(Un?)Fortunately..

...the Masked Logician is *not* dead...

He has simply retired.

Come and visit him, if you wish, at his new home.

Just be sure to keep the noise down.


~The Management

Happy Holiday Angst

I'm not even bothering to weigh in on the "War on Christmas" issue. Frankly, I have more important things to do, like organizing my socks by threadcount.

Fortunately, there's someone out there willing to take this thing to the mat for the betterment of all mankind.

Note: You just thought I was a frothing mass of cynical, vitriolic rage.

I only wish I could say I disagreed...

Mmmm, tryptophan...

Well, friends, it's once again that time of year when we as citizens of these Altered States of America come together to reminisce about what it is that makes this country great, to link arms and hearts in the timeless, ageless embrace of brotherhood, and to pay homage to the beautiful and noble traditions of bygone days.

Wait, no, that's what we do at Grateful Dead tribute concerts.

What we have this week, on the other hand, is Thanksgiving.

This, of course, is America's State-sanctioned engorgement day, the inaugural feast of a 30+ day extravaganza of epicurean delight not entirely unlike those with which victorious barbarian hordes once punctuated the razing of entire civilizations.
Immediately after we finish ingesting the traditional wagonload of food, we stagger rubber-legged over to the sofa where we take up a peculiar sessile lifestyle for the duration of the afternoon--or possibly the year, depending on the quality of the sweet potato pie.

Next, of course, comes the obligatory Marathon of Mediocre Football, of which every American male over the age of 11 months is required to partake on penalty of death. This debacle lasts between three and thirteen weeks, depending on the volume of pre- and postgame analysis you are able to survive. It is permissible to leave the television set for brief periods for the purpose of coping with the requirements of biology--this becomes especially critical after the fourth helping of Aunt Jem's Green Bean Surprise--but these trips should be kept to a minimum, and any absences of a duration greater than ten minutes can only be excused by the presence of a turkey sandwich.

This brings me to that greatest of all Thanksgiving traditions: Leftovers. You see, it is forbidden, under federal law, to provide, for a family of four, a Thanksgiving meal weighing less than 3.7 metric tons. This leads to quite a stunning array of excess gustables, naturally. It is customary to have the consumption of leftovers adhere to the following pattern: 1) Second dinner, which is generally a scaled-down version of the primary Thanksgiving meal; 2) Snack course, wherein those are fed who could not be roused from their food-induced stupor in time for Second dinner; 3) Sandwiches. Ah, sandwiches. Herein lies the true art form--some would even say spiritual experience--of Thanksgiving. At no other time during the year does the humble sandwich take on such majesty of form and proportion. A good post-Thanksgiving sandwich can--and indeed should--be so designed and constructed as to nearly replicate the dining experience. That is, they should contain: Everything. That's right. Everything. You cannot--this point cannot be overstated--cannot over-stock a proper holiday sandwich. Simple slices of turkey or ham on bread will get you laughed out of the kitchen this time of year. A good rule of thumb is this: If you can carry your sandwich on a standard paper plate, it is under-constructed. The true masters can even, with a lifetime of practice and dedication, erect sandwiches of such breathtaking scope and scale that the sandwiches themselves will begin, if left to their own devices, to undergo geologic processes. It is not my intent to suggest that you attempt such feats of sandwich making, but it is helpful to know the full range of one's art.

But wait! There's more! Once we're done, we get to clamber up bright and early, drag our bloated, lethargic carcasses down to the local Circus of Capitalism, and fight to the death with other shambling, over-fed hulks over a parking space so distant from the actual entrance that no fewer than three Sherpas will be required to lead the assault on the front door. Once inside, the real havoc begins, as thirty-seven thousand people are suddenly unable to recall how they could possibly have lived their entire lives without a battery-operated tie rack or a titanium-plated salad fork (particularly at such ridiculously low prices!). Plus, we mustn't forget: Christmas is only one month away, and peace on earth and goodwill toward men can only be found at selected Pottery Barn locations.

I love the holidays, don't you?

Seriously, though. I'm mightily curious about the sorts of holiday experiences all you wonderful boys and girls out there have had. Drop me a line, or better yet, post your holiday memories in the comment section here. Who knows? Maybe one of us is holding on to a tradition in the making.

Anybody out there?

I'm relatively certain that that comment link at the bottom of my posts works.

You know, I'm just saying...

Something in the air...or perhaps the water

On many a fine Friday afternoon such as this one, when I've just put the finishing touches on the final task and can now brush off the cinders of what has proven to be a very trying week indeed, it has been my habit to spend a little time--at least an hour or two--randomly bitching about all the things which invariably bother me (which, incidentally, are likely very simliar to the things which were bothering me last week, and the week before...). Today, however, I just can't bring myself to it, for a number of reasons: I'm about to embark upon a weekend to which for various reasons, mostly relating to the general tryingness of the preceding week (see above), I have been particularly looking forward; The weather is brisk, clear, and chilly, precisely as it ought to be the week before Thanksgiving; Next week is Thanksgiving, which happens to be my particular favorite holiday. The upshot, gentle reader, is that I seem to be positively brimming over with good cheer, and I am not, so far as I know, even remotely inebriated.

Quite an unprecedented and alarming turn of events, don't you think?

Maybe I'm coming down with something...

Meanwhile, if you like George Harrison, the ukelele, and low-fi web video--and who doesn't?--have a gander at this. (Work safe, but not everything else you'll find in the neighborhood is.)

And Now You Know...

Things I've learned in the last forty-eight hours:

Mashed potatoes can turn pink, if you leave them in the refrigerator long enough.

Red rubber lungs make a very poor promotional tool. (But would be a great name for a rock band, I have no doubt.)

At 97 dB, even Cirque du Soleil sounds like Megadeth.

Most people believe that a PowerPoint presentation on organic fertilizer would become homicidally boring after ten minutes. They are dead wrong. The correct figure is something like 3.7 minutes.

K-Y Jelly is not suitable for use in construction...of anything.

Baleful Chronology

I do seem to have the most abysmal timing with these things. I finally start feeling my oats and set my face to the figurative wind, all ready to begin churning out reams of introspection, philosophy, political musings, and random, inexplicable--and possibly illegal--notions just at the one point in the year when I have absolutely no time whatsoever to devote to such things. At this moment, I conservatively estimate that there are no fewer than 37.5 things on my to-do list more imminently pressing than derivative satire-verse, and approximately 1,074 whose precedence outweighs that of culinary masochism, but, selfless blogHero that I am, I bring them to you nonetheless.