen minutes before opening and still clinging to the cassette racks as we were trying to close. You have not seen a whirling dervish in action until you have seen someone hell bent on getting everything on their kid's Christmas list.

I, however, was no wimp. I could handle any customer, any crowd, any cash register breakdown or old woman sobbing over the Julio Iglesias albums. I immediately volunteered to work the irons - the opening to closing shift - nearly every day. From Thanksgiving until Christmas, I would not have a day off, and most of the days would be the full work shift.

In the beginning I had superhero powers. I never got tired from the long hours. I manned every spot in the store; the cash register, the cassette department, the imports. I spent time downstairs unpacking boxes upon boxes of shipments, sorting albums, slapping stickers on them and writing the title, artist and store # on the plastic sleeve of every record with a blue sharpie.

By the second week in December, I was spending more time on the floor, helping customers find exactly what they were looking for. During the holiday season, this usually consisted of frazzled mothers trying to remember exactly what it was their son or daughter had asked for. This resulted in a lot of guesswork, humming and/or singing. It also involved many loud gasps of horror when the mother matched the title of the record with the album on the wall (the wall was where the albums were displayed in rows of pockets). So many dropped jaws and wide eyes as parents spied the cover to Quiet Riot's Metal Health. That's what my child is listening to? Oh My God! He's a devil worshiper! I knew it!! And the mother would run screaming from the store and head straight over to Catholic Supplies, where she would beg for some holy water.

The kids were just as bad. They would come in without a list, trying to buy music for their parents. Getting the title of a song out of them was like pulling teeth. How about if I sing it? Yea, sure kid. Sing away. A tuneless dirge would emerge. No words. Just la la humm hum la da dee. I begged for lyrics. Just one or two would do. Uhh. Love. And umm...heart. I would lean in close to the kid and say sweetly, Well that narrows it down. And as soon as the kid smiled I would yell, To about 3,000 songs! Eventually I would convince the kid to settle for a Billy Joel or Lionel Richie single, unless the kid was really rude and obnoxious, in which case I would convince him that the song he was humming was actually Frank Stallone's Far From Over , knowing full well that I would be going to hell for inflicting such pain on an innocent person.

The closer it got to Christmas, the more of a frenzy people were in. They fought over the last copy of Synchronicity. They mobbed us when we opened a new box of Madonna cassettes. And every once in a while, I would have to step over some fur-coated, blue-haired grandma who fainted when she saw the larger-than-life cardboard cut-out of Julio. And I started to feel the result of all work and no play. I was tired, cranky and I lost my voice.

My co-workers made signs for me to hold up so I could still help customers. Two days before Christmas, the only sign I had to use was "Sorry. We are out of that title right now." I faced the wrath of customers who, through no fault of mine, had waited until the very last minute to pick up that Echo and the Bunnymen album and sorry, we are out of that title right now. I listened to the complaints that the register lines were too long (this is when everything was done by hand) and the store was a mess and the floor people were rude. We had to chase people out of the store ten minutes after closing and even as I was vacuuming and closing up cases they would say "oh, are you closing?" I lost my patience and I lost my fixed greeting smile. No longer was it "Welcome to Record World, how may I help you," but "What you really want to buy your kid is clothes. Go to The Gap and leave me alone."

This was all played out to the constant background music of the crapfest of pop music that came out that year, especially Huey Lewis and the News's Sports album which, to this day, makes me break out in hives.

Had I known that the next year I would be doing the Record World Christmas stint again and would be subjected to the non-stop playing of Do They Know It's Christmas, I might have appreciated Huey a little more.

I tortured myself through Christmas of '86 and decided that I was going to retire from retail after that. I could not handle another holiday season of bitchy parents and surly kids and girls screaming and drooling over New Kids on the Block albums. I had used my holiday bonuses and store discounts to accumulate a nice collection of imports and that almost - almost - offset whatever mental damage that job caused me.

Despite all that, I still refer to my term at Record World as the best damn job I ever had. But I never did work retail again.

PETA activists - including cuddly, costumed raccoons and foxes - are making guest appearances outside performances of The Nutcracker across the country this holiday season with a cheeky message of compassion. As children arrive to see the "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy," some will be unaware that their mothers are already starring in a real-life horror story! PETA will be there to greet any fur-clad moms and their children with their newest anti-fur leaflet-PETA Comics presents..."Your Mommy Kills Animals!"

Kids will see the bloody truth behind their moms’ pretentious pelts. Accompanied by graphic photographs of skinned carcasses and animals languishing on fur farms, children will read: "Lots of wonderful foxes, raccoons, and other animals are kept by mean farmers who squish them into cages so small that they can hardly move. They never get to play or swim or have fun. All they can do is cry-just so your greedy mommy can have that fur coat to show off in when she walks the streets."

Here are the two pages of the comic: [click each for full size graphics]

To: Jacques Chirac:
Re: Banning religious wear in schools

Jacques - Enjoy your future assasination. I give it two months until someone tries to stick a knife in your back. Maybe a mental health exam is in order?

To: Vatican
Attn: Cardinal Martino
Re: Treatment of Saddam

Get back to me when you can show the same compassion for all the kids raped and molested by your priests.

To: Sen. John Kerry
Re: Your remarks on Howard Dean

Someone named Kettle called for you. Something to do with the word black.

To: Santa
Re: A-Rod Deal

Is this the year you finally get something on my Christmas list right?

To: George Steinbrenner
Re: Sheffield

See, Festivus. You're first on my list, George.

To: PETA
Re: Telling kids thier mommies are murderers

If you ever approach one of my children with your propaganda, I will personally see to it that you are brought to a meat farm, killed, dismembered, ground up into pieces and sold to Wendy's to be used as hamburger meat, where you will then be grilled, sold and eaten by a pig farmer.

Then you can tell my kids I am a murdering mommy.

I'll take your memos right here. But don't expect me to make coffee.

Pop quiz. Multiple choice.

A) I am finally too old for today's music scene.
B) I am hopelessly out of touch with what passes for the best music these days.
C) The editors of Rolling Stone magazine are a bunch of pretentious bastards.

Different year, same rant.

Out of the 50 albums on this year's Rolling Stone list, 17 are artists I never heard of. And of all of those 50 albums, I have purchased five and they were all for my son.

Some day a popular, mainstream magazine will print a year-end list that doesn't look like Indie's Greatest Hits. Much like I said last year, be a man. Own up to what you really loved. Sure, everybody and their hipster brother has The Shins in their top 50 of 2003, but not one of those pansy critics was ready to admit that they bought - and loved - the Clay Aiken cd.

I thought I could do it. I can't. The less I write, the more I feel an ulcer coming on.

Now, go read this story of a blogger (one of my favorite bloggers even though he's a Hated Red Sox Fan) who witnessed Joe Lieberman's unsanitary bathroom habits.

Carry on.

This is one of my favorite entries ever from Raising Hell. You've probably read it already. If not, hope you enjoy it.

Backblog: Golden Rule.

Also, if there is anyone who is willing and able to install MT Blacklist over at Command Post immediately if not sooner, please email me before I hunt down a certain spammer and engage in deadly combat.

[click for bigger image]So, like the new look? I've been on this gaming craze lately and visions of pixels have been dancing in my head.

That's another Christmas picture, obviously, though I'm not sure of the year. It had to be around '82. The specs of this personal home computer were daunting: Specs:ROM 16Kb. RAM 5Kb (3.5Kb user memory) expandable to 32Kb. Screen: 22 columns by 23 rows. Screen dot matrix: 176 by 184 with up to 16 colours. Sound: 3 voices plus white noise. Media Tape drive (controlled by VIC), Disk Drive, Printer.

We've come a long way, baby. And we're never satisfied, are we? No matter how fast and powerful our toys are, we always crave more speed and power. That computer you bought just six months ago is suddenly a huge disappointment to you when compared with the newer model.

Speaking of disappointments, I'd like to wish you all a Happy Festivus (December 23rd). You do know what Festivus is, don't you?

Seinfeld episode The Strike, from December 1997:

Frank (Costanza, George's father): Many Christmases ago, I went to buy a doll for my son. I reached for the last one they had -- but so did another man. As I rained blows upon him, I realized there had to be another way.
Kramer: What happened to the doll?
Frank: It was destroyed. But out of that, a new holiday was born -- a Festivus for the rest of us!

And out of that was borne a new way in which to make family gatherings even more dysfunctional than they were already. Festivus, by definition, is the airing of grievances. You share with family members all of the ways in which they have disappointed you during the past year. Like any holiday, really, but with more formality. Those other holidays don't have the Festivus pole, after all. That's just a plain metal pole, which serves as the Festivus version of the Christmas tree. There are no decorations. No lights. No garland or tinsel. Just the cold metal of the pole itself.

Festivus also involves the Feats of Strength, where one family member physically challenges another. On Seinfeld, this is usually where George would wrestle his father - and lose. In your family, it may be your and your father fighting over the last can of beer. In my family, it's usually a belching contest.

I'd like to take Festivus a little farther this year. Why stop at bitching at your
family? I'm sure there are plenty of people and events that sorely disappointed you in 2003. Politicians. Musicians. Sports teams. Movies. We shouldn't limit our grievances to just people we know when it's common knowledge that the whole entire world sucks on a daily basis.

Why, I could dedicate an entire hour - at least - to George Steinbrenner. Grievances? I've got a laundry list for the entertainment industry. As for Feats of Strength, I bet I could shove that metal Festivus pole up Saddam's ass faster than you! And don't get me started on George Lucas. I need to set aside a whole day to take him on.

Basically, Festivus is a big old You Suck! to everyone who has wallowed in suckiness during the past year. Of course, you need to be careful, as what comes around goes around. You never know when those grievances will be flung at you, or when someone will challenge you to a tequila drinking contest. Hey, at least next year you can say "I was really upset when you puked all over my shoes at Festivus."

So join me in celebrating Festivus. Air your grievances. Share your disappointments. Make challenges you would probably never win if you had to actually perform them. There's a whole world out there just chock full of crap for you to carp about. Now's your chance. Take a whirl around my Festivus pole and let loose a torrent of atrocities.

Trust me, it will make you feel better in the long run and it will empty your soul of all the darkness living inside of you so you can enjoy the rest of the holidays in peace. Serenity now!

And yes, I'm fair game. As long as you are.

While I am on this psuedo-hiatus, I've decided to make use of my other domain and do a daily "best of" from my writing here, at Raising Hell and at Blogcritics.

Today's is from February, 2002.

[click for bigger image]Christmas, 1971. I was nine years old, wiped out from an exciting day opening presents, playing with my toys and sneaking sips of "grown up drinks" when no one was looking. Those Winnie-the-Pooh feetie pajamas were the height of sleepwear fashion back then, as was the decorative yarn in my hair.

I wrote thank you letters to Santa back then, because I was still young and naive enough to believe that the fat guy really existed. Nevermind that I had this inkling that reindeer couldn't fly and that it was physically impossible for Santa to carry all those toys and swoop around the world in one night. A couple of listens to the Man of LaMancha Broadway soundtrack (as prescribed by my my mother) and I learned how to dream the impossible dream. So Santa was real, as was the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and the little goblins that lived under my bed and would bite my feet off if they hung over the bed at night. Which is why I wore feetie pajamas. The bites didn't hurt as much.

Makes you wonder how much of your childhood thoughts were based on lies your parents told you. All those fictional holiday heroes were just figments of someone's overactive imagination. Who thought these things up, anyhow? Hey, let's make up some neat characters whose reward system of toys and candy and money will bribe the children into behaving and later on, when they are older, we'll spring it on them that (ha ha!) we were just kidding and they will be crushed by the unfairness and duplicity of it all! Well, that certainly prepared us for dealing with politicians, didn't it? Remember back in the 60's when the great mantra of the time was don't trust anyone over 30? They were right. Once you hit adulthood you begin lying to kids as if it were programmed into you.

My mother and aunts used scare tatcits that placed Jesus and his dad in the role of Big Brother. Jesus will be upset if you do that! God is watching you! He'll punish you for that! And then I would trip over the dog or bang my head on the cabinet and I would be told that God was, indeed, punishing me.

The lies seemed to roll of their tongues with ease. If you have a sore in your mouth, it's from lying. Have you been lying to me? I used to lay in bed at night wondering how many Ethiopian kids were starving to death all because I refused to eat my spinach. All that stuff had to be true. Because if it wasn't true about the starving kids and the eyes in the back of my mother's head (I never did find them, no matter how hard I looked), then everything must be a lie, including Santa. So I believed it all because not believing one thing would mean not believing anything they told me.

I went on asking for and accepting gifts from jolly old St. Nick. He didn't bring my everything I asked for, of course and one year - I believe it was the year of that photo - I came to the conclusion that Santa was not bringing me a record player or a baby brother (Two sisters? Is that some kind of punishment?) because I was being selfish. I figured if I doctored up my Christmas list with some altruistic wishes, I would get everything I want because Santa would see that I was an unselfish, caring, compassionate little girl.

I asked for world peace. That's what all the people on tv asked for when they were interviewed about their Christmas wishes. I tacked on an addendum that by world peace I meant that the Vietnam War should end. Oh, and the starving kids in Africa should get some food. And please, make Jesus stop watching me all the time, because that's your job, Santa and it's kinda weird to have the two of always knowing if I'm bad or good and it puts the pressure on me to be good for goodness sake.

So Christmas morning, I wake up and run to the living room, expecting a nicely wrapped box under the tree that would contain world peace and an end to hunger. I had to settle for turning on the morning news instead. Well, ain't that a kick in the head. The war is still on! And I bet those kids in Africa are still starving! Damn you, Santa, damn you to hell!

Much to my surprise I did get the record player. And I did get the doll with the hair that grew. I didn't get the baby brother but, looking back, that was probably in my best interest. It turns out I didn't really care much about world peace anyhow, because I spent the rest of the day in Christmas glory, playing with my new toys and listening to my Disney records.

Now I'm thinking about Santa again, and what I would ask for if he was real, if there really was a guy who could grant you favors and wishes once a year.

World peace, of course, and this time I mean it. Too bad I'm too cynical now to expect that gift to ever appear under my tree.

Saddam Hussein, This is Your Life.

My OpEd at Command Post today.

And here's an article about bloggers covering Saddam's capture.

[note: this does not count as my one post for today]

At the risk of appearing to be a Lileks copy-cat (although that's not a bad thing to be) I am going to take a semi-hiatus until the new year.

Life is incredibly busy right now and there are things that need my devotion and attention more than writing about video games and comic books do. It's all good things that - but things that are keeping me from having too much free time. I'm also trying to concentrate more on my fiction writing - I'm putting together a book of short stories that maybe someone will buy one day - so I need to not spend all of my writing time here.

I will be writing only one post each morning in the form of an essay about a photograph. I will try my damnedest to make that one post worth something. It won't be Lileks-like content, but hopefully it will be enough to make you stop by once a day until the first week in January, when I can resume writing about everything and nothing ten times a day or more (The gaming posts will continue then as well).

So hopefully, I'll see you in the morning, with the first of my one-a-day essays.

There will be no matchbook covers. I'm not that much of a copy-cat.

[You'll still be able to find an Op-Ed from me once or twice a week over at Command Post]