Julie Nipp has candy canes in her yard. 

 … (I like my book!) 

Peter Carlson of The Washington Post, wrote a lovely piece Christmas Eve about cartoons and the the cartooning cartoonists who draw them.  Best line is from Matthew Diffee, a New Yorker cartoonist, on what he and the 11 other New Yorker cartoonists do Tuesdays after dropping off their batch to David Remnick (most of which are rejected).  They go to lunch at Pergola des Artistes (W. 46th between Broadway and 8th) to talk shop and ”have serious conversations on how to draw duck feet or whether a duck is funnier than a penguin.”

I’m a layman, I know, but I think a duck is definitely funnier than a penguin.  Just the words “duck feet”, in fact, make me laugh.  Really.  I’m laughing right now, I can’t stop.  Seriously.   

I’m driving to Seattle.  I always get a little depressed about road trips, until I get on the road (or until I say the words “duck feet”).  The packing and the leaving and the anxiety over forgetting the most important thing, whatever it might be (which I almost always do) drags me down but it looks like it will be sunny today and I’ll listen to radio or Italian tapes or the kids and I will sing made-up songs (about duck feet) off-key and that does the trick every time.

Arrivederci.  Have a nice day, A.  I guess I won’t be here all week.  Still try the veal. 

… Because I must also mention that my wonderful mother-in-law, H., my biggest fan, my inspiration – she who knows how to light up dull days with packages out of the blue full of life and books from the city yes, she — sent the Cranberry Red Eddie Bauer down vest that I haven’t stopped wearing since three days before Christmas when I opened it.  In fact, I cooked in it (early and often), and there are splotches of the horseradish-mustard crust I worked into my center-cut beef tenderloin with a helping of bread crumbs along the zipper. 

I love my vest. 

On another note, John Bozarth, my favorite city councilor is quoted in the Observer today on the subject of a downtown truck route.  He believes there should be one and I must say I agree with John — “the turn at third and Jefferson is just too tight now,” he’s right. 

And then one more note: Freud the man who brought us ids and egos and all those great double entendres about cigars was boinking his wife and his wife’s sister and just take a close look at this picture and tell me what you think.  Maybe they should have all stuck to cigars. 

Try the veal, folks.  I’ll be here all week.   

Thanks M. and D.! — You won the Christmas DiFalco 2006 Award (the Christ-Falcos.  To see award categories and how to be considered in 2007, click here) for the “Most Unexpected and Thoughtful Delight at Christmas”.  You swept the competition — the sweet note, surprise arrival, wrapping paper.  And no less than the venerable Michiko approved your taste!

Merry Christmas! (Your card’s coming late)

I found it, I found joy! I found it. It comes in unexpected things, in little packages. It came when M., my wonderful funny inspirational friend M. — M. and D. — sent a surprise and a sweet note. And then it came when I watched Elf. And then we sang corny songs, and we strung popcorn and A. and I assessed gift piles together (Jr. vs. G.).

That’s all. Friends and family, I guess.  And really it’s ludicrous how happy singing horribly can make you feel.
Merry Christmas All. Thanks, M. You light up my life

The kids are fighting and I’m yelling and about to dash the stupid hung stockings all to pieces.  Little chance of me finding Christmas joy today, but there’s this.  Saul Bellow says, “No realistic, sane person goes around Chicago without protection.” 

So there, for what that’s worth.

Your card from me will be late.  But your day will be merry and bright and I’m off to the store — peanut butter and frozen pizza and all that.

This little piece is for two Marks, both weird enough to enjoy ditties that cite The Mathematical Intelligencer and The Trisection Problem in their bibliographies. The rest of you — please, for your own safety — move quickly past. Nothing to see here.

I’m bogged down in Christmas: company, letters to mail, addresses to find, cookies to frost. Plus that chilling phrase, last-minute shopping. Oh if we could only ban gift exchange for one year, wouldn’t it be fine? Though I must confess, it’s an inherent disorganization and aversion to wrapping paper more than any spiritual longing for true meaning that fuels my desire.

I find the whole business depressing because it highlights my shortcomings. How’s that for narcissim. Wheee!

More later.

… Crikey, it’s almost Christmas. And A. and I are fighting about Peggy Lee of all things. I was mad at him until I realized we were fighting about Peggy Lee — not me leaving the dish soap on the counter and the sponge lying crooked, but Peggy Lee! I should be so lucky.

Ms. Lee sang a lovely song circa 19-late-10s, called “Is That All There Is”. A. hears it and says, “the lyrics aren’t really that illuminating.  She sounds like the Rat Pack, when they knew they could sing any half-assed song and someone would buy it”

I don’t hear that in this song, nothing half-assed at all. I hear a beautiful girl working for scale in a dark night-club somewhere, with stiffs like me huddled around little tables making the most of our eight-dollar drinks (adjusted for inflation). I think it’s raining outside and work sucked that day and the girl’s not so sure about the guy she’s with and the place is sort of dingy until the gin kicks in … and until Peggy Lee starts singing her song.

Wow. So here we go, readers. I dare you to not be moved. Listen to the song and if you don’t feel one damn thing no matter how hard you try — about love or life or living — I’ll send you three dollars, I mean it. Just email me here, and tell me why Miss Lee didn’t turn your eyes into soft warm fur.

Is that all there is?
Is that all there is?
If that’s all there is, my friends … then let’s keep dan — cing.
Let’s break out the boooze, and have a ball …
If that’s all …
There is.

What are you doing right now? Is that all there is?

(From jr., age 7)

Dear Mr. C,

these are the things’ I want for Christmas.  A remote Control Titanic, both parts of the lego exo-force senti fortrace, a pet turtle, blendi-pens, floam, a pet pigmi hamster, a pet parot, a remote control mini sub, the spy vidio car, a pet lizard and a rudolf place mat for my sister G.

your’s truly,

Jr.

P.S. Merry christmas

(Note to A.:  We currently do not have a single one of these things.  Santa’s going to look pretty lame.)

Elsewhere:  Dog fashions never get old.

… Storms and a power outage and a leak in the van. Plus my hair looks weird and as I stepped out the door today A. looked up and said, “that should be your mug shot“. Gift bags to teachers today, parties to attend, please don’t let me forget to bring the plain store-bought sugar cookies to decorate. Sigh.

I want a movie at school today and a sing-a-long. Where are my fun days! Call me back.

Update:  Uh, dude … that isn’t me, it’s Yasmin Bleeth!  I have a much better mug shot.

… Two nights in a row now I’ve had a dream where I try to stick a huge disk-shaped thing in my eye. I’m bent over a sink struggling — it goes on and on and on — to put a giant frisbee in my eye like a contact.

The first night the contact was gray and opaque like the Dish Network dish. Last night it was clear with pointy things on one side and in last night’s dream there was a subplot. G.’s friend’s mom was at the door asking to take G. to a fair … ponies, rides, cotton candy. A. answered the door, said “Sure,” and sent G. right out. There was a table of people he was busy with in the kitchen, so he was brisk about it, to get back to them.

I was in a back room with the giant contact and could hear what was going on but couldn’t move until I got the contact in. I was trying desperately to force it in my eye so I could run out and fix everything because I was upset A. didn’t give the friend’s mom five dollars. (It was very specifically five). I considered it a grave faux pas, so when I did get the pointy contact in I ran after her (stopping first to glare at A.) and gave her five dollars.

I think it’s the carpet.

Jung would have said I’m having a conflict with A. However A. was not in the first dream and that doesn’t explain the recurring contact lens. Perhaps I’m having a conflict with my eye. I do get tired of sticking something in it each day, I do.

Freud would say the big contact was my vagina and that the eye represents my desire to see my vagina and that the vagina is big because it looms large in my eye. Which does not explain the $5 or who all those people were in the kitchen with A.

My friend Eric would say, “You gotta make a big effort to get out and do shit or you’ll start to hole up in your cabin and get all wiggly. I know you.” And I’d say, “awwwww … he knows me.”

I was thinking about that today, I know you … aren’t those three of the sweetest words in a row? Three of the sweetest words you can say to someone, I think … I know you. Maybe that’s what I was trying to say about Bill.

It’s normal to be freaked out by a new house, so I’m not worried about it. I’m very calmly letting the things freak me out. Like the air, for instance. The air is dry, and hot or cold, and brittle. It isn’t comfortable; it’s uncomfortable air. In the summer it will be fine. The carpet is still a problem and will continue to be until it’s burned down to the ground into small flakes of ash.

The bed that felt fine in the old house is uncomfortable here and the dining room table is too big. It swallows the room, making the bordering rooms look lost. But mostly, I think, it’s the carpet. And the kitchen. Oh, and I’m pretty sure someone’s lurking around outside in the back with a large scythe. I see the shadow.

Unrelated: Tomorrow is G.’s Christmas program, she’s an angel. No speaking lines, just songs. And my Christmas letter is all done, send me SASEs. You can also order archived copies here, way back to 2000. (If you act now I’ll send you the uncensored version ’06, with the line about dinner plates.)

Happy Wednesday.