Footprints on the sands of cement

My conference hotel in California shared the block with Grauman's Chinese Theatre in Hollywood. Yesterday afternoon I managed to elbow my way through a herd of distressingly dressed tourists to capture a few images of the footprints of the famous.

Most are just footprints, hand prints, autographs, and date, but a few show the personality of the star - like Jimmy Durante's nose or a few musical notes written out by Bing Crosby.

For my little pictorial diary, I avoided the nouveau stars and stuck with the ones who have some longevity of reputation. Funny thing, though. I think most of the folks skipping over the stones didn't recognize the majority of names etched into the cement squares. (They're obviously not fans of Turner Classic Movies.)

Now, there seems to be some dispute on exactly how the custom of playing in cement got started. Was it Norma Talmadge? A forecourt workman? Sid Grauman himself? Well, whatever ignited the tradition, it's been popular thing to do over the past 80+ years. And quite the honor. Helen Mirren is the latest to leave her mani-pedi in front of the pagoda-esque establishment (March 2011).

I assume the shoes are ruined after leaving their impressions at Grauman's. What do you think?

The Milestone Year

Everyone born in a year ending in 1 has a milestone birthday this year. Heading into April - my milestone month - I'm trying not to dwell on the great cosmic meaning, if there is one, of hitting 60.

Past milestone birthdays have never really bothered me. I turned 30 in England, and it was great fun. I had a fun 40th party and never thought twice about hitting the big 4-0. My 50th was relatively uneventful, but I didn't feel impacted at all by the march of time; it was just another day. But I have to admit that facing my 60th is starting to get under my skin a little.

Wrapping up six decades is a big deal. Still, I contend that being a 1951 early Baby Boom child landed me in exactly the right time and place for taking advantage of all that the second half of the 20th century and beyond has had to offer. I don't remember a time before television; it was brand new when I came along, so we grew together. Sociologists and marketers realized the potential of all these new babies around the time I burst on the scene, so we early 50's babies became guinea pigs and targets for toys, toothpastes, education theories, medical breakthroughs, and political/economic movements.

We rode - and are still riding - the crest of the wave. We've been just the right age for Howdy Doody, Captain Kangaroo, Slinky, Etch-a-Sketch, Play-Doh, Barbie (though I never had one, thank you very much), Cheerios, Look Ma no cavities Crest toothpaste, the Flintstones and the Jetsons, transistor radios, fishnets and mini-skirts, Motown, the Beatles, Shindig and Hullabaloo, Clairol hot rollers, bell bottoms, campus anti-war protests, Texas Instruments hand-held calculators, Disco (sorry), The Official Preppy Handbook, YUPPYs, minivans, 401Ks, and hyperventilation about impending (if ever) retirement.

So I reckon with all that cool stuff I got to test-drive, I don't regret hitting this milestone. I'm healthy (knock wood), gainfully employed, surrounded by a loving, crazy family and wonderful friends - what more could I want, besides knees, elbows, and shoulders that worked like they did 10 years ago? And I'll be pulling up to the milestone on a beach in Florida, enjoying the sun with my daughter, son-in-law, and GrandBoy. What better way to kick a little sand in the face of old Father Time, eh?

So to all you year-ending-in-1 babies, I say, embrace your milestone, whatever it may be. In ten years you'll look back on this one and smile.

A wish for a stranger

A man boarded my #6 uptown train this afternoon after work. I don't know why I happened to look up as he got on at 68th Street, but I did. The first thing I noticed was that he had a swollen, misshapen lip. He sat down on the bench across from me and looked down. I glanced at him again and saw that a dark birthmark covered most of the right side of his face. He continued looking down.

Though I was wrapped up in a story pouring from my iPod into my head, I found myself looking across the aisle at the man every once in a while. It wasn't the lip or the birthmark that kept pricking my interest; neither were ghastly horrible, just, well, I don't know. I wasn't staring at the guy, just glancing over occasionally, trying to read what was in his face. He looked, hmm, stoic. Resigned. Still, it was the end of a work day, and who looks buoyant after that, eh? Anyway, he never raised his eyes, stared at the floor the whole trip.

But for some unexplained reason, I found myself hoping he was happy.

I see all sorts and conditions of folks every day. Why this particular man touched my heart, I do not know. It wasn't pity, not at all. But there was something in the look on his face that made me wonder about him. And by the trip's end - we both got off at 116th Street - I was deeply wanting this fellow to be headed home to a big loving family (or at least a sweet old dog) who thought he hung the moon. I was wishing that he had a job he loved (or at least one that paid the bills). And I want to think that his lip and birthmark make absolutely no difference in his life, that after forty-something years, those things are just a small part of who he is.

As we got off the train, I caught his eye and smiled. He looked down and ducked out of the subway car, headed in the opposite direction from me. I'm sure he was tired. But I do hope he's happy.

Making a sad song better: Happy St. Patrick's Day!

And don't we miss the Muppet Show? Hm? Chef, Beeker, and Animal - what a trio! Grab a hankie and enjoy. "Oh Danny Boy, oh boy, oh boy . . ."

Roses on Park

Fake, artistic ones, that is. There was a story on the news about this installation a couple of weeks ago, but I came upon them for the first time as I was trotting up to 59th/Fifth over lunch hour to pick up an Elegant Scribbles job. I bet they looked fabulous covered with snow last month. Though the day is rather gray, here are the snowless versions. No need to stop and smell them.

Just Listen

Once in a while you just have to stop and hear the roses.

I don't know about you, but day in, day out, I suffer from sensory overload. Mostly, it's a constant assault on the eyes and ears. Everything seems to be flying at me non-stop, from nonsense on a computer or television screen, to angry and/or loud junk cutting the air or bleeding through earbuds. A lot of it can't be avoided, but much of it I bring on myself just by feeling the need to stay connected, to know what's going on. I'm beginning to see the brilliance in "Ignorance is bliss."

Sometimes I have to pull off to the side of the road (figuratively speaking, of course, since I no longer own a car), regulate my breathing, and just listen. Yes, noise is one of the culprits in this overload business, but taking time to sort it out helps make it bearable for me.

Right now, for instance, what do I hear? A breeze is gently rattling my window blinds. Not an irritating sound - kind of nice, as is the breeze. A car or two swooshing by under my window. A truck's gears changing to turn the corner. A tink-tink-tink caused by who-knows-what a block or two away. Car horn in the distance. Whoa - Metro North train incoming, so that wipes out everything else. OK. It's passed. The refrigerator fan just kicked on. A different car horn even farther away. Helicopter in the distance. Mmm. Everything's pretty quiet for a New York Sunday afternoon. Except for the trains and occasional car horn (no car alarms, thank goodness), all is gentle on the ears.

It helps me squeeze out a week's worth of sensory bombardments to stop and concentrate on every little sound. Yes, some times are noisier than others, but separating out each sound - and really listening for the ones that get lost (like the refrigerator) - has the effect of hitting the reset button for me.

Add a cup of tea to that little exercise, and there you have bliss - and ignorance, I suppose. A peaceful Sunday afternoon to you all.

Around the Jackie O.

It was a beautiful, breezy Saturday afternoon in New York City. Instead of sticking to my end of the park, with Harlem Meer and Conservatory Gardens, I moseyed down to my old stomping grounds in the 80's and walked around the reservoir (the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, officially). Since you couldn't walk with me, I offer up this little digital camera tour.

Tri-Polar Week

Welcome to Shrove-Gras Ash Lent week. Hang on, because it takes you from pancakes, Mardi Gras beads, and wild celebration to the depths of death and ashes, then pushes you out into a desert for forty days. A tri-polar experience, if you will. It seems kinda dangerous for even the healthiest - mentally and emotionally - among us.

Today was all about indulgence. My pancakes were slathered in butter and soaked in syrup. And yours? I had a slice of King Cake so whisky-soaked that I was breathing fire. And I mean that in a good way.

Tomorrow, everything goes very solemn. It's all about being constantly and uncomfortably reminded that, yes, you are human. You started as dust, and - guess what? - that's where you're ending up. Sounds like a marketing dream for funeral homes and crematoriums, but that doesn't seem to be the case. You never see them outside churches handing out flyers after Ash Wednesday services. Still, it is the one day of the year, other than update-your-will day, where you're confronted with your ultimate demise. Here are some ashes on your forehead to prove that you are, indeed, terminal.

And then, the long stretch of endless heat and sand known as Lent. Ah, me. What to give up? What to take on? Can I maintain forty days of discipline (and does God really care whether I do or don't)? Well, it's enough to make you want to stay in bed and pull the covers over your head. Until Easter. What if I decide to give up Lent? Or just give up giving up?

I'm not feeling particularly desert-y Lent-y this year. Yes, I've thought of a couple of straight-jacket disciplines to squeeze myself into for six weeks, but we'll see what develops. While I think I'll survive the bi-polarity of pancakes and ashes, I'm not sure I'm ready for a tri-polar experience.

Party on for a few more hours, friends. And then get the doctor to write you a prescription for tri-polar meds. Good for six weeks.

Where to begin . . .

Work. Travel for work. Travel for fun. GrandBoy's first birthday hoopla. Elegant Scribbles projects. Weird weather. Shootings in Arizona. Upheaval in the Middle East. Charlie Sheen.

I know that many people anxiously await the brilliant dribblings of Shorty PJs, so I'm sorry for going such a long time between posts. Too many things have kept me busy over the last few weeks. Only now am I able to emerge into the light and write a little something.

Just for the record, I had nothing to do with the shootings, Middle East upheaval, and - most definitely - Charlie Sheen. I just threw those on the list for the helluvit. But the rest of the stuff has soaked up all of my time. Add in a little time to eat, a little time to sleep, and - poof! - three or four weeks are gone before you know it.

Is everyone else this busy? Well, of course you are. So you understand. Now, let me look at my To-Do List again. Where to begin?

Show Some Love

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!

Back in the olden days we used to decorate a shoe box, cut a slit in the top, and bring it to school to collect our valentines. At some point in the day, the teacher would give us time to visit the boxes to put in our little cards (I always liked the flocked ones that I punched out of a booklet). Everybody pretty much got a valentine from everyone else - no hurt feelings, you know.

It's a good day to think about the folks we love, even if we no longer indulge in elementary school Valentine's Day parties. For those of you who have already decorated your Valentine Box, go forth and collect. For those of us who no longer break out the red and pink construction paper and glue, here's a little Valentine's day assignment for you.

• Pretend you have a stack of corny little valentines and that everyone you know has a glitzed-out shoebox. Your cards are for the people you really care about. (These are virtual cards, so you can't hurt anyone's feelings by not giving them a card.)
• Make a list of all the people in your life that you love. How many valentines do you need?
• Give thanks for all those loved ones.
• How big do you think your own Valentine Box will need to be if the folks who love you do the same assignment?

Wishing you all a day of love and chocolate!

"Della, get Paul Drake on the phone."

For the past couple of weeks, I've been lost in Perry Mason-land, thanks to Netflix. It's a world light-years away from our own Law & Order universe, which is what makes the trip so interesting. The stories and styles of the black-and-white 1950s are highly entertaining. No blood, no guts, and everybody's covered up, except for the occasional show-girl. And though things get a little racy once in a while and innuendo abounds, there's no embarrassing sex.

Episode titles like The Case of the Crimson Kiss and The Case of the Half-Wakened Wife (catching the innuendo, hm?) are cleverly corny, and the writers must've had a ball creating them. The iconic theme music, the men's hats and women's shirtwaist dresses, and the whopping great boat-cars nail the series' place in time. I think you can learn more about mid-1950s life and culture from shows like Perry Mason than from history books or newsreels.

The characters of modern day lawyer-cop shows must be green with envy. Perry, Della, and Paul get away with stuff that Jack, Olivia, and Lennie could never slide by the DA or Police Chief. Perry does some pretty outrageous things, like man-handling evidence, breaking and entering, and tricking witnesses. (Objection! Sustained.) Lt. Tragg and DA Burger don't stand a chance, because they're always two steps behind.

My mother loved Perry Mason, but as a kid I found it kind of boring. Now, I find the show interesting, entertaining. All sorts of soon-to-be-famous actors troop through. The stories are solid, albeit the legal angles are often laughable (which adds to the entertainment value). Plus, I can never quite figure out what's up between Della and Paul. As I said, much more interesting now.

I'll let you know if I come to any firm conclusion about Miss Street and Mr. Drake. But now it's time for The Case of the Black-eyed Blonde. No objection.

Just call me Mary Peach Cobbler

One of the great things about living in New York City is the regular stream of mobster stories. You just don't get much of that in Atlanta, Georgia.

Anyway, the one that caught my eye recently was "Joey Cupcakes is Taken Down, from Rao's Wall."  OK, well two things caught my eye: "Joey Cupcakes" and "Rao's." See, I live right down the street from the infamous Rao's, the restaurant impossible to get into unless you know somebody, meaning the owner. It's famous for gangsters (not gangstas) and the likes of Woody Allen.

But the real story here is how some wise guy gets the name "Cupcakes" pinned on him. Gangsters are way ahead of gangstas in tagging their own. Websites abound that will generate a mob nickname - or a gangsta nickname, for that matter, but nothing comes up as brilliant as the real thing. Alas, the NYT article doesn't explain how Joey Cupcakes got his moniker. Sigh. But I like it. What's not to like about cupcakes? Kinda makes you underestimate him, which might be the point.

I'm trying to figure out what my own appropriate mobster nickname should be. I mean, I live right down the street from Rao's, and who knows?  I might need a gangster-name handy sometime soon. I don't really see myself attached to the animal kingdom (The Snake, The Ant, Bugsy). Scarface doesn't really work. But I really like the food-nickname option. Too bad Joey already has Cupcakes. I hear Lollipops is taken, too. Hmm. I'm leaning toward something connected to my Southern roots. Fried Chicken? Grits? Greens? I'll work on it.

In the meantime, I wonder where Joey actually buys his cupcakes? (And I hope this post won't get me taken down, and I don't mean from Rao's wall.)

Finally. The Hat.

A couple of years ago, I posted about my need to find a hat that 1) kept my ears and head warm, and 2) didn't give me hat-head. And, yeah, #2 was the more important to me. No matter how the wind howls or the snow blows - and, Zeus knows, there's been a lot of that around here lately - I brave the elements hatless because I just haven't found anything that meets my hat requirements.

Until now.

A few weeks ago childhood buddy Debbi offered to knit me a hat. Guaranteed warm. Guaranteed hat-headless. It arrived last week while I was in Atlanta, but when I got to work yesterday, there it was. In all its glory. A lovely blue, soft confection of a hat, with long scarf-ties, just waiting to be donned and walked around a New York block a time or two.

It is most definitely warm, covering my head and ears. It's thick and soft, not scratchy. The long ties wrap around to keep my neck warm. I can slip the hat off like a hood while I'm inside or riding the subway. And, believe it or not, you ruthless sceptics - no hat-head! It's genius! It's a miracle! It is the coolest - er, warmest - hat ever! And it was hand-made by a friend who has known me since the fifth grade.

In this most blizzardy year ever, my dear friend has knit with her own hands a hat that keeps me protected from the elements and doesn't flatten my hair. Whew. Just in time! A chapeau for the snow that keeps my hair status quo.

A Winter's Walk

I spent a couple of hours tromping through Central Park this afternoon, the slice between 65th and 80th Streets. It was late afternoon, and the shadows were falling, but folks were still sledding and walking throughout the park. Cold, but not brutally so, it was New York City wearing her winter Sunday best. Grab a cup of cocoa and enjoy!

Epiphanies

No one has appeared at my door with gold, frankincense, or myrrh. There are no camels parked on the sidewalk on 115th. And I'm afraid that in this day and time, if you got three wise men together, they'd just end up bickering and throwing insults at each other.

That said and in keeping with this season of Epiphany, little sparklers in my tiny brain have been fizzing all week with illuminating discoveries and realizations. Since you're dying to know what those insights are (wink-wink), I'll share them, in no particular order:

• Noses are funny. Funny, as in odd, weird, not attractive. Look around. Start noticing noses. Except for babies and small children (and even lots of them have funny noses), that protuberance in prime face real estate is strange. I don't know why this revelation suddenly hit me this week, but one can't control epiphanies. Oh. And ears are funny, too, but they're not right in the middle of your face.
• I don't need 350 Facebook friends. I dearly love keeping up with family, childhood friends, my buddies from Turner Broadcasting, and assorted others, and unlike the Facebook-haters, I find it a wonderful way to stay connected with folks. But as I looked through my list of "friends" over the New Year's holiday, it suddenly hit me that I wanted to readjust who I keep up with. So I quietly disconnected almost 100 Facebook contacts. Oh, yes, I'm the Great De-friender . . .
• I'm ready to get rid of all my books. Well, not all, but I have become a book-hoarder, and soon there'll be a reality show camera crew invading my apartment, complete with a fake TV psychologist telling me and the rest of America about my very unhealthy book pathology. I do clear out the books once in a while, but as I sit looking at my shelves and thinking about the boxes of books stored in my closets and under the bed, I'm struck with the question: Why? Why all the books? Now, some I could never part with, but most? Most have served their time and should be passed along to others. Don't know how. Don't know when. But I must have a proper, thorough book-purge soon.
• I can live without 24/7 news. I'm taking the Big Picture-Over Time view these days. I do not need to know what's going on all the time. Since I lost political efficacy about 10-12 years ago, the system tends to tick along without my obsessive following anyway. Compulsive news-tracking is as shortsighted as checking stock investments hourly. Sit back. Take action if necessary (yes, keep voting). But news-bombardment just keeps me (and everybody else, so it seems) in an anger zone. I'm chillin', folks. Y'all go on without me for a while.
• One does not need to publicly comment or give an opinion on everything. Since when did we assume everyone might be interested in what we're thinking? Does adding our 2-cents'-worth to online news stories or call-in chat shows raise the level of conversation and understanding, or does it further alienate us? We're all entitled to our opinions, but most of the time it's better to keep them to ourselves. (And yes, I see a bit of irony in the fact that I'm saying this on a public blog.)

I'm trying to figure out if these are true revelations or just a result of getting older. I'll wait for another little epiphany on that one. But if three guys want to turn up on my doorstep with a little gold or Chinese food, I'll not turn them away.

Shorty's Sense of Snow

Folks either love it or hate it. There is no middle ground. Snow brings out the cheerleader or the protester in people.

Me? Oh, honey, I'm leading the band marching out in front of the cheerleaders. I. Love. Snow. Love it. Can't get enough November through February.

Snowfall is always thrilling to me. I'm sure it harks back to the childhood anticipation of no-school "snow days" and the chance to spend a day or two rolling around in the cold, white stuff. Time was spent alternately freezing as we played outside and warming up with hot chocolate and Campbell's Soup once we were back in the house. Back and forth, back and forth. Freezing, warm. Freezing, warm. There's something so energizing and comforting in the process.

Then again, I don't hate cold weather like some folks do. I love the freshness of it. Even in a big city, the air seems brighter and more appealing than the stale, damp awfulness of summer heat. It's the one time of year that I'm comfortable with the temperature. For most people 98.6 is normal; for me, it's 99.4 (just ask my doctor and the Red Cross). Since I naturally run hotter than the rest of the population, I welcome a good thermometer plunge. 

I have more creative energy in winter. Maybe it's the sharpness of the air outside that wakes up lethargic brain cells. Maybe it's permission from the weather-gods to spend time inside and dream outrageously. Maybe it's that soups, stews, and hot chocolate inspire me more than sterile green salads. Whatever.

Once February's over and the calendar says March? My snow-love is put away until November. But right now my calendar says January.

So, shake those flakes from the clouds. Paint bare tree branches with a layer of white. Give me something to scrunch my boots through. Offer me the chance (even at my advanced age) to make snow angels, snowballs, and snowmen. Inspire me. Delight me.

Let it snow.

New Year's Eve 2010: Blowing on Old Embers

The New Year's beans and greens are simmering on the stove. All the fixin's for cornbread are laid out. Snow is still banked up along the streets, but at least the sidewalks and avenues are passable. No matter, because I'm not getting out today.

It's New Year's Eve in New York City. Good-natured craziness is rampant, and I just don't feel the need to add to the chaos. After such a busy Thanksgiving and Christmas season, I'm quite content to stay inside today with a stack of movies and a good book or two.

Actually, I feel the need to do a little self-inventory-taking. Not resolutions, mind you, just a much needed passion-check. Of late, I've felt a little blah about almost everything. The exception to the blahness is my new GrandBoy, of course. But on the whole I seem to have lost a spark (or two) that drives me forward. I'm not expecting any major revelations or insights, but I do think I need to make an honest assessment of what I want to put my soul into.

So over this New Year's weekend, I plan to go it alone, testing myself on this or that, trying to stoke up some life-energy passion for something.

Hand me that poker and bellows, please.

Merry Christmas from Dixie

And from Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight.

Merry, Merry Christmas to all!

Ode to the Bubble Light

O, bubbly delight
Festooning the tree,
Your taper deserves laud and praise!
The orangy-red liquid
Is churning away,
A-lulling us into a haze.

No greater invention
Has e’er come our way.
You fizz up our frothy-less gloom.
No iPhone or iPod,
Or iAnything
Compares to your bubbly plume.

Let your light so shine,
The Good Book says;
To hide it can cause real trouble.
So when I shine
A light for me
I hope to Heaven it’ll bubble.

Pull down those tasteful
Little LEDs
Their wow-ness is, oh, so slight.
Shun the chic!
Embrace the glory
Of the wondrous Bubble Light!

Christmas Card Reality

A great big bright old-fashioned Christmas bulb went off over my head as I pawed through available Christmas card options during lunch hour. That light soaked through my brain, and here's the wisdom it imparted:

Mary. Stop. You do not have to send everybody a Christmas card this year.

It took a few minutes for me to realize what was happening, standing amidst the glorious array of damn expensive cards.

Really, O Great Bulb? Are you telling me that I do not have to figure out the exact right card that expresses my spirit of the season and plunk down loads o' cash for, say, three or four boxes of cards and first class postage just because I've always done that?

I was experiencing Epiphany pre-Christmas. Right in the middle of the Hallmark store on 2nd Avenue in the most Christmasy city on the planet.

Could it be? Could I somehow cull my ancient list of names and addresses and limit myself to - oh, I don't know - 24?

I say 24 because there were a few boxes marked "Value" with 24 cards for $7.99. My mind was a-whirr. Hm. 24. I mentally flipped through my address book (yeah, I still have an actual address book, though I'm sure there's an app for that).

Hey! A goodly number of these friends follow my every movement on Facebook now. They've seen all my cute GrandBoy pictures. They know what I've been doing all year. Dare I drop at least some of them off my Christmas card list this year?

Yes, the light was beginning to sink in. Might there be others that could slide off the list, as well? People I see fairly often? People I haven't heard from in ten years? I just might pull this off!

Now, I know you're saying to yourself, "Why send any cards at all?" Well, two reasons. One, I like to send Christmas cards. And two, I like to get Christmas cards. I love, love, love getting Christmas cards. I love all the picture cards and the notes. I never throw a card away (yeah, I have a huge box filled with old cards, and, yes, I go through them every year).

So. I am now in possession of 24, count 'em - 24, value-boxed Christmas cards. I went kinda cutsie, since I'm a grandmother now, and grandmothers do that kind of thing. The other options were just boring holly and stuff. I will stop by the Grand Central Post Office on my way home and purchase 24 Christmas stamps, plus extra postage for the two that absolutely must fly off to the UK. I will pop in a Christmas movie tonight, address the cards with much love and affection, and get them in the mail by Monday.

To those of you not amongst the 24: Please know that I still love and cherish you as family and friends. It's merely an economic-stress issue, so don't take it personally. And if you drop me from your list this year, I, too, will survive. Though I really, really like getting your cards.

Thank you, O Great Bulb, for descending on me in the middle of the Hallmark store on Second Avenue in New York City, USA.  I think I can manage it from here.

Scroogapalooza

Hang onto your bed curtains, and let the Scrooge-fest begin!

As our reality television world gets weirder by the minute, I'm shutting off the news and Biggest Loser to settle in with all things Christmas Carol-y. Last night I pulled out the first in my Scrooge collection, 1938's A Christmas Carol. Yes, it's black and white, and yes, the Tiny Tim is over-actingly sweet (as they always seem to be, eh?), but there's much to love about this version. Why, Ann Rutherford alone, as that minxy little Ghost of Christmas Past, is worth your while.

I have a great stack of Scrooge movies, starring the likes of Mr. Magoo, George C. Scott, Bill Murray, Alistair Sim, and Miss Piggy. I'm a stickler for all the famous lines: "Every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart." Or "'If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population."  And "I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me." Sometimes the scriptwriters have played a little fast and loose with the quotes, but for the most part they pop up in every version.

Between now and December 25, I'll pace my viewings to make sure I see all of the renditions over the course of the holidays. And I'll watch any version (yes, even Ebbie with Susan Lucci) except for the ones with Patrick Stewart and Kelsey Grammar. Beyond that, I'm game for whatever wacky casting - live, cartoon, claymation - you throw my way.

I've asked this before, but I'll ask again: What's your favorite film/TV version of "A Christmas Carol"? Or are you just a big humbug who thinks Christmas is a poor excuse to pick a man's pocket every 25th of December? Hm?

Thanksgiving 2010

Thanksgiving Eve

'Twas the night before Thanksgiving, and all through the house:
The turkey is prepped.
The cornbread dressing is just waiting for tomorrow's turkey drippings.
Various casseroles are in the fridge.
New tablecloths are ready to be spread out on the tables.
The dishwasher and clothes washer are both a-washin'.
The baby's fast asleep, with visions of cranberries dancing in his head.
His mama and daddy are having a night out with friends.
And I'm in my jammies, seriously considering an adult beverage or two.
Tomorrow: family, friends, food, parades, football, and turkey-coma.
But tonight? Thanksgiving anticipation.
All through the house.

Travel Trauma Update

I love La Guardia airport, even though it's one of the rattiest places around. You'd think a city like New York would have a first-class, shiny, Emerald City-like airport, but it doesn't. JFK is even sadder. But I digress. My point is that I figured the last place in the country to install the new full body scanners would be La Guardia, and - whoo-hoo! - I was right.

No travel trauma this trip.

Word filtered through the security lines: No scanners! Relief all around. I think it's the first time in nine years I've seen folks glad to take of their shoes and walk through plain old metal detectors. Fast, easy, non-invasive. And not one of those planes had a terrorist incident!

I'm hoping by the time I go through security at Atlanta (a real first-class, shiny, Emerald City-like airport) next Tuesday, the rules will have changed whereby the full body scanners and aggressive pat-downs are used more sparingly. We'll have to wait and see, I guess. I won't even complain about having to take off my shoes.

However, the terrorist snow globe ban is still in effect. Just warnin' ya'.

Shorty's Thanksgiving Rules

Since Thanksgiving Day is rapidly approaching, I want to remind you of the rules of the holiday according to me, Shorty PJ's. Pay attention because the Great Pumpkin, the Enormous Turkey, and Santa Claus are watching. Memorize, take to heart, and live accordingly:

1. If you're on a diet or are a vegetarian/vegan, keep it to yourself. No lecturing, eye-rolling (as we pile our plates full), or playing the martyr at the Thanksgiving table. Nobody wants to hear it.
2. Know the words to - and sing over the course of the holiday - at least one Thanksgiving song, be it "Over the River and Through the Woods," "We Gather Together," "Come Ye Thankful People, Come," or any of the harvest tunes in ye old American songbook.
3. Wash your hands before preparing any of the feast-food and/or setting the feast-table(s). Spy-cams are set up in randomly selected bathrooms around the country. Do not be caught unawares.
4. Use cloth napkins. It's the Thanksgiving meal, for goodness' sake! Show a little class. Besides, life is too short to only use paper napkins.  
5. Be on time for the meal. Late-comers are not guaranteed seats at the table or food on their plates. This is the Olympic event of meals. You'd better be there when the gun goes off.
6. Carve the turkey before bringing it to the table. I know everyone likes that Norman Rockwell picture but trust me, your life will be so much easier if you do it ahead of time. Plus, if you carve it correctly (which is impossible to do at the table), you'll get a lot more meat off that old bird.
7. No table conversation about politics, religion, Justin Bieber, or any reality television program. It's actually a good time to try to weasel deep, dark family secrets out of elderly relatives who are in a turkey stupor.
8. If you didn't bring something to the feast (side dish, dessert, drinks, rolls, etc.), you're out of the left-overs lottery. Only food-contributors get to divvy up what's left after the onslaught.
9. No Christmas anything - decorations, movies, carols - until the day after Thanksgiving. The one exception is the original "Miracle on 34th Street" (Maureen O'Hara, Natalie Wood) since it features Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.
10. Be thankful. Take time to really think about all your blessings. Don't be afraid to let people know why you're thankful. Appreciate your life. Stop whining. At least for one day.