dashing through the blow

It's been awhile. November has never been a good month for me. The short days and long nights exacerbate my tri-polar mood swings, unleashing an unhealthy compulsion to haunt the dark side of the moon. December is no picnic. Not even the prospect of wearing my soiled Santa hat offsets the dread of yet another family encounter so soon after Thanksgiving's dressing noir. "Tis the season" would be almost bearable if compressed into a tall bourbon glass: Ho Ho Ho. Oddly enough, rescuing Baby Jesus from Black Friday or Branson's Away in a Manger Savior Stampede USA! isn't high on Randall Terry's hit list. Suicide rates might level off if sensitive types didn't have to endure an extra month of retail holiday cheer. But since I don't make the rules, I'll lapse into offline mode and await the screams of little dears when they find their $2.50 Newton's Jewelry gift card buried beneath packing peanuts.

How about melding Thanksgiving and Christmas into one cheese ball? Jesus wasn't born on December 25th; Lord knows when Squanto shared his gourd with starving Europeans. Wal-Mart, always exploiting the true spirit of Christian capitalism, should buy both holidays and transform Pearl Harbor Day into the mother of all cross-marketing extravaganzas. Although it would take time for Target employees to feel festive about wishing customers Merry Wal-Mart, eventually they'd come to appreciate the brutal simplicity of squeezing Mary's miracle into a box of Pilgrim's Pride. And assuming that real American shoppers find the merger amenable, the bidding war for Easter might resurrect Lou Dobbs' cable television career. I'm rooting for Target. Jesus performing back-flips from his cave/tomb in flashy footwear is certainly more up tempo than anything the Bentonville mob could imagine. Having first-hand experience dealing with Sam's spawns (and the rectal scars to prove it), my educated guess is that roll back pricing would take on new meaning.

It's a given that the traditional nativity scene needs a make-over. Adding Pilgrims, Wampanoags, pumpkins, turkeys and woodchucks to usual manger fare is the equivalent of Emirile Lagasse's "Bam!". True, metal church congregates will complain that Captain John Smith standing next to Wise Man Number Two is a tad too Mormon for non-denominational taste. But this is easily assuaged by replacing both Pilgrims and Indians with Kenyon witch exorcists.

Of course, New Year's Eve is sacred and must be kept holy.


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Sarah Palin, the heart and soul of modern conservatism, has stitched another patch onto Bill Buckley, Jr.' s Cold War quilt. A veritable treasure trove of "Desperate Housewives" insight, the half-term governor's ghost-written pot boiler is selling well with patriots who usually limit their book buying to paperbacks featuring Fabio's shirt-less torso. Beating the Christmas shopping deadline didn't allow proof readers the luxury of thorough examination: Mistakes were made. But so what if a quote from John Wooden Legs was attributed to John Wooden. Who hasn't confused the left-leaning Native American activist with UCLA's legendary basketball coach?

Juan Don