Of Fenix & Her Children

None can truly say how the world came to be, or for how long it has hung beneath the heavens, but in the West it is thought that in the beginning there was nothing but darkness. Darkness upon darkness upon darkness: Deep waves of night without end, stretching beyond the comprehension of man. And all was held fast by the great dragon, Hydra, the Queen of the Eternal Night.

And yet, within the dragon’s coils a single glimmer of light burned, and this was Fenix, the Firebird, first star of the night. But though she was the beauty of the heavens, Hydra saw in her only the marred perfection of her darkness, and she vowed to destroy the Firebird. For an age unknown they contested with each other, until finally Hydra’s poison fangs found their mark, and she threw her foe down and crushed her beneath her weight and the Firebird burst into fragments without number.

It was a hollow victory. For now the night sky glistened with the light of the stars, and Fenix rose from death as the brightest light of the heavens, bringing forth the first day, and Hydra was cowed by it. In time she crept into the sea, sinking down in the depths where the Firebird’s blinding rays could not reach her, and there she remains until the end of days. Her reign of darkness had at last come to an end.

And it came to be that Fenix gave birth to a child, and that child was Sphinx, the Lioness, the Mother of All Living Things, and she carried the secret fire of creation deep within her womb. From her bounty all would be nourished, and the Firebird made ready to bless the first of her daughter’s children.

But the Firebird had also given birth to a son, a twin to the Lioness, and he had been born separate from his sister, and incomplete, and the mark of death was upon him. His name was Wulf, the skull moon, whom we call the Watcher, and despite being a pale reflection of his sister, he was proud and vain. He adorned himself in white, and bathed in the reflection of his mother’s rays, and after a time he began to believe that they were his own. He chose the night as his dominion, for only then could he outshine his mother.

Wulf looked on his sister with envy, for he too longed for children. Yet, because he had been born without the secret fire, he was sterile. This hurt his great pride, and soon he began to devise a way in which he might bring ruin upon his sister’s children.

And so Wulf whispered to Hydra, for it is well known that the skull moon has always been able to sway the sea, and he stirred her anger with honeyed words and reminded her of the hate she had for all of the works of the Firebird. And as the great dragon shook with rage so too did the seas, until her wrath had become a storm the likes of which the world will never see again, wracking the Lionesses’ body as she struggled in the act of labor. And as she writhed, great fissures opened, even beneath the sea, and there was born Sphinx’s first child: Pestis, the Creeping Doom.

And since he had been born of envy and malice, Fenix cursed Pestis, and he became the Prince of All That Crawls In Darkness. His children were thoughtless things with no concept of good or evil, and it was their desire to reproduce and multiply, devouring each other as they did so, and shortly they covered the world with their numbers, and Wulf laughed to see how pitiful his sister’s children truly were, and the Lioness wept.

But the Firebird heard her daughter’s cries, and so she flung a great lance into the heart of the crawling host. The lance head buried itself so deep in the earth that the secret fire burst forth in a hail of ash and flame, and the sky became as night, and all but the hardiest of Pestis’ loathsome brood were wiped from the face of the world. Wulf saw this and trembled, and hid himself within his sister’s shadow, which he does still to this day whenever the Firebird grows angry with him.

When the darkness was lifted, the Lioness gave birth to her second child, and the Firebird blessed it with the greatest of her gifts. For to this day the children of Chloris, whom the Telchines call the Emerald Maiden, can live without murder, and receive their sustenance from the waters of the sky, and the light of the Firebird. Slowly, they too multiplied, bringing beauty wherever they spread, and the Lioness looked on them with love.

This the Watcher could not abide, and so he whispered to the children of Pestis, age after age, filling them with his envy and spite. And so the children of Pestis began to feast upon the children of the Emerald Maiden, and it came to be that some among them grew, and grew, and grew, growing ever larger and more powerful, until at last the first of the cold, scaled sea dragons rose from the depths to lay claim to the world. They feared none, and once again the Lioness was awash with blood.

And as it had been before, the Firebird took pity on her first-born child, and reached for her mighty lance once again, her eyes full of tears for the children of Chloris. But before she could cast it, the Watcher stood in her way, and the world fell into the darkness of the first eclipse.

And it was then that Wulf made a pact with his mother: He would tell her how she might rid the world of the dragons while sparing the children of leaf and tree, if she would grant him three boons. And, though she knew the Watcher did nothing out of kindness, she consented.

Wulf smiled, and reminded her that she had borne the poisoned kiss of the Queen of the Night and been reborn. She need only do so again, letting the world fall into darkness and cold, and the terrible children of the sea would wither and die. But the children of Chloris would merely sleep, and they would awaken with the Firebird’s return.

As for his boons, the Watcher first asked that he rule that time when the light of his mother waned, the King of Winter for time everlasting. Next he asked that his sister bear children of the secret fire so that they might survive the cold. And lastly he would have these children do him homage, for he could never have children of his own.

And the Firebird saw that there was wisdom in Wulf’s bargain, for until he was appeased he would forever strive to bring misery to her first child, and so she consented to the bite of Hydra’s fangs, and the world’s first winter began.

Rain turned to snow, rivers to ice, and Wulf ruled over the first kingdom of frost. And as promised, the dragons died in droves until all but a few were felled by the deadly cold. Those that survived returned to the sea, and did not trouble the world for a long age thereafter.

And when the first spring came, the Lioness gave birth to her third child, Cernas, the Hunter, whose offspring were both blessed and cursed, for though they were truly the beloved child of Sphinx, they were also forever indebted to Wulf.

The Watcher both loved and envied his chosen children, and to them he gave mixed blessings. To each of them he gave a special gift, so as to set them apart from one another, and he taught them his tricks and slights, so that they might thrive through the use of their wits. But many of the children of Cernas he filled with the desire to shed the blood of their brothers, and cursed their wombs with the Watcher’s curse, so as to punish them for possessing what he could not. And so the children of Cernas were doomed to shed their hot blood to amuse the Winter King.

But when the time came to bless mankind, the Watcher found that he had but one gift left, and it was one that he was loathe to give away. For, as the Firebird had lain in the sleep of winter’s embrace, he managed to pluck a single feather from her wings, hoping that in its flames he might learn the secret of creation. This feather he was forced to surrender, and so the first men were taught the secret of fire, and ever since then they have used it to cheat the Watcher’s winter, and to forge the tools that have made them master of all of the children of Cernas.

And so, then as now, the men of the West worship Fenix, the Firebird, above all other gods, and call for blessings from Sphinx, the Lioness, mother to all. And always will men spit curses at Hydra, the dread serpent that lies deep beneath the waves. But, when they drink, they raise their cups to Wulf, The Watcher, if only out of fear . . . And perhaps that does not displease him.

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The Home Despot

Have you ever been walking through the mall and stopped to wonder why anyone would willingly name a clothing store after an unstable country, largely dependent on a limited-resource and ruled over by a corrupt kleptocracy?

Said store.

Did the original founders of the Banana Republic want us to associate their products with the labor of oppressed masses supporting wealthy plutocrats?  Or did they merely want to sell us exotic travel-themed clothing and had already rejected Heart of Darkness as a brand name option?  We may never know.

The horror . . . The horror . . .

A pretty good assumption is that this was the result of the simple equation of horrible things + time = who gives a rat’s ass, and it’s hard not to see examples of it every day if you know where to look. Examples such as . . .

Fictional Greeks

Need to get out the toughest stains?  Reach for Ajax, because he’s stronger than dirt!  Looking for some fine jewelry / free internet radio?  You can always reward your curiosity at Pandora!  Need an appropriate name for your sports team / brand of condoms?  Can’t go wrong with those tough Trojans!

Or you can. Go wrong, that is. Because, dear reader, all of the above figures from Greek Mythology have some seriously screwed up implications attached to them when you think about it.

To begin with, while both of the Greek warriors named Ajax may have been famed for their strength, one of them was also mostly known for the rape he committed during the sack of Troy.  In a temple.  With a priestess.  Who had taken a vow of chastity.  Basically, the guy raped a nun.

Ajax: Stronger Than Nuns

But hey, maybe they mean the other Ajax!  You know, the one who was famous for heroically falling on his own sword due to the fact that he couldn't live with the shame of trying to kill his own comrades when a choice suit of armor was awarded to Odysseus rather than to him.

Granted, the man does look like he could use a pair of pants.

Pandora?  Before she was hawking jewelry or online music, she was unleashing all of the evils in the world on humanity due to her own insatiable curiosity.  Just in case you didn't catch that the first time, there is an actual store that sells jewelry one might ostensibly give as a gift that decided it would be a good idea to name itself after a figure best known for giving mankind the gift that keeps on giving: Horrific misery.

"A lifetime of suffering? Oh, honey, how did you know?"

And the Trojans?  Well, first you might want to reflect on the fact that they were on the losing side of the fictional war they were fighting in, after the enemy snuck into their city while hiding inside of a giant wooden horse that they were stupid enough to accept at face value.  That’s bad enough of an image for a sports team, but for a condom company?  Let's just say there's a reason we also name malicious computer viruses after mythological wooden horses . . .

Trojan Condoms: They’ll Never See You Coming.

And then there's the . . .

Actual Greeks

Given the somewhat recent popularity of the film 300, modern culture tends to view the Spartans as a bunch of bad-ass macho men who fought for democracy and could kill their foes with their abs.

"TONIGHT, WE DINE AT CHILI'S!"

The reality?  Well, yes, they were considered to be a fearsome force to face on the battlefield, and records of their methods of training would make members of the French Foreign Legion feel like they got off easy by comparison . . . But they were also slave owning pederasts who threw babies into chasms if they deemed them to be weak. That might make them a good candidate as mascots for a particularly twisted branch of NAMBLA (the North American Man / Boy Love Association), but it does make you wonder why so many hyper-masculine Sport Teams are eager to associate themselves with them.

"Good game." "Yes, good game."

Believing that the Spartans were a force that defended human freedom is tantamount to being under the impression that the Southern Confederacy was fighting for exactly the same reason during The American Civil War. The Spartans entire way of life was both supported and created by their enslavement of their own neighbors, the Messenians, who labored in the fields in order to free up the Spartans for a lifetime of harsh military training. Training that was only necessary due to the fact that they had to cow a population that outnumbered themselves three to one. Consider the fact that, in reality, the 300 Spartans that fell to the Persian army were in the company of 600 of their slaves, who had been brought along to help groom and armor their masters. The film might as well have been called 900.

"Is anyone else smelling a gritty reboot? Guys?"

And, like many ancient Greek cultures, the Spartans considered pederasty (a homosexual relationship between an adult male and a pubescent or adolescent male) to be the highest form of love. Much like the Sacred Band of Thebes, a fighting force made up entirely of paired lovers, the Spartans reasoned that accepting homosexuality within the same fighting unit would increase morale, esprit de corps, and ensure (ahem) a tight phalanx.

"Have you ever considered a career in the military?"

And let's not forget that they practiced what can only be called the World's first well documented Eugenics program. Seriously, this one alone should be more than enough reason to give any organization pause. The Spartans: People from the past that seem like they've stepped out of a science fiction novel? Yes.  People we should emulate and name kid's sports organizations after?  Probably not.

"Faster, dammit! The last ten kids to finish the race get thrown into the chasm!"

Speaking of terrible people . . .

Pirates

Ah, pirates. Those lovable, murderous, Spam-loving, pillaging rapists that fill our hearts with glee. Whether you are trying to make people laugh in the Sunday paper, or are hoping to win the Super Bowl, you can't go wrong with nautical brigands.

"Look at me. I'm the captain now."

Now, granted, most members of professional football teams with names like Buccaneers, Raiders, Vikings, etc. tend to leave out the pillaging aspect of the trade, but imagine if their mascots were not the cartoon variety of pirate and were in fact the AK-47 toting variety and the whole concept gets a lot less cute.

"'Ello, Poppet."

And it's not like the historical pirates were any better than their modern day counterparts. If anything, they were worse. After all, you generally don't hear current accounts of Somali pirates landing in, say, India, sacking temples, killing and raping indiscriminatly, and then returning home to brag about it around the hearth. In fact, actual casualties in modern piracy are laughably low by comparison, with most of the deaths caused by over zealous security personnel overestimating the strength of their attackers. That's right, most of the deaths caused by modern piracy are those of the pirates themselves.

"Amateurs."

But, I guess I can understand wanting to be feared, especially when you're trying to promote a luxury cruise service that revisits many of the former sites of piratical atrocities.

Is it true that if you upgrade to the Explorer Suite, you get to shoot a guy in the face with Laura Linney?

And while we're on the subject of atrocities . . .

Native Americans

Before I get into this, I want to make it absolutely clear that I have nothing against the indigenous peoples of the Americas.

Most of them, at any rate.

And, I will admit, that of all of these categories, this is the one that has gained the most national attention as being potentially disrespectful when organizations, particularly sports teams, have names like The Chiefs, The Redskins, and The Braves. I suppose part of me can almost believe the explanation that team names derived from indigenous peoples are meant to respect the bravery and skill of said people . . . though the fact that more than a few of them are called The Savages does kind of put a damper on that argument. Whatever the case may be, I thought I'd touch on another subject: The use of Native Americans in advertising.

"Nothings says quality like a race that we legitimately tried to wipe off the face of the planet. Now with Easy-Measure Lid!"

I mean, does anyone else find it more than a little macabre that so many everyday items utilize images of Native Americans as part of their packaging?  Is there another part of the world where the systematic depopulation of a continent was followed up by the people at least tangentially responsible for said depopulation slapping depictions of the victims onto packets of butter?  And then folding said packets so that it looks like we can see their boobs?

I'm guessing no.

There's been plenty of genocides over the course of human history, but I honestly can't think of another one so massive in scale and successful in practice that the descendants of the perpetrators could actually feel sentimental about its victims centuries later. And, even if you aren't distantly related to someone who was in some part responsible for the mass murder, rape, and enslavement of the original inhabitants of the country you live in, you still have to admit that it's more than a little weird. Imagine if, years after the Rwandan genocide, you could buy soft drinks or cigarettes with images of smiling, noble looking Tutsis on them? In Rwanda.

"Tutsi Brand: Helping you to relax after a long day of piling human skulls."

But even that kind of pales in comparison to . . .

The Devil

Are you trying to market your booze?  Hot tobassco sauce?  A delicious blend of orange juice, milk, sugar, ice, and vanilla? Do you want to infer that your brand of vacuum cleaner is capable of possession?  Do you need to let people know that the eggs they are about to eat are going to be zesty?

What rough hors d'oeuvre, it's hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be eaten at a family picnic?

If your answer was yes to any of the above, feel free to adhere the image of Satan, the Prince of Darkness onto your canned meat spread and start watching the dollars roll in.

Behold, the sandwich of the Great Deceiver.

Listen, we all know that using the devil as a mascot has become pretty common place by now, to the point that no one bats an eye at the practice, but this is the fucking Devil we’re talking about, one of the most recognized symbols of evil in the entire world. There isn't a major religion on the planet that doesn't have some sort of concept of a demonic figure who personifies all of the negative aspects of the human condition. And it really hasn't been all that long since being accused of being associated with the guy could get you burned at the stake, hanged, or, at the very least, imprisoned. Did you know that in 1944, Helen Duncan became the last person to be imprisoned under the British Witchcraft Act of 1735? Yes, you read that right. Nineteen forty four.

A woman who was clearly in league with Lucifer.

The crazy thing is, people started using the Devil as a mascot long before people stopped generally believing that the Devil was a real thing that we should be horribly afraid of. Hell (pun intended), there are still plenty of people who believe that the Devil is a real force of evil in the world, and yet here the guy is, grinning at us like he's just this lovable scamp up to his old tricks.

This stuff pairs well with scrambled eggs! Hail Satan!

I mean, really, imagine traveling a hundred years into the future and finding out that Joseph Stalin, a man whose regime can be linked to the deaths of up to 50 million human lives (and that's not including the casualties of the second World War), has somehow managed to become a cutesy mascot that gets slapped onto things in order to communicate that the product is tough.

50 Million Human Lives Snuffed Out Tough

I mean, we might as well just start having Hitler peddle anti-stress tea.

Oh, wait.  That already happened . . .

2 + 2 = 5 (No Rat / Face Cage Necessary)

About five years ago, I found out about a learning disability called Dyscalculia, which in some ways resembles Dyslexia, except that instead of being a developmental reading disorder, it makes it incredibly difficult for a person who has it to comprehend arithmetic, math facts, and anything to do with numbers in general, along with some fun “bonus” issues (we’ll get to them later.) After reading about it for less than five minutes, I not only realized that I clearly had it, but felt a massive amount of relief finally knowing that this thing I’d been suffering from since I was a child was an actual thing, and not just me being an idiot.  It had always struck me as odd that I could somehow be able to score perfectly on a SAT or GRE verbal exam, but score abysmally low when it came to the other half of what is generally accepted to be the basic measure of human intelligence.

To give you a good idea of what living with Dyscalculia is like, let me start by asking you a question. What is the bigger number: 4 or 7? Did you have to take a moment to look at both numbers and decide? And in the moment did you have to carefully think about whether or not what you were looking at was a 4, a 7, 74, or 47? Now let’s up the ante. What is 4 plus 7? Did you have to use your fingers to get the result or was it faster to do the work in your head, or did you use a shortcut you invented where you counted the four points of the numeral 4 and counted up from 7? Was it much harder for you to do because one of the numbers wasn’t an even number? Did you have to check yourself several times just to make sure the answer is correct, because this wouldn’t be the first time you incorrectly did simple introductory math. If you said yes to all of the above, and you are not in kindergarten, congratulations, you probably have Dyscalculia! You too can live the dream of being ridiculed by an eight year old for counting on your fingers.

You see, the basic problem is that when you ask me to picture the number four, all I see inside my head is a number 4. What I don’t see is the concept of four. I can recognize numbers, and I’ve learned to recognize that 47 is a larger number than 4, but that’s only because I know that there are two numbers in 47, and two is bigger than one. And all of that after making sure that I’m not looking at all the possible combinations of the numbers 4, 7, and 4. Point is, even the most rudimentary math takes me a lot more time to accomplish than, well, literally everyone who doesn’t have Dyscalculia. And it gets worse. Addition and subtraction is one thing, but multiplication? That’s practically algebra for me. Division? If I didn’t have a calculator I promise you that I would never be able to figure it out. It might as well be magic.

As you can imagine, having this learning disability made school hell for me. Once it became clear that my math skills were practically non-existent, and my verbal and reading skills were superb (to paint a picture, I read the Hobbit for the first time when I was six), the conclusion reached by all but one of my teachers from fifth grade on was that I was A: An idiot, or B: Lazy. Which is frustrating when you have to put so much time into figuring out basic math. I was trying, trying five times as hard to finish my math homework after breezing through the liberal arts subjects, but there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to get it all done. The only reason that one teacher (bless his non-judgmental heart) saw past this was because he regularly had me in summer school, where he saw first hand that if I had enough time, I could always reach the right answer. I think he must have suspected something was up because he would also give me partial credit for answers where I had transposed the numbers.

Tests were the worst. I would sit there, looking at the page, trying to make sense of it all, knowing that I was being timed, knowing I was going to fail because it would take me ten minutes to get through a single question and get a right answer on a test with thirty questions. Oh, and make certain to show your work! Having to fake that compounded the problem. And I had to fake it, because showing my work would essentially be me writing down the numerical equivalent of the All Work And No Play Makes Jack A Dull Boy bit from The Shining.

And remember me mentioning being timed? Imagine wasting even more time while being tested due to one of the fun side effects of Dyscalculia: Difficulty gauging the passage of time. As an adult I am constantly checking my phone or a nearby clock to make certain I’m not running late, and I often show up for work or social events fifteen to thirty minutes early because I hate showing up late (a coping mechanism I had to learn to survive in academia.) And that goes hand in hand with any kind of estimation of size and distance as well. How big is it? I don’t know. How far? No idea. Close and far are about as sophisticated as it’s ever going to get with me.

Once I was finally out of the public school system, my academic life immediately went from being a shaky C level student to a 4.0, Dean’s List member. It was surreal. I found myself finally having all the time in the world to fully commit to working on homework that had absolutely nothing to do with arithmetic, and realized that without that extra burden of having to comprehend math, I was a mental powerhouse when it came to reading, writing, and analyzing information.

I thought my troubles were over. I was wrong.

Because you see, there’s life after college. And if you’re someone with a liberal arts degree when the economy takes a nose-dive, you’re quickly going to realize that there are certain jobs that are next to impossible to perform without access to basic arithmetic. I once, briefly, worked as a cashier at a calendar kiosk, and that went about as well as you can imagine it did. One of the managers actually thought I was stealing from the till, probably because I was handing people more money back than they had given me. It didn’t help that one of them informed me that I was being timed every time I opened the cashier.  After less than two weeks one of the managers passive aggressively rescheduled my shift in order to make me late for work (did I mention I hate being late?) and I quit on the spot. Which I imagine was exactly what they wanted.

Dyscalculia also features the major side “benefit” of sufferers having low latent inhibition. If you don’t have time to look that up, it’s basically the tendency to be easily over stimulated by sounds, color, etc. In my particular case, I cannot tolerate loud noise, particularly when it’s artificially being created by speakers or sub woofers.  Imagine not being able to attend a live concert without feeling like a shrill drill instructor is howling directly into your eardrums. I’ve had to flee numerous social occasions because a band has started playing. One incident ended with me screaming at the top of my lungs and abandoning a restaurant I had been waiting two hours to get into (and I’d already ordered.) I cannot tell you how many fire alarms I have literally smashed into pieces to get them to stop shrieking at me. Yes, I could have removed the batteries, but you see that would have taken too much time. It’s that bad.

And, of course, humans being what they are (delicious), few people will believe you when you try to explain the problem to them. I’ve told people I have a numerical learning disability (I naturally assume most people haven’t heard of Dyscalculia) and their response is usually: “No you don’t, you fucking dirty liar.” I can go as far as pointing them to the Wikipedia page describing the condition, and they’ll still pull the whole “Well, anyone can edit that, you know, so it must not be true.” I swear I could have the surgeon general tell these people that I’m not lying and they would probably conclude that I had hired an actor and dressed him up as Boris D. Lushniak.

The slightly kinder, stupidly well-intentioned response is, of course, “Well, I’m certain you’ll get better if you work at it.” Yes, technically, that statement is true. I have, in fact, spent a lifetime coming up with shortcuts and habits that make me seem as adept at math as a canny first grader. But, for all intents and purposes, my skills at arithmetic will always hover around there. Yes, with great effort I can solve complex equations. I’ve done it. The thing is, the knowledge of how to solve a complex equation doesn’t stick. I don’t forget the knowledge because I’m not using it, I forget the knowledge because I never really knew it in the first place. I can’t memorize numbers because I can’t even freaking see them inside my head. But I can memorize mnemonics, songs, the names of people (real and imaginary) and use those things to stand in for proofs, formulas, and numerical sequences. Unfortunately, that kind of complex memorized knowledge doesn’t stick around forever, the same way an actor will gradually be unable to remember the lines of a play he hasn’t been in for six months.

Somewhere, the noble native American chief Sohcahtoa cries a solitary tear.

So if you know someone who, like me, shows up 45 minutes early because someone told them that it was 15 to 5, and they were worried that they would be late for a 5:30 appointment, and thought that they had been informed that it was 5:15, please, go easy on them. It’s tough to be outsmarted by 8 year olds when you’re 36.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year . . .

Every year, the day after Halloween, two of the three radio stations that I listen to switch over to non-stop holiday music marathons that do not end until the day after Christmas, which means that every year I listen to about two months worth of Christmas music anytime I go someplace, especially if I'm not interested in what is on NPR (Dear Prairie Home Companion, you've had a good run. Can you please please end? Once, I loved you. Let me remember you that way.) I do this partly because I can be incredibly stubborn, and feel like I can somehow outlast the holiday songs by subjecting myself to them, and also because I'm too lazy to reprogram my radio, but the net result is that I have listened to a lot of Christmas music over the years. A lot.

Here are my thoughts about some of them.

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU: Like many of the best holiday jingles, this one makes me smile whenever I picture it being played in a minor chord, on a broken record player, inside of a house that you don't remember falling asleep in.

BABY IT'S COLD OUTSIDE: Of all of the many songs about sexual coercion, this one is probably the most heart-warming.

CHRISTMAS IN THE SAND: Lady, that's not Santa Claus. You're drunk. Don't take presents from old surfers on the beach. Get home safe.

THE CHRISTMAS SONG:  I would find it hard to sleep too, if my tiny tot eyes were a-glowing.

DECK THE HALLS: You know, I'd love to deck the halls, but I'm fresh out of boughs of holly, gay apparel, or a harp. And, dammit, don't just tell me about Yule tide treasure, give it to me!

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR:  I don't know about you, but if I was a little lamb, and the night wind started talking to me, my first reaction would probably be to piss myself.  And, if I was a shepherd boy, I'm not sure I would believe the words of a talking lamb who got his information from the night wind.

FELIZ NAVIDAD: Feliz Navidad. Feliz Navidad. Feliz Navidad, próspero año y felicidad. I want to wish you a merry Christmas. I want to wish you a merry Christmas. I want to wish you a merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart. That is the whole freaking song.

GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN: This is a pretty good one, but I've always found it kind of weird that this song mentions the power of Satan. It's hard not to picture someone throwing up the sign of the horns.

HAVE A HOLLY JOLLY CHRISTMAS: Honey, before we make out, I want you to know that at least one of these kisses is from Burl Ives.

HAWAIIAN CHRISTMAS SONG: Ever since I saw National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, it is literally impossible for me to hear this song without wondering what Nicolette Scorsese looks like naked. Fortunately, due to the existence of both the film Boxing Helena and the internet, I now know.

HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS: Does anyone listen to this and not picture a jolly St. Nick sharpening an axe on a whetstone? Maybe that's just me.

I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS: Will you? Or will it only be in your dreams? Seriously, I need to know, because if I'm going to go through all the trouble of providing you with snow, mistletoe, and presents on a tree, you better actually show up.

I SAW MOMMY KISSING SANTA CLAUS: Later, I saw Daddy shoot Uncle Gary in the gut with a 9mm pistol.

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS:  I sure hope no one is actually buying their kids a pistol that shoots.  And those sturdy trees that don't mind the snow in the Grand Hotel and park?  They probably do mind being cut down.

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR: Besides its debatable premise, my main question here is this: There will be scary ghost stories? Why? Shouldn't that be reserved for Halloween? And when have you ever been at a family gathering that anyone brought up the glory of Christmases long, long ago?

I WANT A HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS: Will someone please make the pain stop?

JINGLE BELL ROCK: What kind of breed is a jingle horse anyhow? And what kind of town has a place named Jingle Bell Square?

JINGLE BELLS:  Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg!  The Batmobile lost a wheel, and the Joker?  The Joker took the best of us and tore him down.  People will lose hope.  But the Joker cannot win.  Gotham needs its true hero.  I killed those people that's what I can be.  No, you can't!  You're not!  I'm whatever Gotham needs me to be.  Call it in.  Batman!  Batman!  Why is he running, dad?  Because we have to chase him.  Because he's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now.  So we'll hunt him, because he can take it.  Because he's not our hero.  He's a silent guardian.  A watchful protector.  The dark knight.

LAST CHRISTMAS: A song apparently being sung by someone with the emotional maturity of a child who is in the process of taking his ball and going home.

LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW, LET IT SNOW: Why do so many holiday songs sound like they're being sung by people who've had more than a few drinks?

LITTLE SAINT NICK:  I hate this song.  I hate it so much.  And, no everyone, it is NOT a song about Santa's genitals.  It's about a stupid tricked out bobsled that the Beach Boys invented to sell this stupid, stupid song.

O HOLY NIGHT: Nat King Cole is pretty awesome.

ROCKIN' AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE: Dancing in a new old fashioned way? What in the world does that mean? Is this doublespeak? How long before Big Brother takes over? How long?

RUDOLPH THE RED NOSED REINDEER: Hey kids, do you look different from other people? Well, get ready to mercilessly ostracized. Oh, wait, your variance from the norm is actually helpful to the powers that be? Oh, okay then. Have fun hanging out with your former tormentors!

SANTA BABY: This song is bad enough in that it's message is rather sexist (women are materialistic and might put out if you are a wealthy toy maker from the North Pole), but does it ALWAYS have to be sung in that weird, sugary sweet manner that makes me think that the little girl who wanted a hippopotamus for Christmas grew up to be a gold digger?

SILVER BELLS: I can honestly say that not one Christmas have I experienced silver bells being jingled on a street corner. Maybe I live in the wrong city.

SLEIGH RIDE: I actually kind of like this one. It's got that whole "era that probably never really existed" quality about it. That said, you know that part where the whip cracks again and again? I always make a point of inserting a scream after each crack.

THE FIRST NOEL:  No L.  No L.  Seriously, no L.  We don't allow L in here.  I don't care where you put it, just get it out of my establishment.

THE LITTLE DRUMMER BOY: The ox and lamb kept time? How? Also, it's too bad that we live in a day and age when crappy drum solos are no longer considered acceptable gifts.

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS: So, does the person receiving these gifts get to keep all the people? Are we promoting slavery? And, anyway, who is rich enough to be able to afford ten Lords-a-leaping? And did you know that it was not until I sat down to write this blog that I ever realized that it's four "Colly" birds, not four "calling" birds? Who knew?

UP ON THE HOUSETOP: I'll tell you who wouldn't go up on the housetop and down a chimney with good Saint Nick: Me. Seriously, I'd break my freaking neck. And man, those gifts sound terrible. A hammer and tacks? A WHIP? Whose house is St. Nick at, the Marquis de Sade's?

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS: Demanding figgy pudding of strangers, and threatening to not leave people alone until you "get some" is apparently far more acceptable during the holiday season.

WINTER WONDERLAND: Gone away is the blue bird. Come to stay is a new bird. What kind of bird? A penguin?

WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS TIME:  Don't know if it's the synth, or the incredibly repetitive chorus, but my Christmas time would be a whole lot more wonderful if Paul McCartney had never released this song.

YOU'RE A MEAN ONE, MR. GRINCH: The seawater crocodile, also known as the estuarine crocodile, Into-Pacific crocodile, marine crocodile, sea crocodile, or informally as the salty is the largest of all living reptiles, as well as the largest riparian predator in the world. It is not known whether or not it even gets sea-sick, but I still wouldn't touch one with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot poooooooole.

'ZAT YOU, SANTA CLAUS?: Hanging a stocking, I can hear a knocking . . . 'Zat you, Santa Claus? Ha ha. Hello? Anyone? Is there anybody out there? Ah, well. It's nothing I guess. Now, where were we? Oh, right, hot cocoa for two coming right up. Ha ha! 'Baby it's cold outside . . .' Wow, it really is cold. Let me just check- Oh. I could have sworn that I locked the front door. Must have blown open. And now the lights are out? Generator is probably overloaded. I'll just head down into the basement and check it out. Huh, something killed the generator. Yeah, no, it's dead. Hey, do me a favor and check the pilot light on the stove. Baby? Check the light on the stove, will you? Hello? Is that you? Are you okay? Who is that? Karen? Are you up there? I'm coming up there. Who's there? Who is it? Are . . . you stopping for a visit? . . . 'Zat you, Santa Claus?

Your Body Is a Duckberg

My main problem with the John Mayer song "Your Body Is a Wonderland" (besides the fact that it's the sort of vapid song that guy with a guitar at a college party plays in an effort to go to bed with a lady) is that I'm not entirely certain what kind of a connection he's trying to make. I mean, I'm pretty sure he's not trying to convey the message: "Oh, you sweet thing, your body reminds me of a heavily wooded underground monarchy inhabited by playing cards, talking animals, and mythological creatures, as imagined by a guy who may or may not have been smoking a lot of opium." And yet, that's all I can think of whenever I hear it. I mean, if Wonderland was not a well-known fictional place, and was just some term he coined, then sure, whatever Mayer, knock yourself out, but as it stands he might as well be singing "Your Body Resembles Narnia" or "Your Body Reminds Me Of McDonaldland" a comparison that I doubt any lady would exactly appreciate. But I digress.

What Do I Know About Sports?

Recently, I had a conversation about my general lack of what many people consider to be "common knowledge" regarding sports. As you are about to discover, it's a fair observation. I've never been very interested in sports, and though I've certainly seen some games over the years, I can't say that they were terribly memorable events. What I don't know about sports could probably fill up an encyclopedia.

But what about what I do know?

For the purpose of keeping this blog an accurate depiction of my personal sports knowledge, I will not resort to double-checking any of this information, so if there are any spelling errors, or outright falsehoods, I apologize in advance.

Off we go . . .

Baseball: Widely regarded as the national pass time of the United States. Also big in Japan. Probably a mutated version of cricket, though I don't know that much about cricket either. The rules seem a little complicated, but it's basically people hitting a ball and trying to run around a series of bases (arrayed in a diamond shape) before someone catches the ball and tags someone from the opposite team with it. Although, if someone catches it, the hitter is "out," so you basically want to either hit the ball so hard that it goes out of bounds (a "home run", unless it goes the wrong way, which is called a "foul") or do something weird, like not hit it very hard (this is called "bunting") and run to first base before someone tags you with it, or throws the ball to the guy standing on first base. Cheating is actually encouraged, so if you can run to a base while the pitcher's not paying attention, you can get away with it. Except not from home plate. Like I said, it's weirdly complicated. Baseball teams are based out of cities, but there are clearly different levels of competition, as I've never seen the Syracuse team (I think they're either the Chiefs or the Sky-Chiefs, but maybe they've changed their name to something totally different while I wasn't paying attention) play the New York Yankees. The Red Socks are based out of Boston, and they and the Yankees hate each other's guts. Or at least, their fans do. The Red Socks broke a long losing-streak several years ago, and people were excited about it. There's another team with a long-losing streak, but I don't know who they are. The Cubs, maybe? That sounds right, at any rate. Babe Ruth was a baseball player. Also, Ty Cobb. Also . . . Derek Jeter. Hmmm. Oh, also, there was a scandal in 1919 when eight of the White Socks threw the World Series (whatever that is.) And one of those guys was Shoeless Joe Jackson, and some kid was like, "Say it ain't so, Joe." And I imagine that made Mr Jackson very sad.

Basketball: Two teams run back and forth and put a ball through a relatively high hoop, either by jumping up and tossing the ball in, or "shooting" it with their hands. You're allowed to block these attempts, but not too much, and you're not supposed to touch the other players, I think. If you knock them down, that is a "foul" and then the other team gets to get some free shots at the basket. You get more points if you shoot the ball farther from the hoop, but I think the most you can score on a single "basket" is three points. There's a lot of scoring in basketball, and people seem to enjoy that. Teams are based out of cities. The Bulls are from Chicago. There's a team called the Celtics, but no one pronounces their name correctly. Michael Jordan and Charles Barkley (sp?) are basketball players. Also, Shaquille O'Neil. Oh, and Kareem Abdul Jabbar (thanks Airplane!) and . . . Larry Bird. And Lebron James, who's actually a pretty good actor. I also only know who these people are due to commercials and movies. Anyhow, most people seem to be more interested in College Basketball, especially in Syracuse. Our team is the Orangemen, and one time, while I was out of town, we won a championship and people kind of lost it and started tearing down trees and guys in riot gear were sent in to break it up. St. Bonaventure's team is called the Bonnies, but I only know that because that's where my friend Pete went to school. The Harlem Globetrotters are not a real team, but I'm not really sure where they fit in. I think they just go around the country putting on exposition games against a fake team of really white guys, who we're supposed to hate. I guess it's kind of like professional wrestling, but with more basketball.

Boxing: Two guys beat each other in a ring until one of them gets knocked out, or is just so battered and confused (or tired of being hit) that they don't get up after ten seconds. The boxers wear gloves, which is supposed to soften the blows, but I think it causes more brain damage because of how the hits are absorbed by the head. You can't punch below the belt. There are occasionally breaks in the fighting to give the boxers time to cool down and have their wounds tended to. Jake LaMotta was a boxer (thanks Raging Bull!) Mike Tyson was/is a boxer, and was famous enough to be the end boss of the NES game Punch-Out, but then he went kind of nuts and bit off part of someone's ear (Evander Holyfield, I think) and I don't even know if he boxes anymore. He does have pet tigers though.

Fencing: This is basically two people fighting with swords, which is no where near as cool as it should be. The participants wear a lot of white protective gear, which de-humanizes them to the point where they might as well be robots, and the bouts tend to be very very quick. The goal is simply to touch your opponent with the tip of your sword, which are blunt and, I think, have electronic sensors in them, so they're not slashing and hacking at each other, or kicking over big candelabras, or, you know, dueling the way people do in the movies. Oh, also, the swords are called "foils."

Football: A game where two teams attempt to get a oddly shaped ball into the opposing team's "end-zone," usually by throwing, catching, or running with it while people try to knock each other down. You can kick the ball through a goal, but it's not worth as many points. It probably derived from Rugby, though I don't know enough about that sport to make comparisons. People get seriously injured during this game, but, unlike hockey, actual fighting is not allowed. Football is probably only played in America. Teams generally seem to be based out of cities, but some seem to be from regions. The New England Patriots, for instance, are probably from Boston, but I'm not sure. Both the Giants and the Jets are from New York City, though I don't think they ever play each other. The Bills are from Buffalo, NY, and their name is a reference to a guy who made a name for himself shooting tons of actual buffalos in the mid-west. The Cowboys are from Dallas. The Dolphins are from Miami. The Eagles are from Philadelphia. The Ravens are from Baltimore (and I only know that because of my interest in Edgar Allen Poe.) There's also the Rams, the Steelers, the Vikings, and the, um, Raiders, but I don't know where they're from. There might be a team called the Buccaneers, but that might be another sport. There seem to be a lot of shady characters in Football, and people always seem to be making terrible career moves by shooting themselves in the leg, participating in dog-fighting, or actually murdering people. Joe Namath was a football player, but I get the feeling that was a long time ago. Also, Dan Marino, who played for the Dolphins (thanks Ace Ventura!) And who could forget O. J. Simpson? There's some other people too, but I have a hard time remembering their names, despite the fact that some of them are called Plaxico and Bulger. Matt Bulger? It's something like that. There's a guy called Brett Favre whose last name is pronounced "Farv," and people talk about him like he's a super villain. I think it's because he kept retiring and then coming back to the game, but it might also be because he played for different teams. I'm not sure. The big championship game everyone is trying to get to is called the Super Bowl, which is always on a Sunday, and is usually when you can see a lot of interesting commercials. There's usually a pretty big act playing during the midway point of the game (half-time, yes?) There's also a Rose Bowl and a Sugar Bowl, but I don't know who plays in those, or why. There's also the puppy bowl, but that's just an excuse to watch cute dogs play with toys.

Golf: People attempt to put small white balls into holes in the ground on a very well manicured lawn. The less you have to swing at the ball, the better you are. People are always saying "golf is a game you play against yourself." Golf is a Scottish sport, and is usually played by affluent people. I think this is because you can only really play golf at a golf club, and the club probably needs to be fairly wealthy in order to afford the maintenance that a large series of well-groomed lawns requires. There are a lot of different clubs, with names like Five-Iron, but damned if I know what the difference is between them. I do know the putter is used to gently knock the ball into the hole when you've gotten that close, but it always seems like people are narrowly missing, and then the crowd groans. Speaking of crowds, you're supposed to keep quiet when you are watching golf. You can't heckle the players or cheer them on. Even when they win the response is usually pretty tame. I assume golf is a summer sport, since it has to be played outside, and I've never seen anyone contending with snow. Tiger Woods is golfer, and was once well-liked, but then he had an affair and his reputation suffered. There's also that guy, who I always want to called Jack Nicholson. You know who I mean, the guy who has a brand of half and half? Nicholas? Jack Nicholas? Is that right?

Hockey: Two teams attempt to put a hard disc (a "puck") into the opposing teams goal. With sticks. While skating on ice. Smashing into other players is allowed, sort of, but penalized. If you start fighting with another player, people won't break it up until one of you falls down. Since people are always being penalized and put into a sort of holding area, you can end up with teams that aren't the same size, giving one team a big advantage. As a result of all the violence, and the very real possibility of being hit in the face by the puck, Hockey players tend to have missing teeth. Wayne Gretsky was a hockey player. Syracuse's local team is called the Crunch, and our mascot is either a superhero wearing shades or a rabid panda that people call "the ice gorilla." I think I saw a game where the opposing team was called the Sea Barons, and their mascot was a shark wearing a top hat and monocle. I also saw a game that started off with a all-out brawl, much like the ending of Slap Shot. I kind of like hockey.

Horse-Racing: A bunch of really little guys race horses around a ellipse-shaped track, usually on horseback, but also sometimes in a little cart that the horse is pulling. To the best of my knowledge, only men ride the horses. Which seems odd, because you'd think women would be lighter than men. Although the men (called jockeys) are pretty small dudes. This sport is popular with gamblers, who have all sorts of different bets running on who is going to win, place, show, etc. Winning is self-explanatory, placing is coming in first and second, and showing is coming in first, second, or third. There's also "exotic" bets like trifectas and boxes, where you have to guess in what order the horses finish, and so on. Can you tell I've actually watched (and betted on) a few horse races in my life? Due to the gambling element, and the cost of competing, there's a lot of fishy stuff going on in horse racing, like guys purposely reining in their steeds, and drug use (both human and equine), and apparently all lot of the jockeys are more than a little rough around the edges. It's also bad news when a horse takes a fall during a race; usually, if they break a leg, the horse is put down. The big show in America is the Kentucky Derby, which is a pretty showy affair- people dress up in ascots and My Fair Lady style hats and all. The British have the Gold Cup, which a lot of people call Ascot, though I'm not really sure why. Famous race horses that I know the names of: Cigar, Seabiscuit, Man of War, and Secretariat. My mom really likes horse racing.

Soccer: Also called "Football" outside of the United States. The game involves two teams attempting to put a spotted ball into the opposing team's goal, which is a fairly large net with a frame. You are not allowed to use your hands, unless you're the goalie or are throwing the ball back into game from "out of bounds," so this generally involves a lot of footwork. It's a generally low scoring game, which Americans don't like, apparently. The rest of the world seems to be big fans of soccer. Every some odd years there's a championship game called the world cup that features teams representing countries. South American teams seem to be regarded as very good. Soccer fans are also notoriously violent, and people tend to get crushed to death during soccer riots. I don't know any soccer player's names, but I do know that women seem to find soccer players very attractive, so they've got that going for them.

Tennis: Two people knock a ball back and forth with racquets, over a net, trying to get it (the ball) to land somewhere in the other person's zone (?) at least once. Hitting the net, even just a bit, is a no-no, but I'm not sure what the penalty is for doing so. The scoring is really weird. Rather than just say, 3 to 1 or whatever, the judges call out things like "15-Love," and damned if I know what any of it means. It's probably because this sport is so ridiculously old, and it's some leftover scoring system from the Renaissance, or something. The gaming area is called a court, for likely the same reason. Tennis players, men and women both, seem to grunt or scream a lot during this sport, especially when they're hitting the ball. They also tend to get into heated arguments with the ref, who sits really high so he can see the game. Billie Jean King is a tennis player who once played against, and beat (I assume!) an unapologetic sexist male tennis player. There's also Maria Sharipova (sp?), who I mainly know for being blonde and attractive, and camera endorsing. There seem to be a lot of attractive female tennis players, actually. Oh, and Andre Agassi! Andre used to have super 80's hair, but then he shaved it all off, probably because he started going bald. I mainly know who he is due to a skit called Advantage Agassi from the Ben Stiller Show.