No Pink Christmas Trees Here Please

Tis’ the season for Christmas trees - big, beautiful, real Christmas trees. Woe be to those who traffic in fake plastic trees. May their imitation trees and pine tree scented spray and candles melt away into the night in the fake fire of a DVD fireplace on their television.

And double woe be to those who perpetuate the pink or white fake plastic Christmas tree. May they move to Del Vista Boca, Florida (the home and place of origin of the fake plastic Christmas tree) never to return to these shores again.

My beautiful wife, Special Sauce Caldwell, and I had exactly two disagreements in the first year of our marriage (in the year of our Lord, 2001). They were whether or not you should leave the shower curtain pulled open after a shower, (she was right, those black mildew lines appear pretty quickly when the curtain is left in a folded state after a shower) and whether we should get a real tree or use the fake plastic one that had been handed down to us from her family and came in a gym bag the size of a dog sled (harnessed dog team and all).

I’m not sure who won the argument that first year, but we reached an armistice agreement whereby we would alternate yearly between fake plastic tree and real, glorious, divine, fragrant, real Christmas tree.

Her argument runs thusly: A real tree is pretty much a cleaning nightmare. There are needles everywhere for months afterwards, you have to somehow properly dispose of the tree afterwards (and not like my dad who simply threw our old tree in the back woods of our house on a pile of thirty years worth of Christmas trees) and you have to remember to water the tree. When she comments on the mess of a real tree I often think of responding with “we should see if we can get some fake kids as well, you should see the puddle of cereal milk in the playroom!”

And in the last few years she has added an environmental component to her argument, which goes “why should we support the cutting down of precious trees when they help to gobble up all that carbon dioxide in the atmosphere.” This is a powerful argument indeed. Trees are being cut down all over the world as we speak; to clear land for cattle grazing so that we can have our double cheeseburgers, to further suburban sprawl etc. Why should we add millions and millions of pine and fur trees to this total just for one month’s enjoyment each year?

I would be swayed by this appeal to Mother Nature if the alternative were not a plastic Christmas trees. I’m fairly sure that the production of millions and millions of tons of plastic from limited fossil fuels that support unstable and tyrannical governments in a particular part of the world does not count as a progressive argument against real Christmas trees. If there were a corn starch, alternative plastic tree out there then maybe, just maybe I would be moved by this appeal to the environment. But the last time I checked my local box store; all the fake trees were run-of-the-mill polypropylene types.

My argument for a real tree goes like this: A real tree is better! (I’m not known far and wide for my stunning logic.)

But, there is no getting by how great it is to go to a Christmas tree farm or a local tree lot and pick out that year’s tree. (Or in my family’s case, that bi-annual year’s tree.) We usually head straight to the twenty dollar rack and see what sort of sad sack tree we can take home and transform into a glorious family Christmas tree. I like to find the one that is sitting in the corner of the lot on its side and pull it to a standing position and imagine it in my cozy living room. It’s sort of my contribution to the world, the adopting of the homely pine tree. It’s a variation on the Orphan Annie theme.

And that’s another knock against the fake tree, it’s the same one every year! There is no variation, no surprise, no resurrection, and no personality. It’s all too antiseptic and perfect, like a freakish clone sitting where a tree with character should be.

This year we were scheduled to get a real tree, and as she always does, my wife made one last bi-yearly appeal to think about getting the fake tree out of the barn. I said “sweetheart, we have to honor the armistice that we signed all those years ago. If we start fudging on this one point then everything else goes “kabloowy”.

But man oh man did this year’s tree leave a mess in the old minivan. We will be finding needles till August. Also, when I went to screw in the tree into the tree stand I was treated to the wonderful site of a nest of spiders that came with the tree. It was the Temple of Doom under there. For the record, I don’t dig spiders. All this, plus it took forever to get the pitch off of my hands afterwards.

So maybe a plastic tree is not such a bad idea…

Ahh! What’s happening to me!

A Republican Primary Christmas Special

(The scene opens with a crackling fire place and a man in an easy chair talking to the camera. He is wearing an old fashioned housecoat and appears to be drinking a comically large mug of cocao.)

“Hello citizens of New Hampshire (and any Iowa folks who happen to be tuned in), former Massachusetts Governor and current presidential candidate Mitt Romney here. I know many of you were expecting to see Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer in this TV time slot, but I convinced (to the tune of $30 Million) this fine network you are watching to sell me this coveted piece of prime time real estate to bring you an hour of my thoughts on Christmas. You may be disappointed not to see your favorite characters, like Rudolph, Santa, Cornelius and that Bumble that bounces (by the way, does that Island of misfit toys seem like the rest of the field of Republican candidates this year? Know what I mean? Har har), but I think you will find my holiday trip down memory lane both heart warming and stimulating.”

(Taking a big sip of his cocao) “Ahh, I remember the many Christmases of my childhood. I grew up in a hard working middle class family like so many of you. Mine just happened to live in the Michigan gubernatorial mansion. I remember the many holiday seasons where we were not sure if we were going to be able to afford that year’s Jamaican Christmas vacation. There was no doubt about it, family and faith (Mormonism, for the record, but don’t let that fool you, we celebrate Christmas just like everyone else, by spending entirely too much money) got us through some very lean times there in Lansing. One year funds were so tight that we had to send my youngest brother to a state school instead of Brown University. He still hasn’t ever fully recovered! Yes, Christmas means a great deal to me when I think back all those years ago. And it still means a lot to me today, so much so that I want to treat the great state of New Hampshire to a whole new set of roads! That’s right; I’m going to fund the repair and future upkeep of every mile of road in the great Granite State just because the Christmas spirit has overcome me! All that I ask is that you maybe, consider, just maybe, throwing a vote or two my way this coming January. Oh, and speaking of roads, if you should happen to see, say, Rick Perry or Newt Gingrich out there on the highways and byways of your state, perhaps you could, you know, drive a little slower in front of their motorcade and cause them to miss an event or two. And just between you and me, a few stolen opposition yard signs never hurt anyone.”

(At this moment the signal goes to static and then the smiling face of Newt Gingrich appears sitting “news anchor man” style behind a desk.)

“Hi there folks, the old “Newtster” here. I used some old congressional contacts I had to take over the airwaves of this network for just a few minutes to tell you some of my thoughts on this blessed yuletide season.” Yes, family is important to me too. Very important. I don’t know what I would do without my family. (He stomps on the floor and pounds his fist on the desk each time he says the word ‘family’) Yes, family is what it’s all about. Yes, Christmas means one word to me; family. It means so much I’ll say it three more times! Family family family!” (Continues to stomp and pound his fist, becoming a little more unhinged each time)

(Just then the signal again changes abruptly, revealing the figure of Texas Governor Rick Perry dressed in an orange camouflaged hunting outfit with a rifle slung over his shoulder. There is the head of an impressive ten point buck mounted on the wall behind him)

“Howdy folks, Governor Rick Perry at your service here. All this talk of Christmas reminds me of all the times we went huntin’ for a Christmas tree back in my Texas A&M fraternity days. We would go riding around all day, every day, during exam week looking for the perfect tree to chop down to bring back to the frat house and decorate with beer cans. This one time we spied the perfect one on the lawn of the University President (did I just say “president?”) and we got Bobby-Jim and Johnny-Joe to knock on the president’s front door and distract him with fraternity sensitive questions while Billy-Bob and I snuck around back and made a try for that tree. We didn’t have time to chop that sucker down, so I got out a stick of dynamite and “bammo” we had that thing down in no time. Oh, man, good times.

(The signal changes again showing the confused face of Gov. Romney)

“What’s happening here? How much time do we have left? Five seconds! Vote Romney!”

(As the credits roll the screen splits in two, the credits rolling on one side and a group of figures crowed in the other)

(Michele Bachman speaking) “Hello Granite Staters!” Michele Bachman, Rick Santorum, Ron Paul and John Huntsman here. We pooled together our campaign funds and were able to purchase this twenty second block of time during the credits. Won’t you consider one of us this primary season? We promise to all keep saying “merry Christmas” and not that demonic phrase “happy holidays”. In fact, what would Christmas be without a brief conversation with your cashier?"

(Scene fades out to a car commercial)

Goodbye Borders Bookstore (Or, Looking Smart Is Easy)

“I’m not a genius, or are I?” - Homer Simpson


And now, a lesson on how to look smart (or “intelligent” as some smart people might say).

Go to a bookstore (remember those) and look for an ancient book on philosophy like The Republic by Plato or a classic work of literature, like perhaps Don Quixote or The Complete Works Of Shakespeare (this one is also good for holding open heavy doors and crushing walnuts).

When you have selected your tome of choice, buy all the copies that are available in the store. For this technique to work properly you must have at least four copies of your book of choice, and the more you have at your disposal the better.

You then take this book and prominently display it everywhere you can; the bathroom in your house, on your coffee table, on the corner of your desk in your office at work (with the spine of the book pointing out of course), on your bedside table and of course keep one copy to carry around with you at all times. Read this copy while standing in line at the bank or while sitting in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. (Resist mightily the urge to pick up that copy of Us Weekly or People Magazine.)

Also, carry this book along with you to any job interviews or first dates.

If you like, you can hollow out the insides of this book and fill in the space with the reading material of your choice. The bigger the book the more space you have to work with. If the book is large enough you may be able to fit a Spiderman comic book inside. (I would not know anything about this or course.)

It is also advisable to do a little research on the book in order to answer any questions that are asked beyond “Is that a good book?” I know this seems like a lot of work, but just a few minutes on the Wikipedia web site can save you a whole lot of embarrassment. And if all else fails you can always respond to any book inquiries with “Oh, I just started this thing; ask me again in a week.” (This is then a crucial time to go on Wikipedia and get the information you need.)

The above method of impressing others with your erudite tastes and high I.Q. was perfected by a college roommate of mine, who piled high the ancient texts on our dorm room coffee table and carried an abridged copy of The Socratic Dialogues in his backpack on our semester overseas in the Middle East.

The irony of course was that he eventually ended up reading many of the works that were hanging around our place and went on to actually become a very smart person(while yours truly still reads Mad Magazine regularly).

This is why I will miss the nearby and recently shuttered Border’s Bookstore location in Concord, because it was my source of “smart guy” books.

This is also the great tragedy of the electronic age we live in. It is extremely difficult to display all my electronic books on the shelves of my home for maximum viewer impact.

Take for instance my downstairs bathroom.

When I know that we will have a house full of guests, say for a dinner party or family get together, I will copiously arrange the books in the bathroom in order to weed out the comic books and volumes of Twilight (they belong to my wife, I swear!) or Harry Potter.
And in their place I will stack copies of The New Yorker (I’m not really smart enough to even get the cartoons in this magazine) and a strategically placed copy of that 3,000 page John Adams biography that came out a few years ago.

This sadness also applies to music. When someone browses your iPod they are sure to see all your musical guilty pleasures (Michael Jackson, Phil Collins, Garth Brooks) and not the cool, hip stuff (your complete works of Thelonious Monk, your Chopin collection) you wish to be seen.

I was actually the second to last customer at the Concord Borders branch, desperately looking for new titles to add to my farcical collection, because to keep this rues going long term, you need to switch out the books once and a while.

But alas, as I scanned the one remaining book shelf full of 90% off books, there were no smart book options. The only reading material left was a collection of odd celebrity publishings that never sold, like Ashton Kutcher’s Guide To Bow Hunting, The Sarah Palin Tribute To J.F.K. and that weird Tom Brokaw book about disco.

As the overhead speaker announced that the store was about to be closing for good I sighed a deep sigh and admitted to myself that the smart guy con I was running was about to get much harder, as my steady supply of books was about to dry up.

Does anyone know of any smart people currently having a yard sale?

My Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Acceptance Speech

Tonight, thanks to my beautiful and resourceful wife, we’re headed off to see Mr. Bob Dylan at Meadowbrook, and it’s got me thinking about the first time I saw Bob in concert and the great advice he gave me that night about my Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance speech.

It was the fall of the year 2000, and the world had not come to a screeching halt due to Y2K dysfunction and I was feeling high on life due to the fact that I finally had everything utterly and completely in order. Due to the impending doomsday, I had dotted every “I” and crossed every “T” in my life, and I was eager to move on to future projects.

Just an interesting note here, but I still have everything completely in order, and now I’m organizing my daughter’s lives. I’m narrowing in on a husband for both of them and names for their children. I’m leaning towards Jack, Diane Mick and Keith (in the true spirit of rock and roll).

That night back in 2000 I managed to sneak back stage after Bob’s set (how many hallways must a man walk down you ask? About three.) and knock on his dressing room door.

He graciously asked me in (the room service cart and venue name tag I just happened upon helped a bit) and I explained to him that I had just started playing guitar the month before and I was concerned about my eventual and future need to give a speech at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame acceptance dinner.

Bob was very gracious and admitted that he too had had these fears when he first picked up the guitar back in 50’s era Minnesota.

We talked for a while over dinner procured from the food service cart and at the end of the hour he said “we should call Bruce to weigh in on this conversation. He is due to be inducted any day now and he must have some good perspective to offer.”

So using his giant cell phone (remember those?) he dialed up Bruce Springsteen and handed the phone over to me.

The Boss was very kind, and though he was simultaneously lifting weights and writing new songs, he gave me some sage advice.

He explained, that much like rock and roll itself, it’s important to look cool and detached while accepting any award. You may be so excited inside that you want to giggle like a school girl, but it’s important to stay calm and unemotional up there.

He then said “it’s been great talkin’ with you kid, but the person you should really chat with is Willie.”
“Willie Nelson?” I said. “Isn’t he in the Country Music Hall of Fame?”

“Willie’s so cool that he is in both Halls of Fame” replied Bruce.

I knew that this was not true (he was thinking of Johnny Cash), but I did not question the Boss; after all, he got that nickname for a reason.

Willie Nelson was a bit foggy on the phone (must have been the time difference between here and Texas) and kept mistaking me for the exterminator who had not shown up at his mansion (since reposed by Uncle Sam for back taxes purposes) that day.

But he did give me some great songwriting advice, and tips on how to get rid of red Texas fire ants in your kitchen.

I then noticed Bob check his watch (I was after all on a long distance call on his gigantic cell phone) and politely ended my conversation with the Country Music legend.

After a call to security by Bob, I quickly thanked him for his time and hit the road with lots to think about.

I promptly made my way back home and wrote an epic song about the whole affair.

All that was left to do was make a few classic albums and play cool venues like the Great Wall of China and the Eifel Tower (with a few coffee shops and street corners thrown in for good measure).

Thanks for your time Bob; I’m looking forward to seeing you again tonight.

Has anyone seen a stray food cart and an ID?

A Friendly Open Letter To Internet Scam Artists

Dear Nigerian business men, European lottery winner announcers and various and sundry other internet scam artists. (Especially the one used my email last week and purported to be me)

How are you? How is the weather there in Eastern Europe or Central Asia, or any other place where statistics say that you reside. The weather here in New Hampshire has been pretty hot recently, but then again it is summer here.

What season is it where you reside? (Really, I’m not trying to help the F.B.I. track you down. Seriously!) Is it hot where you are, or perhaps it’s the rainy season? Maybe you could just tell me the first letter of the country you live in.

I just realized that you may not even speak English. The poor grammar and misspelling of my name in the emotional plea for money you sent from my email account might suggest that you are not a native speaker. What greeting should I open this letter with? Namaste? Perhaps the Czech word “nazdar” or the Estonian traditional greeting “tervist.” Please let me know which greeting you would prefer.

I’m really fond of going to the ocean in the summertime. Is there an ocean near where you are or are you in more of a land locked place? Really, I’m very curious.

Do you enjoy the Olympics? During the march of nations in the opening ceremonies does your country march in the stadium in the beginning of the procession or towards the end? Where were you in the medal count in the last Olympics? Does your country enjoy more success in the Summer or Winter games? Again, it would just be nice to get to know the things that are important to you.

If I was to spin a globe and my hands just happened to come down near, say Uzbekistan, would I be anywhere near your neck of the woods?

I was actually so moved by your hard luck story of being mugged and penniless in the UK (even though, in your story you were pretending to be me to all my friends and acquaintances in my contact list) that I would like to send you some cash to get a flight home. To what address might I send the money?

Oh, wire it to an undisclosed location you say?

That’s no good as I have just withdrawn the money from an ATM and the banks are now closed. I love to send it directly to you though. How much postage will I be needing? Will I need a customs receipt?

Or maybe you can have me bring it to your embassy here in the states. Surely your country has one of those. (At general assembly of the United Nations does the representative of your country sit to the right or left of the speaker? Just wondering.)

You know, it’s funny. Since you hacked my account and sent out that message I have been in touch with all kinds of folks that I had not heard from in years, but who it appears were still in my data base. My old high school math teacher says “hi” and that guy who lived down the hall from me freshman year of college, who’s address I had in my account because I once asked him for a ride to the airport also suggested that we get together sometime when I’m in Kansas City next. It has been quite a ride!

Actually, I have been very moved by all the wonderful folks I know who called me immediately upon receiving the email. The avalanche of phone calls at 7 am (by the way, what time is that where you are?) let me know just how many folks I have in my life who care about me, including the roughly 200 or so wonderful people at my church (some of whom called the American embassy in London on my behalf) who’s concern for me was life affirming. I am still fielding concerned phone calls days later. Each frantic phone call and email response is a little bit of heaven, because now I know that if I was ever actually mugged and penniless in Great Britain there would an army of help available to me.

I have also learned to take internet security seriously. No more three letter passwords for me!

So it turns out that I have a great deal to thank you for. (Is it sir or madam?) I’d love to send you a thank you note.

Where should I send it?

How to Make Small Talk in Four Easy Steps

According to a 2005 Stanford University study that I read recently (I intermix the reading of academic studies with old issues of The Rolling Stone and X-Men comic books), the measure of success in the business world for graduates of the school’s MBA program was not so much the grades they earned in college, but the student’s ability to make conversation in social situations like a mixer for new employees or a business convention.

In other words, a student’s ability to make ‘small talk” (or “shoot the breeze” in other parlance) was worth more than a 4.0 GPA.

Making small talk is a time honored tradition and the practice has been around since the dawn of man. I can see those early Mesopotamians sitting around their fires and saying things like “Hey Thag, this sure is a hot fire, how do you get it so big?” (To which Thag replies, “Sticks my friend, sticks!”)

But participating in small talk is anguishing to some folks, causing them to rush through transactions at the store, face the wall when riding in an elevator and avoid dinner parties all together. We have all been in a place where we were tired, or in a hurry to get somewhere and someone else wanted to make small talk and it just wasn’t the time for it.
And, with the increasing isolation of technology (“Hmm, what should I do this weekend? I know, I’ll stay in and stream all eight seasons of Magnum P.I. on Netflix!”) the art form of small talk is in danger of being phased out all together.

There are little things we do as individuals that may inconvenience us for a minute, or not make sense right away, but add immeasurably to society around us. These are things like letting a car turn in front of you if said car has thirty vehicles waiting behind it (make sure to make a friendly wave if a kind soul does this for you), tipping a morning or holiday wait person a little more and picking up your dog’s leavings so the next person along the way doesn’t have an unpleasant few moments with his shoes.

I would add small talk to this list.

Some folks have to work a little harder at this, but it is worth doing because believe it or not is does add to the overall community feel of where you live.

I was fortunate to have great teachers in High School who believe it or not held classes in how to have a conversation, complete with a final exam which consisted of you and the teacher having an informal chat in front of the class on a subject of the teacher’s choosing. (I got the subject NASCAR, which I still know nothing about, but I asked the right questions and low and behold a conversation appeared! Perhaps this is what led me to a career in journalism.)

In that spirit I offer a few tips on how to get the old conversation ball going:

The weather: This is probably the most common starting point for people everywhere because it is the thing that affects absolutely everybody, and it is almost full proof when it comes to starting chit chat. Since we are currently in a massive heat wave in this part of the country, it’s a safe bet that everyone has some opinion of the weather out there. Don’t be afraid to start here. Embrace the cliché’, but don’t stop there.

Questions: Don’t be afraid to ask questions. This is tough because some folks are embarrassed to show that they don’t know something, but I say embrace asking questions as a life style. (I know my daughter Princess Supergirl sure does.) If that teenager selling you your coffee and sticky bun is wearing a scary rock and roll t-shirt ask them about the band. (“So what does a clown on fire riding a unicorn have to do with music? Ohh!”)

Compliments: It’s amazing how a small compliment can lighten up a whole situation. If your elevator companion has electric blue hair, let her know that it’s “really unique”. Be thoughtful here, because it’s easy to get into trouble quickly (“Ohh, that’s not a cat but really a small dog. My mistake!”), but don’t fear saying something positive to make someone’s day.

Observe: Just a small glance will let you know that someone is perhaps a Harry Potter enthusiast or a passionate kayaker. People love to talk about what they are passionate about (just ask me about my kids sometime), and one or two quick observations can get the conversation snowball going full speed down the mountain.

So go ahead, start that small talk today. You will make someone’s day, contribute to your community and according to the bright folks at Stanford University (they brought us social networking after all) make you more successful.

So, how ‘bout this heat wave?

I'm Under the Cooking Curse

Maybe I have watched one too many Disney movies recently, or perhaps my Harry Potter excitement is finally getting to me, but I think I’m under a curse.

I can’t cook a thing, and it’s getting worse.

It would seem by some form of osmosis or just plain luck that someone my age should be able to master a few dishes by now, but the simple process of mixing, mincing, chopping, flambéing, broiling, par-boiling, sautéing, grilling, or baking ingredients together is so far beyond my scope of abilities it boggles the mind.

Even the basic skill of boiling something has eluded me. (“Here Tincan, boil this egg…ahh, call the fire department!”)

There are a few things I can do well, like play the guitar and write songs (I play a killer ‘G’ chord), shoot a basket ball (I’m an utter failure at the other aspects of basketball, like dribbling, passing and playing defense, but watch out world when it comes to playing H.O.R.S.E.) and write, but when I enter a kitchen I break out in cold sweat like a horse passing a glue factory.

This makes me feel like I’m an exhibit in one of those old fashioned traveling freak shows. (“Step right up folks and see the man who can follow the directions on the box or recipe down to the microgram and still have his food taste like it was prepared on the backside of a baboon!”)

The other night I butchered a batch of macaroni and cheese and though the look on my two daughter’s faces said it all, my five year old (Princess Supergirl) tried to make me feel better about my caveman like culinary skills.

“Dad, this is really good. If there was some kind of cooking contest you should enter this.”

When a five year old is taking pity on you and trying to make you feel better you know two things: you have a fantastic kid and you really need to see someone about this (like, perhaps a witch doctor).

This culinary inability extends even to making coffee.

Both my beautiful wife Special Sauce Caldwell and the creative wonder that is my mother have tried to teach me how to do this, showing me the proper water-to-scoop-of-coffee ratio that is best for a robust cup of morning java, but no matter how many scoops I do or how exacting I am in following directions, my coffee is always inferior and bland.

Recently while on vacation the curse briefly lifted and one morning I tasted my coffee and almost died of shock right there in my pajamas.

It was delicious.

My extended family all agreed that I could not have possibly made this pot of coffee, and when the video evidence was reviewed and the startling truth was revealed joyous phone calls were made and faxes were sent: “The curse has been lifted!”

The next morning I confidently scooped out coffee grounds while whistling We Are the Champions and when I smugly put the coffee to my lips a wave of disappointment hit me as the same old bland taste had returned.

The curse had found me while on vacation. It took a day or so to track me down, but like a GPS device the signal had finally came through.

Conversely, my wife has a magical touch with food. She could make a gourmet meal out of tin foil.

After ten years of marriage I’m still amazed at what she can concoct out of the basic elements of food or whatever leftovers are around. I’ll be convinced that there is nothing in the house to eat and on the phone with the Chinese food place down the street and she will calmly serve a fantastic meal that I’m convinced was created by mysterious forces that hide in our pantry.

So needless to say, there is a distinct division of responsibilities in our house, and I will, till the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, happily take out the garbage, scoop the cat box, do all the driving and remove all the headless mice and frogs our cats drag into the house if I can but enjoy the sumptuous meals she serves.

Right now she is currently out of the country finishing up some schooling in Spain and no doubt whipping up a batch of tapas for her roommates, who are no doubt saying the same thing I do (only in Spanish of course). “Wow, how did you make this out of the dust bunnies that are in our cupboards.”

Please hurry home dear; the girls can only eat so many hot dogs.