It happens every year.

The morning after “Black Friday,” we always awaken to a story of someone, somewhere deep in the heart of this great nation, bludgeoning, pepper-spraying, decapitating, or disemboweling someone else for the sake of a bargain.

Our reactions are just as rote. We go through the tiresome pantomime of acting “disgusted,” “shocked,” or “concerned” about how “commercial” Christmas has become. And those reactions, at least to my mind, are far more shocking than the behavior that inspired them.

Christmas isn’t “becoming” more commercial; Christmas is Christmas. It’s an event, a day, a celebration — call it what you like — and as such, doesn’t have the ability to develop or change.

It’s a niggling point of semantics, maybe, but this type of thinking has engendered a growing distaste for a holiday that was never meant to be as gussied up as it is.

It’s we who’ve made it commercial — from the rabid, clawing mother in Sacramento to the lofty, self-appointed social critic in Sag Harbor. Christmas hasn’t mutated into Mammon’s free-for- all on its own. Don’t blame Christmas. He’s just a cheery, plump little fellow trying to make you happy.

Similar concerns were probably first heard — and then added on to — centuries ago, when Lucius Flatulus (of XXII Augustus Avenue) forked over three sestercii for a knock-off Numidian oil lamp for his Christian aunt. You can almost hear the pagan voices echoing off the Forum columns: “Isn’t that always like those people, buying something to give when they have plenty of their own to offer? Those Christians are such hypocrites.” Or, “That lamp won’t last a week. My brother’s are much more durable.” Or, less heard, “Put on some pants, fairy!”

If this sounds like a sermon, please forgive me, Lord God, He the almighty and omnipotent, but I can’t help but think back to the of the Christmas of 1980.

I was 10, and to get my Christmas present — the big one, not the loads of trinkets I’d already unwrapped — I had to follow a map of the house my father had drawn leading to its source.

The path took me hither and thither to many false (and often comical) locations in between, and by the time I reached the end, apoplectic with expectation, I found that the present was… his stereo system.

Not a new one for me, but his.

I was crestfallen. Now keep in mind that he wasn’t being cheap (we had plenty of cash back then), and he never had the intention of pawning his old dregs off on me to make room for a newer, sleeker system for himself, because he never did. He just thought I might appreciate having it as my own, as I always threw his Schubert roughly aside to use it for The Who’s Greatest Hits, Magical Mystery Tour, or, unfortunately, Rush’s 2112.

I can’t remember the make, but I remember the turntable having a “diamond” needle, which sounded very upper-crust. Yet still I was disappointed.

Why? I haven’t the foggiest now. But I wish I could go back and change my reaction from one of sulky disappointment to glowing gratitude.

As if it needed to be repeated: Give from the heart, not the pocket.

(And good luck giving your children myrrh.)

– The Editor.

Since last month’s message addressing the advantages of voting “Yes” to Mixed Use in Cocoa Beach, we’ve heard nary a word from the opposition.

But that changed this past Halloween — two days before we went to press.

I’ve said that many Mixed Use naysayers must have compelling reasons for being against the proposal, but it wasn’t until I ran into a friend while trick-or-treating with my children that I actually heard one.

Sharon Wolfe-Cranston, a Cocoa Beach native, is one of the least politically-minded people I know, but her love for the City has jolted her — and a great many others — into action.

What concerns Sharon is the vagueness of the Vision Plan proposed by Mixed Use advocates. We had a spirited, amicable debate about the weak language the Plan rests on, and she made some persuasive points about the gaps it leaves open to unscrupulous developers. But don’t mistake Sharon and some of some of her compatriots for stubborn Luddites. She herself is very much in favor of downtown development, but thinks a “clearer, more measured” approach should be adopted. I only wish I’d heard her misgivings earlier.

So in the spirit of fairness, I’d like to print a letter Sharon wrote to the editor of Florida Today:

“The advocates for mixed-use in downtown Cocoa Beach keep telling the residents that downtown height limits will not change if mixed-use is approved. That statement is both true and misleading.

It’s true because current zoning allows four-story (commercial/retail) buildings downtown and mixed-use zoning will allow four-story (residential/retail) buildings. Here is why it is misleading: Anyone who has lived in Cocoa Beach for a while knows there is no economic incentive to build a four-story retail building downtown. That’s why there aren’t any today, even though they are allowed. It is the expressed intent — in fact, the goal — of a mixed-use plan to promote and enable the development of four-story buildings.

By allowing residential use into the mix, they make it more economically feasible to build high. So if mixed use is approved, height limits will not change, but the height of the buildings downtown will.

Voting ‘Yes’ for the mixed-use referendum on Nov. 8 will show you are in favor of the concrete canyons of Cocoa Beach or for more condos in Cocoa Beach. Voting ‘No’ will allow us to live in the beautiful small town of Cocoa Beach, one of the reasons we all moved here in the first place. I prefer to see the sky and not the concrete. We have enough of that.”

… So says she.

As I said last month, regardless of your views, please familiarize yourselves with both sides of the issue before voting this November 8.

You can read the Vision Plan on our website at: www.thebeachsideresident.com/VisionPlan

All of this will be old news in a week’s time, but what the hell…

Happy Thanksgiving,

The Editor.

or, How to Delicately Indicate the Hermaphrodites’ Restroom

By now, all Cocoa Beach residents should be familiar with the issue of mixed use.

The official language that will appear on the special November 8 ballot has been disseminated widely, but it bears repeating:

“Shall the City of Cocoa Beach adopt mixed use for downtown/Community Redevelopment Agency? The downtown/CRA vision plan developed over the last three years includes mixed use as a method to revive our local economic conditions and improve the downtown environment. Do you approve of allowing an additional mix of retail and residential uses downtown as long as it does exceed city-wide density caps as set in the City Charter?” (Answers are “Yes,” to approve; “No” to reject.)

According to Tom Hermansen, a member of the “Yes, To Mixed Use” Political Committee, apathy and lack of voter interest poses the greatest threat to the adoption of mixed use here. He also relays that the Supervisor of Elections estimates that we may see less than 20% of the registered voters cast a ballot on this important issue.

Resident contributor Dan Reiter addressed the subject far more eloquently than I could back in July. I urge you to read his “A Tale of Two Cities,” archived on our website, at: www.thebeachsideresident.com/2011/07/a-tale-of-two-cities. I also urge you to read the proposed downtown Vision Plan, which is also archived here: www.thebeachsideresident.com/VisionPlan.pdf

Personally, I find it distressing that a city that prides itself so much on its ties to the space program continues to have such a contentious relationship with terrestrial progress. It’s odd, when you take our roasty climate into account, how glacially things change here. I know this must be a comfort to some people and I sympathize with their fear of rampant condofication, but I can’t help but shake my head at the state of this place sometimes.

Please remember to vote on November 8.

– The Editor.

or, Hotter than Salma Hayek in a Jalapeño Corset

Florida, you know I love you, but I have betrayed thee.

I’ve dallied with others, that’s no secret. I flirted innocently with Massachusetts and New York in a fit of confusion, and almost got to second base with alluring Spain, but give me credit for returning to you on each occasion. My long affair with California is best forgotten; I enjoyed her company, but it’s nothing you’d call love, or else I wouldn’t be here today. I admit to shacking up with Ireland briefly, but I was really too drunk to know what I was doing. And if you’re worried about my interest in France, please rest safe in the knowledge that it’s only because her balmy southern bits remind me so much of you. I know it’s not much consolation, but still.

My recent betrayal was more a breach of psychological rather than physical trust, which is why it pains me so much to admit it to you. The flesh, as we know, is transitory. It’s the mind — the soul — that demands constancy, and during a chance meeting last week, I spat in the face of our soulful union. And for that I am sorry.

I really didn’t see it coming. I ran into one of your many northern paramours by chance, and we fell into casual conversation. You know I’ve never been jealous of your Yankee admirers, yet for some reason, this quahog-eating bastard really got under my skin.

He began complaining about your torrid climate, but rather than standing by you, I admitted that, yes, I would rather shovel snow than bear another moment of your suffocating heat. It was foolish, I know, but it happened.

I should have brought out one of the old platitudes about this August being nothing compared to the one of such-and-such a year, but I was giddy from your blazing rays and didn’t know what I was saying.

And then there’s all those others praise you a bit too highly. I’ve always been distrustful of them. I’m inclined to believe that they’re either transplants, masochists, or own a quaint summer cottage in Cape Cod. I, on the other hand, have been with you from the start, and when I close my eyes, I can still feel the warmth of our first sunshiney embrace.

I’d just turned zero when you first initiated me into the ways of love — basking in your Gulf, nuzzling at your fruity breast, exploring your lagoons and the length of your slim peninsula… My love for you is stronger because I’ve known you through hurricane and drought. It’s stronger, not because I love you blindly or unconditionally, but because I love you — like one loves clingy toddlers, Paul McCartney, and the Catholic Church — in spite of your faults.

But I have to admit that you’re difficult when you have your “time of the year.” Your hot flashes become more and more frequent, and I know you’re sensitive about it, but you really should see a doctor about your mosquito problem.

And yes, now that you mention it, that dress Rick Scott bought you does make your ass look big.

Let’s just forget about this awful summer and try to start fresh, hmm?

XOXO,

The Editor.

London — Despite his best efforts to orchestrate partisan outrage over America’s protracted debt crisis, alleged paedophile Rupert Murdoch has been unable to deflect attention from accusations that he may have abducted and sexually abused a number of young boys, oversaw a vast network of child pornography websites, dallied with underage female prostitutes, hosted annual “Kitten Broils” at his private Adelaide compound (which is said to feature 24-kt. gold leaf toilet paper, sealskin upholstered loveseats, and end tables constructed with ill-gotten ivory tusks for frequent guests like closeted homosexual Karl Rove), and to have looked the other way when members of his staff illegally hacked into phones in search of salacious stories. (Mr. Murdoch, who’s been said to enjoy koala meat on occasion, also owns a number of influential media outlets.)

The most damning evidence of the jowly, toadlike media magnate’s crimes comes from several sources who spoke to the Resident on condition of anonymity.

One, a “Mr. X” (of 26 Crickledown Lane, Surbiton, whose email addresss is “kyliefan537@britishtelecom.co.uk”), claims that a close associate of the scandal-ridden “Roofy Rupe” and ex-member of “Murdery Murdo’s” crack team of Darfurian refugee bodyguards (whom “Dicky ‘Dock” is said to affectionately refer to as his “Ni#@er Ninjas”), said he witnesseed the drooling, octogenarian Wall Street Journal owner take part in an SS-themed orgy organized by goitered FOX News chairman Roger Ailes at his opulent, tax-free Cuban hideaway.

Underage girls, ranging in age from 4 to 7, were said to have been procured for the billionaire’s bacchanalia by suspected bestialist (and FOX pundit) Sean Hannity with funds laundered through close friend and larcenous, transexual troubadour Ted Nugent’s Save the Christian American Children’s Freedom and Liberty and Firearms for Kids with Cancer and Flags Foundation.

Another unnamed source, who fears for his safety due to threats from “Rupvert’s” retinue of Taliban-backed Chechen assassins and fellow Antipodean cannibal Mel Gibson, interviewed war criminal and cold-blooded, genocidal Bosnian Serb maniac Ratko Mladić (a childhood friend of the tyrannical tycoon), who dismissed the accusations as “unfounded lies” disseminated by “dirty, filthy, unwashable (sic) Muslim parasites.”

As the clouds over London effulged themselves into an ominous shade of grayish blackishness, the Aussie Faust and embattled Beelzebub tottered out of his Parliamentary dressing-down and slouched into his bulletproof, limited edition Mercedes limousine to satisfy, most likely, his vampiric bloodlust by kidnapping, drugging, torturing, raping, and then murdering another teddy-huddling innocent child and then buying Tiger Beat with stolen Jewish gold given him by “fishing mate” and fellow impotent alcoholic Piers Morgan.

Calls to Mr. Murdoch’s offices have not been returned as we went to press.

– Anon.
(Anon. is the London correspondent for the Beachside Resident.)

It was said that whomever could untangle it would become master of all Asia. Many tried and failed until Alexander (the Great), having grown impatient with the complexity of the task, drew his sword and split it in two.

Thwack! Problem solved.

The event has gone down in history as the moment when a powerful general became an omnipotent legend, never mind the fact that he never really became master of all Asia or, that like thousands before him, he couldn’t actually untie the damn thing.

In some ways this tale is illustrative of the way we’ve come, once again, to regard brazen bluster as a prime virtue of leadership and now praise decisiveness for its own sake, and stop bothering me with details. It’s the ’80s all over again, apparently.

I thought we buried these dunderheads long ago. But here they are again, these straight-talking CEO-types, equating caution and studied reflection with namby-pamby weakness, overeducation, and lack of moral fiber. It’s an attractive reaction to complicated problems, this “F*ck it!” attitude of the frustrated father hanging a crooked curtain rod.

Do we really still believe all this upper management guff? That this fetishized concept of “entrepreneurship” that earned you ownership of a pizza franchise also gives you the additional power of being able to balance the budget, lower gas prices, and convince millions of Muslims that Jesus rocks?

It’s the same kind of thinking that makes one magically “gutsy,” as opposed to just clueless and uninformed. However much she’s been nitpickingly castigated for confusing a similarly-named serial killer with a gunslinging cinematic icon, Sarah Bachmann’s real mistake might be her exhuming the spirit of reckless, barrel-chested bravado as a viable solution to a new set of problems that may require a more nuanced approach than being blasted with a Winchester before galloping off into the sunset.

And they love to cry the blues about the debt, these people. If it weren’t for them sounding like Eric Clapton slaughtering a Willie Dixon song, I might just sob along with them.

No, it won’t be hordes of drab-tunicked Chinese coming to reclaim your home, citizens; it’ll be a smarmy, twenty-something prick in a Men’s Warehouse suit and a Trump tie offering you his Bank of America business card just in case, you know, you have any questions or concerns.

Let freedom clang,

The Editor.

Curiously, even those who refute evolution’s fundamental tenets are guilty of referring to criminals, perceived inferiors, and ethnic minorities of all stripes as apes. Show any of them a National Geographic photo of a chimp cuddling her baby and their hearts will melt at the cute humanity of it all. But it’s important to remember that before we were monkeys, we were reptiles — and summer is the best time to reacquaint ourselves with our lizard brains.

To witness the lizard brain in action one need look no further than the roads, the grocery store parking lots, or any beachside drinking establishment. The lizard brain exhibits itself, fittingly, in quick, split-second flashes. It’s a rash lashing out in wild-eyed rage, and it gets worse as the temperature rises.

Some say the lizard brain is in the front, nestled in the folds where the two lobes meet. I personally think it’s spiraled in an oily coil at the base of the skull, right at the bottom nub. When the lawnmower won’t start or whenever I see Sean Hannity’s face, I can feel the lizard brain writhe and radiate from that spot up around my ears to my temples and over the bridge of my nose.

And I don’t like the feeling one bit.

But rather than ignore the lizard brain, I say embrace it. Embrace it tightly — so tightly that you feel its needle-thin ribs snap like splinters. Squeeze its pink and purply innards out through its slithery lips. Take it by the tail and slap its leathery husk against the pavement repeatedly before crushing it underfoot.

Then step back, take a deep breath, wipe your brow… and beat your chest like a gorilla.

Happy Summer!

The Editor.

This month, it’s another “C word” I’d like to address, one that’s arguably more loaded, if not similarly misunderstood.

This “C word” is often invoked, usually with a dose of irony, and it’s widely agreed that, along with love and taste, no amount of money can buy its favor.

The word in question: “Class.”

If Americans ever had any understanding of class (in the sense of acceptable deportment), it seems to have died with Cary Grant and Walter Cronkite. Even Frank Sinatra, another archon of old-world class, still manages to avoid execration for his misogyny and sublimated racism by having sung some tender love songs and administering paternal noogies to a cutely diminutive negro named Sammy Davis, Jr. (The tuxedo may have helped, too.)

But the death of Sinatra may have been the last wall to fall in the battle to keep the concept of class from being dangerously diluted.

Even back in the ’80s, when he first gained “fame,” a tuxedoed Tronald Dump helped transform the term into a gilded, ludicrously-coiffured version that touched on both socio-economic and casually understood definitions, the power and mystery of which sprung soley from the amount of greenish bits of paper its representative had amassed in the pockets of his tuxedo.

“Jersey Shore,” “Real Housewives” … Class has been reduced to our cheapest commodity, one winkingly marketed to a populace — and by a populace — that inherently knows the difference between throwing feces through your cage and serving it in a teacup with a lifted pinky while dressed in a tuxedo.

But knowing that didn’t stop one Marilyn Davenport, a Republican “official,” from disseminating images of Barack Obama and his parents as chimps to constituents via email.

Davenport was given a more-than-generous benefit of the doubt by supporters and prejudice-shy quasi-journalists, who called it “an innocent lapse of judgment,” one imagines, because it was just an accepted ethical skosh above Carl Paladino’s circulation of a bestiality video clip. Turns out that prior to the event, Davenport defended Los Alamitos Mayor Dean Grose when he sent friends photoshopped images of a watermelon patch on the White House lawn.

“She (Davenport) could just be extremely clueless about race,” wrote one vaunted media outlet, an organization that seems to confuse a lack of bias with giving oneself a lobotomy with a plastic spoon.

Thankfully, we can all move on and get focused now that Obama bin Laden is dead.

Knowhumsayin’?

The Editor.

I’m all for positive change, don’t get me wrong, but I feel the Resolution is too open-ended and noncommittal to promote anything less than abject failure. Lent, on the other hand, is an idea I can get behind.

With the simple act of contrition and the denial of one mere vice for a trial period, Lent inures one slowly to making small changes that have a better chance of becoming old habits by the time the first rays of sunlight finger over the Easter horizon. Now I am a man of many vices, but my propensity — nay, fondness — for cursing is the vice I’ve chosen to expunge from my life this Lenten season.

I was a latecomer to spouting expletives. A chaste, well-mannered kid up until the age of about 20, I suppose I adopted the habit to appear older and more worldly. I thought it gave me character and a kind of rough-and-tumble patina my somewhat sheltered upbringing couldn’t provide. My father, however, was a great one for swearing. An Irish New Yorker, boxer, Korean War veteran, and later, embittered attorney, “Dick” was fond of the odd “GD,” “S,” pedestrian expletives like “bastard,” other colorful terms, and taking the Lord’s name in vain, but it was his use of “F” that elicited the most titters from my brother and I. Yet this was because he used “F” so sparingly. It had more of the desired explosive effect precisely because of the rarity of its being uttered.

Me? I’m better about it than I was in my 20s, and still try to be careful not to say it in a woman’s presence, but I should have worn the lazy “F” out long ago. And though it will always be one of my all-time favorites, “F” is not the word I’m concerned about right now. It’s “C” I need to toss overboard.

Everyone’s used to “F” by now; in fact, it’s almost accepted, which was unthinkable about 40 years ago. But “C,” much like “F” used to be, is the really the final frontier of profanities. Even when I type “C word,” I can feel the discomfort and outrage boiling over. I suppose that’s why I use it so much — for its shock value. “C’s” power is such that even when I mutter or shout it to no one but myself, I still feel a little rattled by its harshly harmonious arrangement of consonants and lone, uncultured vowel — its final, Anglo Saxon brutality. Plus, I’m a father to two daughters. One needs to set examples, after all.

“C” of course has anatomical/gender-related roots, but I’ve never used it in that manner. For me, “C” has no boundaries or borders. Everything has become a “C” to me — anyone on television (including the television itself), anyone driving within my vicinity, entire countries and cultures, close acquaintances, godawful music, clogged sinks, broken shoelaces, burnt toast, the state of my finances, whatever time it happens to be, my car, disagreeable weather, general unpleasantness, rotten fruit… The list is unending.

I say out with “C,” and the rest, hopefully, will follow. And in the spirit of Lenny Bruce, who cursed so frequently and valiantly in hopes of divesting expletives of their power and hurtfulness, I’ll come right out and say the “C word” for what I hope is the last time of my life:

CAT!

The Editor.

We’re talking the 1850s, but still not very far back when you consider America’s relative youth as a nation. Discriminated against in their homeland as primitive layabouts and caricatured in the English press as prognathic, low-browed apelike creatures, many Irish came to places like New York and Boston in the wake of Ireland’s Great Famine in search of work and acceptance… only to be discriminated against and caricatured in the American press as prognathic, low-browed apelike creatures.

Usually depicted in a tattered, outdated waistcoat and a ludicrous buckled hat, “Mick” or “Paddy” was seen as violent, unkempt, drunk, and — when he wasn’t being refused jobs because of his ethnicity or breaking his back building bridges, cities, and railroads — incurably lazy. His stereotypical accoutrements were whiskey bottles and cudgels, and he was seen as a scourge on the nation’s perceived “Americanness.” At least until “Pasquale” came along…

Widely caricatured as a prognathic, low-browed apelike creature in a ludicrously floppy peasant hat and tattered waistcoat, “Pasquale” was a lazy, violent anarchist who — when he wasn’t being refused work because of his accent or breaking his back building bridges, skyscrapers, and railroads — was seen as a lazy pest more interested in eating sausages, guzzling chianti, and operating curbside barrel organs than finding gainful employment.

Even though (as you can see) I still seem to have issues with being Irish-Italian, I know I never had it as bad as my forebears. And thanks to the passage of time and what I trust is humankind’s essentially benevolent nature, I never will.

So this St. Patrick’s Day, while I raise a glass to all the O’Flanagans and Gilhoolys, I’ll also be sure to include the Romanos and the Abruzzis; the Taganakis and Nakamuras; the Chus and Wus; the Blumenthals and Greenbaums; the Guptas, Katsoulases, and Rodriguezes, and to the Mbogos, Schultzes, Moreaus, Wiszniewskis, al-Ibrahims, and Mustafas.

Because when they say that “Everyone’s Irish” on St. Patrick’s Day, it doesn’t just mean that we’re mischievous, happy-go-lucky leprechauns for the duration of the day; the subtext is that we’re all still connected when we wake up on March 18.

The Editor.

“The bumblebee glass?” I asked, wondering what on earth he could be talking about.

This was a new one. We had several of those promotional, collect-all-six glasses you’d get back then from Burger King or Arby’s, usually emblazoned with a Muppet or a “Star Wars” character. I knew “Gizmo” was Gonzo, and that “Apeman” was Chewbacca, but damned if I knew who this “bumblebee” might be.

“You know, the guy with the goggles,” he clarified. “And the big tail.”

It took me a while, but I got it. “You mean Rocky. That’s Rocky from ‘Rocky and Bullwinkle.’ He’s a flying squirrel, Dad.”

“Well, he looks like a bumblebee to me,” he harrumphed.

And so Rocky was thereafter referred to as “The Bumblebee.” Over the years I got used to Dad’s code, a smirking mixture of ignorance and willful disregard. Now that I have my own family, I’ve found that this eccentricity has carried over to my eldest daughter, age 5, who guided me through the grocery store recently on a quest for something called “mountain gums.”

Having arrived at the candy aisle, she pointed to the bin containing gumdrops and pronounced proudly: “There, Papa. Mountain gums.” Clearly, she’d muddled the Gumdrop Mountain from the famous Candyland game with the actual name of the treat. I was both amused and relieved. Mountain gums were not, happily, a cut-rate brand of Appalachian chaw.

But “mountain gums” they are now, and shall be evermore.

She’ll just have to get used to me referring to her favorite cartoon character as “Dora Squareshorts.”

The Editor.

And if that sounds like something Dennis Miller might have said, it’s because he did, according to an entry I just posted on Wikipedia. And until someone puts in the effort to refute it, there it stands as citable fact.

Everyone will tell you that 2010 and “the aughts” were defined by nerds — and to some extent they were — but to my way of thinking, the previous decade was marked more by the damage wrought by these wolves in geeks’ clothing. When it wasn’t misinformation you were getting, it was a deluge of trivia.

Not only have nerds now made everyone with a cell phone insufferable know-it-alls, they’ve also managed to sap all the mystery and excitement out of human conversation. Gone are the days when you’d argue about whether is was Lee Van Cleef who starred in “12 Angry Men,” or Lee J. Cobb who played the officer in “The Dirty Dozen.” Days might go by — weeks even — before you shot up from the bed like a bolt in the middle of the night shouting “Lee Marvin!” By that time, the guys at the bar had forgotten you’d bet them $7,000 that you were right. They’d probably forgotten the whole discussion in the first place. And how were you going to prove it anyhow? Bringing in the VHS box would have been seen as nerdly, right?

But no more. Now everybody’s an expert, and no one dares cast doubt on any subject for fear of being schooled by some cretin with an iPhone and a handlebar moustache.

Here’s to 2011 ushering in a new era of normality and social competence.

Goodbye, nerds. Don’t let the egress portal hit you on the gluteal protuberance on the way out.

The Editor.

Well it doesn’t, just in case, like deep thinker Glenn Beck, you were wondering. He’s hashed it all out and put in long hours of research, you see, so it’s safe to watch. “Norma Rae,” probably not. But “It’s a Wonderful Life,” pinko disease-free.

But what Prof. Beck fails to deduce is that Frank Capra’s seasonal favorite is actually a pretty lousy movie. There are two reasons for this: Firstly, like another of Capra’s “classics,” “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington,” “Wonderful Life” somehow always leaves me with the feeling of having been gypped. Secondly, and also like “Mr. Smith,” it stars Jimmy Stewart.

“Likeable” is a popular way of describing Stewart; “blubbering, self-pitying histrionic ham,” less so. It’s no wonder he’s so easy to impersonate; during his heyday, he played virtually the same character in every one of his films.

For my money, the 1951 version of “A Christmas Carol” (alternately called “Scrooge”) is a far better holiday film, partly because (unlike “Wonderful Life”) it cuts right to the chase, but chiefly for Alastair Sim’s masterful portrayal of Ebenezer Scrooge. What you usually get this time of year is the listless Reginald Owen version. If you see the Sim version available anywhere, do yourself a favor and watch it all the way through.

Described once by a colleague as a “sad-faced actor, with the voice of a fastidious ghoul,” Sim was one of the comic geniuses of his time, one who was able to turn his unfortunate appearance into his greatest asset. We’re all familiar with Scrooge’s Christmas morning transformation, but too few of us have had the pleasure of seeing someone like Sim bring Charles Dickens’ miser to such vivid life.

In his 1949 address to Edinburgh University, after being installed there as Rector, Sim looked back on a humorous, ego-shattering episode that transformed him into “a qualified fool.” The episode itself is too long to relate here; suffice it to say that after the experience he was “as happy as any man has a right to be.” He also came to realize, quite beautifully, that when you are happy, “your greatest need is that others should be happy too.”

There are a lot of messages to be found in “A Christmas Carol,” most of them trite. But like Dickens, Sim knew instinctively that what makes some of the most important messages so trite is also what makes them so true.

So just be nice.

You know, someone should make that into a bumper sticker…

The Editor.

So good to have you here with us this Thanksgiving. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?

So, how are things up in Minnesota?

Ohio. Right. How are things up there? Yes, well I suppose things are tough all over.

What’s that? You’re fed up? I feel you, Joe, but I thought we agreed not to discuss politics at the table…

Here, try the green beans. Yep, steamed ‘em myself.

You’re steamed, you say? What on earth about? Do tell, Joe. I hate to see you in such a state.

Oh, that. Well there’s not much you can do about it, really. The government’s been corrupt for many moons now.

But you’ve decided to do something about it this time, you say? Oh… the Tea Party. Is that what all this is about?

Which is it, Unc, conglomerate Lipton? The Earl Grey and Darjeeling that tend to leave a faint colonial aftertaste? Or is it calming chamomile from a cooperatively-owned domestic farm? Surely it’s not Chinese Oolong?

Listen, Joe. You must try to be clear. Is it government corruption in general that’s bothering you, or government corruption as practiced by this administration, because there’s a rather fine distinction. Would you, for instance, be this up in arms had the other guy won? Well, I wonder. Because you didn’t seem too upset when last I saw you, back in 2005. And believe me, your beloved Constitution was being roughed up much more than it has these past two years.

What’s this? Shoving things down your throat? Making you bend over backwards? I thought we were talking about politics, Unc, not deviant sexual practices. Here, let me pour some more gravy on your yams while you’re busy tossing my salad…

Well, Uncle Joe, I disagree with what you say, but I just might die laughing defending your right to say it.

Enough now. Here’s the pie. Just in time. Will you do the honors? Now now, Joe… Cut the slices evenly so that there’s enough for all. And yes, please pass them to the left.

Let’s get to all this food. It’s certainly not going to eat itself. Here, have some more.

Now get stuffed.

No, I’m sorry. No tea.

Care for some coffee?

The Editor.

You have to plan ahead and mull over different themes weeks prior to its appearance. Oftentimes, you’ll have maybe four or five distinct versions until you can narrow it down to the best one.

Even oftener, a number of elements of these different versions will find their way into the one you decide to run with. You may have set out in one direction at the beginning of the month only to veer off toward another once the deadline clock starts ticking down.

One should address current events, but only glancingly, so as to avoid sounding dated as the weeks progress. There’s no harm in being topical, but you should steer clear of making your observations too specific. Above all, an ideal Editor’s Note should be pithy and concise.

Humor plays a big role in the success of a good Note, yet even then, one should avoid risqué material. A circumspective editor will resist the temptation to use any immature innuendo that might insult the intelligence or morality of his readership. There’s a fine line between being sophisticatedly funny and downright juvenile.

An Editor who respects the august tradition of his craft should always keep the image of that proverbial envelope in the back of his mind. And he should always be careful not to push it too hard.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what she said…

The Editor.

I’ll concede that it’s hard to see the point of suffering when you’re in the midst of it, and there’s all that garbage about hindsight providing 20/20 vision, but even if I live to be 90, damned if I’ll ever be able to make sense of the Summer of 2010.

I take with me some fond memories of time spent with my family, but beyond that, I’ll remember only anguish, pain, frustration, penury and boredom, separated here and there by fleeting moments of rage and disgust punctuated by spells of mind-melting heat.

If it weren’t for my close relationship with God, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to ring in the New Year. You see, God speaks to me, and his words have always been a source of solace in troubling times.

So you can imagine my surprise when I recently found out that God has been talking to other people behind my back. And telling them different things to boot.

I’m far from cracking the case, but right now I’m thinking either Glenn Beck is lying or God is. And seeing how I’m not one for casting controversial aspersions, I’m pretty sure that God is the liar in question.

I mean, why should I doubt Glenn Beck’s word? This is a man who recently drew an undetermined figure of minions numbering somewhere between 85,000 and 1 million to the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to hear him speak about God, the troops, children, God, America, George Washington, and God, and some other stuff designed to make people feel foolish for criticizing. And a miraculous flock of geese even flew overhead during his rally. And what does God give me? An audience comprised of my wife and two small, bemused children poking listlessly at yesterday’s casserole and a trio of bedraggled, pigeon-like things pecking for chinch bugs in my sunburnt front lawn.

How long has this been going on, God? Why didn’t You tell me that your gospel of charity and love had in fact been perverted by progressives and radicals as part of a grand plan to redistribute wealth and spread virulent strains of socialism? Why didn’t You tell me that the end was coming? I would have saved up and prepared. I’d have bought gold. I’d be more than happy to convince people that Woody Guthrie was no better than Joseph Goebbels had You instructed me to do so.

My question to You is: What in the hell are You telling billions of other people? Why have You confused me so?

I thought we were tight…

He’s one catty fellow, this God person.

Humbly,

The Editor.

In the annals of anthropomorphism, which are some annals I just made up, A.A. Milne’s tumbly, bumbly, stuffing-brained Winnie-the-Pooh certainly takes a slice of the honey-slathered cake.

There are plenty of other ingeniously conceived characters out there — including any number of Disney creations, from the fox-like Robin Hood to the persnickety owl Archimedes in “The Sword in the Stone”; the imperious Garfield; Bugs Bunny, and probably Pogo, whom I never fully understood — but to my mind, no one captured the spirit and “personality” of an animal better than Charles Schulz did when he came up with Snoopy.

Whether he was aggravating Lucy for giggles, typing out complaints and dietary requirements to his hapless master/servant Charlie Brown, flying his Sopwith Camel over the trenches of WWI France, or seeking refuge in a shell-riddled estaminet, Snoopy always embodied the extraordinary eccentricity of unabashed doghood. That Schulz made him a Beagle rather than a Labrador or, say, a Bulldog, is proof that he understood firsthand how truly unique the breed is.

You see, I know a Beagle myself. And by now, many of you may know him too. Humphrey’s his name, and he belongs to my brother, and Beachside Resident Publisher, Brendhan Bennison. He went missing for nearly a week this past July, and many who know him were as inconsolable as his devoted owner. He’s back now, happily, but the saga of his disappearance is so worthy of Snoopy you’d think Schulz had penned it himself from beyond the grave. You can read all about Humphrey’s recent adventure on page 67 of this issue, so I won’t go into it here.

Suffice it to say that as much as you hear about beachside communities coming together in times of crisis and residents going the extra mile to help out neighbors in need, you still haven’t heard it nearly enough.

Thanks to all who took part in the search and rescue.

And welcome back, Humphrey.

Good grief!

The Editor.

Hey you!

You got a problem with soccer? No? Well that’s not what I heard. A little bird told me you hate everything about the sport — the internationalism, the implied socialism of all the team play, the lack of action, “offsides,” the arcane terminology, the low scoring, the odd-sounding names of the players… Quite simply, its unforgivable foreignness.

And do you know what? I hate it too.

First off, why does everyone else call it “football”? Why do they have to be so damn stuffy about what we call it over here? You say tomato, I say ketchup. Or sometimes catsup…

And where’s all the action? Nothing happens! Nothing happens for, like, long periods of time. It would be more exciting if they just made every point count for 7. Why do they have to run all the damn time? It doesn’t leave any room for awesome commercials every five minutes, like that one where those guys bring their girlfriends into a restaurant and start acting all like guys and their girlfriends are, like, rolling their eyes, and then an electric guitar kicks in and a robot thingy crashes through the wall and they all start running, but one guy goes back and risks his life for the Coke he forgot, and then it ends with that animated cheeseburger talking about the new “Transformers” movie that’s coming out soon? That’s awesome. But do we get any cool stuff like that? Oh no. That would be too “capitalist,” and we can’t have that! They’re just wasting 90 minutes of valuable ad revenue time.

And what’s up with all these crazy names? How am I supposed to pronounce “Uwa Echiejile”? What about some good old American names like DiMaggio, Sosa, Núñez, and Brett Favre. Farve. Fahve. Fahver… What is the difference between Slovakia and Slovenia? Surely they’ve made some kind of mistake. But who cares? I mean, I can’t stand all this uppity internationalism… Um, grab me another Heineken while you’re up and pass the nachos. And tell Bob to start marinating those bratwursts. And where the hell is that guy with my chow mein platter? I called that in like an hour ago. Thank God for my sangfroid…

Soccer is just so elitist and queer… Dammit, I just spilled salsa on my $125 limited edition Greg Norman shirt. Do you know how hard it is to get stains out of this shade of salmon bisque?

And why put it in South Africa of all places? Who cares about South Africa? What’s so special about them? Llamas? I’ve seen pictures of Macchu Picchu, and I’m not all that impressed. They can all stick it up their vuvuzelas as far as I’m concerned.

Fahrvrer?

The Editor.

I have four: the black, cigar-scented beret I wore to a costume party years ago as a young Fidel Castro; a wide-brimmed straw hat I reserve for lawn work; a Donegal tweed flat cap I don for colder weather, and a baseball — or what an old friend (who was always reading) called a “prole” (as in “proletarian”) — hat.

Now that it’s grown so hot, I’ve shorn my hair and taken to wearing the baseball hat when out of doors.

I’ve worn some pretty provocative things in my day — well, not really — but no article of clothing has caused me as much grief as this damn baseball hat.

As you might guess, it’s not the hat itself that enrages people so much as the insignia it bears. It’s not the rigid, hateful symbol of the Waffen SS, but its intertwining of the letters “N” and “Y,” apparently, produces the same outraged effect.

Now I gather that I’m jeered at because people assume I’m either a Yankees fan or an espresso-sipping Yankee — or even worse, that I’m an espresso-sipping Yankee and a Yankees fan who sips espresso. The displeasure this hat incites is astonishingly broad in scope — Mets fans hate it, as nearly every other baseball fanatic does (especially Red Sox supporters), and the “My great-great grandpappy was born in a palm frond raft in the Everglades”-contingent despise it even more. The elderly just think I’m being willfully disrespectful for not taking it off in their presence.

Some have been shockingly bold in their criticism of said hat (one convenience store clerk refused me access to the gas pump), but most others choose to address my forehead, rather than my eyes, with a thinly disguised scowl. Yet lately, it hasn’t been as bad as it used to be. In fact, while waiting in line at the Publix checkout counter a few months ago, a rather husky girl punched me in the small of my back and glared at me menacingly for a few moments before pulling up her sleeve to reveal an amateurish Yankees tattoo athwart her bicep. “Hell yeah!” she shouted. “We’re gonna kill it again this year, yeah?” “Hell yeah,” I replied weakly. What else could I do?

Look: I’m not sure why I bought this hat. They didn’t sell any blank hats in the store, and the Yankees cap seemed the most neutral on the rack, silly bastard that I am. As far as logos go, you have to admit that it’s one of the more pleasing, at least graphically speaking. And though Cincinnati’s clawlike “C” is quite nice, I felt choosing it would be too much of a stretch, seeing as how I’ve never been within 100 miles of the place. But this is all too tortuous and Seinfeldian an analysis. All I remember is that I picked it up, paid for it, and strode out the door, happy that my eyes were suitably shielded from the sun.

If I thought it would incite this much wrath, I’d have gone for something less controversial, like, say, the one with an encircled caricature of a fat chick crossed out and, helpfully, the words “No Fat Chicks” scripted beneath it in a wacky, illinear font.

And that’s one thing we can all agree on, can’t we, regardless of team affiliation, race, nationality or creed: that fat chicks are generally not allowed, at the very least within the vicinity of someone who wears a hat that declares as much. Even fat chicks can agree with that directive.

Right, fat chicks?

Maybe I’d better put my Yankees cap back on.

Apologetically,

The Editor.

He may have been joking, or more likely muddled by the increasing uniformity of my politically-themed diatribes, but I didn’t have much time at the moment to uncover which. I’ll be the first to admit that, like a broken record, I do go on a bit about the FOX News think tank and the brilliant minds in their employ, but nonetheless, I do take this accusation of repetition to heart. So instead, I’ll talk about Mother’s Day.

In my defense, I never went in for all this political muck until a few years ago. I’m not quite sure why that is, but I’m inclined to think that, like everything else, it’s probably George W. Bush’s fault.

Though I’m a huge fan of history, I’m pretty ill-informed on the actual mechanics of government. If I were to state my opinion on the subject, I’d most likely defer to one of the heroes of my youth, the Irish playwright and author Brendan Behan, who put the matter thusly: “I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper, and the children and old men and women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.”
Behan has also supplied me with another handy dictum he nicked and adapted from American journalist Finley Peter Dunne: “My job in life is to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.” It’s a philosophy many mothers will understand if not have practiced at some point during their lifetime, a truly righteous way of behaving that (if you believe some particularly unhinged, revisionist pundits) suddenly doesn’t quite conform to the ideas of the recently fetishized founding fathers.

Here’s a good one they might enjoy about old Georgy himself, while he was busy paving the way for Glenn Beck’s future. Though likely apocryphal, it comes courtesy of “The Little, Brown Book of Anecdotes,” an indispensable volume for writers who find themselves strapped for time:

“Early in the Revolutionary War, Washington sent one of his officers to requisition horses from the local landowners. Calling at an old country mansion, the officer was received by the elderly mistress of the house. ‘Madam, I have come to claim your horses in the name of the government,’ he began. ‘On whose orders?’ demanded the woman sternly. ‘On the orders of General Washington, commander in chief of the American army,’ replied the officer. The old lady smiled. ‘You go back and tell General George Washington that his mother says that he cannot have her horses,’ she said.”

Try wrapping your powdered peruke around that one.

Happy Mother’s Day,

The Editor.

Did you know that leprechauns leave gifts for children on St. Patrick’s Day morn?

Neither did I.

But that’s what I learned when I picked my eldest daughter up from school this past March 17th. She looked crestfallen when I told her I’d never heard of such a thing. After I conceded that leprechauns did in fact exist, we spent the better part of an hour arguing about the size of them. She falsely claimed that they rode on the backs of mosquitoes, whereas everyone knows they’re about the length of a goat’s leg. And then we spent another 20 minutes bickering about their choice of attire.

“They wear pointy red hats, Papa!” she cried. “That’s gnomes,” I told her forcefully. “That’s gnomes you’re talking about. Leprechauns wear velvet green d’Orsay-style hats with buckles on them.”

And then came the trouble.

“Have you seen one?” she asked. I knew she had me. I don’t know why exactly, but I replied, unequivocally, “Yes.” And it only got worse from there.

Where? What did he say? And Did he give you any gold?

I made up some elaborate, cockamamie tale about seeing one as a kid. He was in our garden, I claimed, and it was raining, and he was using a toadstool as an umbrella, and his leggings were dewy (I was on a roll), and he told me his name was, umm… “Dingle”… or “Dangle” or something, and (fluttering a sheaf of unpaid bills in my hand) did it look like the little bastard left me any gold? And that was the end of it.

But more lies loom as Easter approaches. I’m not worried about them though, because they’re all harmless ones rooted in tradition, and eventually we all get over them. Our childhood is usually enriched by them. Rabbits distributing colored eggs; portly, white-bearded, pudding-cheeked souls shimmying down chimneys; fairies paying us handsomely for our worthless, blood-encrusted teeth… I have no problem propagating these myths because they have a history that predates me. But diminutive, gift-giving Irishmen? Jesus an opponent of social justice? Aetna no longer the mean-spirited Lucy, but the innocent, hapless Charlie Brown? These are all new ones to me.

So in the spirit of Spring, Easter, rebirth and renewal, a time when little birdlets first take wing and bright blooms perfume the balmy air, I can only say: “Screw you, Rupert Murdoch, and the wallaby you rode in on.”

Go ahead and sue me for libel, you artless, deceptive, vampiric boor. You’ll get two rolls of nickels, an autographed photo of Soupy Sales, and the title to a 2001 Dodge Rattletrap.

Consider them gifts.

… From a leprechaun.

The Editor.

It’s not the difficulty of getting my hands on all the extra chairs so much as the astronomical cost of putting on the shindig. I’m trying to cut corners wherever I can, but I stand firmly in my belief that paper plates are definitely the way to go, and the planet be damned. And then there’s the bathroom situation.

But where I’m really stymied is in putting together the menu. The People seem to enjoy wings, so I’ll get plenty of those, but what kind of sauces to go with them? You have to keep it reasonable. But I’m sure that as many millions as there are out there who like ranch dressing there are just as many, if not more, who prefer bleu cheese. Or is it “blue”? Should I put out some spicy Thai sauce, or would that be seen as too “ethnic”? Mustard sauces go well with wings, but what mustard to use? My recipe calls for Grey Poupon, but again, you don’t want to come across as being to elitist. I think I’ll go with a more populist, “regular American Joe” kind of mustard brand. French’s? Ah, well. I guess you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t. This is going to cost me a fortune in condiments.

Alright, so screw the wings. That way I might save on paper towels and napkins. Burgers then? No. Then you get in to the whole “rare, medium, medium rare” thing and I don’t even think my hibachi is big enough. And I almost forgot about all the vegetarians. Wait… Everybody likes pizza! That’s not too ethnic, right? Okay, so toppings. I hate anchovies, but I don’t want to disappoint those who do. Thin crust or deep dish? Chicago or New York style? What? There’s a St. Louis style?

How do I group everyone? Do I just let them make themselves comfortable and wander around? Where should I seat the Republicans? At the children’s table? No, I should probably keep them away from the children. What if the Gays decide to get in the pool? What if the Jews start monopolizing the stereo? And what kind of music do The People like anyway? Country? Rap? What would the Mormons think? What will The People want to talk about? Will everyone get along or will they ruin the evening by arguing? Maybe I shouldn’t serve alcohol. What should I ask The People to wear? Should I allow bare midriffs? Burqas? Should I ask Tea Party members to check their flintlocks at the door? I’d hate to offend.

And where will The People park? I’ll have to ask Ted to move his old Chevy into Bill’s driveway for a few hours. But Bill’s got a Yankees bumper sticker on his F-150 and Ted’s from Boston. Plus, Ted’s Calvin is taking a leak and Bill’s is praying at the foot of a cross. Maybe I should encourage everyone to use public transportation. Come to think of it, I don’t even have a handicapped ramp.

You can see what a bind I’m in.

There’s no pleasing some people.

The Editor.

Now it’s not the waiting in lines, the security checkpoints, being cooped up with strangers for several hours at a time or the maddening delays that bother me. It’s the whole hurtling-through-the-ether-at-30,000-feet-in-an-iron-tube part that gets up my snout.

“If man (you know what I mean, ladies…) were meant to fly, he’d surely have been born with wings” has long been my motto, but it’s recently been supplanted with this one: “If man were meant to die a senseless, fiery death, he’d have been born with the ingenuity to fashion an Airbus A330-203 out of some nuts and bolts,” which unfortunately he’s managed to do.

Sure, planes work for the most part — I’ve taken them countless times and have lived to tell the tale — but I still haven’t come around to the idea of flying being a more expeditious way of traveling than walking, driving or hopping on a boat or train. I’m in no hurry. I can wait.

Maybe being so close to the ground might help me get a little damn sleep for change, you figure? Maybe I might get through more than two pages of a book or be able to concentrate on “Angels In The Outfield” for once? I dunno… (I swear I’ve watched that 20 times on various flights and I still don’t know if they win the game at the end or not.) I mean, is it really worth all the nagging uncertainty and banging around and strange noises? Is it worth the salmon lasagna and fruit cup?

Of course it is, once you greet your distant relatives at the arrival gate. But I always forget about that when I’m looking out the window over the stark, unforgiving tundra of say, Greenland. Or Nebraska. I just can’t relax. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me — I rarely fidget. I’ve given up taking booze and pills because I figure I’ll have to be in full possession of my faculties if anything goes wrong. Whether I could actually open an exit door in the heat of the moment though, I’m not sure about. (They’re probably more complicated to jimmy than they make them out to be.) I would, however, be able to kick out a window in a trice, bundle up my family and tumble Bruce Willis-style across the wing and jump into a soft snowdrift below, no problem. I’m even pretty sure I could thwart an attempted hijacking or act of mid-flight terrorism. God knows recent events got me good and primed.

The media has made all of us unofficial, unpaid sentinels of in-flight safety these days. And they’ve also managed to turn us into knee-jerk racial profilers. During my recent flight across the Atlantic, two vaguely Middle Eastern-looking men (though they could have been Greeks…) aroused my suspicion right from get-go. The first seemed a little too quiet and scowly, and the other was being far too nice to the infant making faces at him over the back of his seat. What were these two up to? I didn’t have much time to concern myself with them though, because a woman several rows ahead fell into the aisle in the throes of a seizure. A diversion, perhaps? The German crew snapped to attention and helped stabilize her (you know how they are…), and the patriarch of a large Italian family adjacent to her stirred briefly from his slumber, checked to see that it wasn’t one of his kin, and nodded off back to sleep unconcerned.

Typical.

I really need to stop flying.

Stay grounded,

The Editor.

They’re so accurate-ish.

As hacks, pundits, and media monkeys race to define the past decade, I’ve decided to break off from the herd to commandeer an empty golf cart and beat everyone to the finish line.

I’m here to tell you that we have just said goodbye, hopefully, to the Decade of Polls.

Our friends at Fox News weren’t the only ones to illustrate their leaden points with polls and surveys, but they certainly proved themselves to be the undisputed Machiavellian masters of the practice. While lesser, more biased networks were poking around the confines of a rather stodgy 100%, the folks at Fox shot for larger, you know, more “optimistic” numbers.

It doesn’t really matter what people were being polled on; they were being asked to weigh in on everything from presidential approval ratings (apparently several times a day from scratch) to whether some twerp named Sanjay needed a haircut. And always, the results were “surprising.”

Even worse, they rarely deigned to collect simple “Yes”/”No” answers, but routinely hedged their queries with such iron-clad qualifiers as “Likely,” “Probably,” and “Maybe” — as in, “Do you think global warming is a likely threat to the planet, maybe, or probably not really?” Many polls of the ‘00s weren’t so much taking the nation’s pulse as they were gently suggesting its level with leading questions. I’m beginning to think that the Amazing Kreskin is in the employ of Gallup.

So what’s a rube like me to do? Half of me wants to understand these polls, but the other 33% of me can’t be arsed. The budding statisticians among you will tell me that that leaves another 17% unaccounted for. Well, to that I say that 1/2 of that percentage of me still can’t be arsed, but feels a maybe little guilty about it. That would leave another, I dunno, somethingth percent (I’m not good with numbers) evenly divided on the subject.

And I stand by that 115%.

Happy 2010,

The Editor.

Back in 1979, Rocket Tubes were the toy to have. Part of the Micronaut line of interchangeable figurines, space stations, spacecraft, and robots, Rocket Tubes were… Well… I’ll let an archived clipping from a Sears catalog of the era explain:

“This is it… the automatic transportation system of the year 2000, and the Micronauts have it now! The completely enclosed transparent tubes swiftly glide the Micronaut vehicles and personnel from the central power station to the transfer point, their speed and direction controlled by a lever… silently and dramatically propelled on a cushion of air!”

A loin-tingling description if there ever was one, especially for a pale stripling of nine, and when coupled with the picture of the whole kit and kaboodle glowing in the dark… Well, I don’t have to tell you. I simply had to have this thing. But at $19.95, it was one of my more costly requests.

“Twenty effing dollars?! Are you out of your damn mind?” That would be my Dad, who was always feigning shock at the rising cost of things — and always rounding up, which I found unfair. The fact was that it was Christmas, and as it was all I asked for, I knew he’d come through. Still though, we played the game for a few weeks leading up to Christmas.

“Um, Dad…”

“If I hear one more damn thing about those damn Robot Tubes, I’ll throw you AND your damn brother in the damn river!” (It was a four-foot wide creek that ran behind our house, and there was no reason to bring my brother into this.)

To make an incredibly long story short and far less interesting, I did get the Rocket Tubes, and after spending the better part of Christmas day affixing the glow-in-the-dark decals and putting it together, Dad and I flicked off the lights and went to fire it up.

“Aright, let’s see how she goes,” said Dad, and turned on the compressor. The capsule inside quivered a bit and hovered hesitantly just shy of the first tube connection. We smelled smoke. I was inconsolable. “Dammit! I knew this damn thing was garbage!” he offered. But Dad was really just busting my chops. He felt as let down as I did.

We wrote to Mego (both to the American headquarters and the Japanese manufacturer) and Dad pretended to gripe about the postage. Another compressor arrived in February, but that didn’t work either. By April, a third replacement was sent. Nothing doing. “Screw it,” grumbled Dad, and fetched my sister’s Con Air “Lil’ Lady” hairdryer.

On “LO,” the capsule tootled out of the gate, but got hung up in the first bend of the circuit. “MED” moved him past it at a pretty good clip, but not nearly as fast as the blur on the box promised. “HI,” however, did the trick, rattling one of the last connections out of joint to send the capsule shooting through the breach and into my Mother’s potted fern.

But it was no use. By that time, I’d sort of grown tired of Rocket Tubes. I played with them more out of duty than boyish pleasure. Watching the capsule go round and round in circles quickly became a metaphor for my relationship with toys in general. After all, I was almost ten. Plus, the thing looked a little uncool with my sister’s pink hairdryer taped to the housing.

Just out of curiosity, I recently checked online to see how much Rocket Tubes would fetch today. Someone was selling a set on eBay for four times the original amount.

And that was without the “Lil’ Lady.”

The Editor.

Or should I say, “Glorious Seasonal Feast, Comrades!”

That’s right, friends. You’d better set out some more plates and make room at the table, because some unexpected guests will be arriving this year. Hope you’ve got some chow mein in the pan. Chairman Mao is on his way. Got sauerkraut in the pot? Linguini on the boil? Sure hope you do. See, good old Hitler is bringing his friend Mussolini over, and they’re mighty hungry.

Now you’re probably saying, “What on earth is he talking about?” right? Well, let me tell you that I have every intention of laying out all the details of something that’s going to knock your imported woolen socks off. And that’s just the beginning. You’re not going to believe what these radicals have cooked up this time. And it only gets better.

But before we go into that, let’s review. Thanksgiving is one of the last great American holidays. I don’t need to tell you that. “But wait,” you say. “Hasn’t it been co-opted by the same people who’ve infected this country’s value system to the very core with their Ivy League communism and Marxist rhetoric?” Well, you’re right. You know what’s going on. They’re trying to tell you that you’re just a stupid, working Joe. We should be angry with ourselves for being stupid enough to let them get away with it. But we’re not stupid, are we? They’re the stupid ones. They’ve underestimated you. And I’ll tell you why in a moment.

That’s the key. Ever heard of a guy called Lenin? Well, you should have. Let me give you a history lesson. Lenin took down the czars — Gee, “czars.” Sound familiar? — with some very revolutionary ideas. People — just like you — believed his every word. It was revolution on an epic scale. The people took back the power that was stolen from them by the capitalists. The very Stalinist capitalists who are now trying to take away your bread and butter. And guess what? Trotsky wants your Aunt Myrtle’s yam casserole. They’ll take it right out from under your noses. And your children. Are you going to let them take your yams? You don’t need me to tell you what to do. That would be Bolshevism, pure and simple. Zionism. The founding fathers knew this — and so do you. And this is what they call “change.” I sure do hope I’m wrong about all of this…

So why turkey of all things, anyway? Am I the only one who thinks this is weird? “Um, gosh, why is he talking about turkey? What’s wrong with turkey?” Nothing wrong with turkey… unless you’re Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, beloved leader of one of the most virulently fascist Islamic nations on the face of the planet. Hmm. Geez. That’s odd. Is it all starting to make sense to you now? Armenia, anyone? Yep. Turkey! And they’re friends with who again? Pass the vodka and strike up the balalaika, Yuri! Here we go! Wow. That’s right. Socialism.

Let me backtrack for a minute. Remember McCarthyism? Or maybe a little thing they called the PLO? Is it just me? Gosh, I sure hope not. Is it really too much to ask for a little common decency from these people? Who are these people anyway? Is anybody even listening? Have we lost all sense of perspective out there? Does the word “propaganda” ring any bells? I think I’ve made myself clear.

Look, I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m just a regular guy like you trying to figure out this ridiculous mess. And I love this country. But I do know one thing: I’m not going to stand for it. And neither are you. Because you believe in essential truths and principles. Values like common sense. You won’t take this sitting down. They think you will. But they’re wrong. Don’t listen to anyone but yourselves.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Guest Editor, Glenn Beck.

It seems that everything these days boils down to Republican vs. Democrat, Blue vs. Red, conservative vs. liberal, black vs. white, Us vs. Them…

Am I right? Am I wrong?

It is just me?

Then screw you, pal!

This oppressive mindset has even bled over into popular culture, with opposing boxer and brief camps drawing lines in the sand alongside PC and Mac teams, Chevy and Ford tribes and those who wrongly think Moore made a better Bond than Lazenby. Or was it Dalton?

Me? I like to have more than two limiting options. If someone asks me whether I’d like tea or coffee, chances are I’ve got a hankering for Mr. Pibb.

As with most problems, the solution might best be found in the past.

Back in 1963, the big issue wasn’t whether you supported the Vietnam War or not, but who your favorite Beatle was. I, for one, would like to bring that sort of multiple-choice menu back into public practice.

And what better time to apply your favorite Beatle to every pressing issue? You know, in conjunction with the pointless remastering of their entire back catalog and the release of a glorified karaoke game in which you can “play” the backward guitar line in “Taxman” by manipulating a button-activated contraption? It’s canny marketing, that’s all. And who in their right mind would be against cannily marketing the Fab Four to a new generation of consumers? Lennon? Harrison? Yeah? Well, too bad…

You can tell a lot about a person by their favorite Beatle. Do you follow the loony, megalomaniacal Lennon? Can you sing along to “Oh Yoko” with a straight face? Or are you more of a McCartneyite? Have you ever fallen for his cheesy smile while he’s been picking your pocket? Does the quiet George draw you in with his creeping jeezis, soul-searing third-eye stare? No thanks. Ringo, with his hapless, Chaplinesque good cheer is the man for me.

When I look at the way things are going down in the world, living in an octopus’s garden sounds like a phenomenal idea.

Yep. Ringo’s the man for me.

And if he’s too busy, then Pete Best will do.

The Editor.

“Oh bother,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my granny glasses. “This doesn’t bode well.”

With the din they’ve tossed up having grown too loud for me to adequately absorb the lambent prose of Fareed Zakaria, I decide to turn to the more rough-hewn aphorisms of Karl Marx, one of my all-time favorite summertime authors. Pulling “Das Kapital” from the depths of my NPR tote, I clumsily dislodge an organic plum from its hemp napkin, sending it rolling across the barroom floor to end its solitary journey at the boot-tip of the group’s ruffian leader.

“Erm, excuse me,” I lisp weakly, walking over to retrieve it. But he appears not to have noticed the offending fruit, which has grown plump from eco-friendly sustainable farming practices.

“That’s my…”

He raises his polished jackboot and brings it crashing down on the supple purple flesh.

“…plum.”

“Yeah, so what, shorty?” rasps one of his minions.

I find that’s a tough question to answer. So what, indeed?

Slinking back to my chair, I bury my head deeper into my bright scarlet tome, the better to resume my anarchic studies. I’d been looking forward to that juicy plum during the ride home on my recycled Swedish bicycle. Fuming with thoughts of revenge, I decide to confront them, but I’m leery of the automatic weapons strapped to their belts. This calls for something more drastic, I muse.

“Barkeep! A lemon shandy!” I shout, my dander well up into the stratosphere. Taking a long draught of the nose-tickling tonic, I pull out my laptop and put my computer hacking skills to nefarious use.

Using secret binary codes known only to dedicated followers of Supreme Overlord Obama, I insert several abstruse passages into Health Care Act H.R. 676 which would, through deft legalese, call for all grandmothers and disabled parasites to be killed after review by a panel of indoctrinated stooges, the revocation of all perceived freedoms, medieval levels of taxation, the diversion of all funds from the wealthy to Jewish elders, the dissolution of all domestic borders, mandatory abortions, homosexuality and transvestitism, the adoption of French as the official national language, the canonization of Al Gore, the termination of Toby Keith, and an end to Christmas.

How you like me now?

Da Editor.

It’s not that I haven’t had the time — I’ve had a full month and nearly 40 years worth of material to draw from — it’s just that I haven’t used my time very wisely.

If I had to blame my procrastination on anything, it’d have to be the damned internet. We all know how easily it can suck you into its mind-numbing void. All it takes is one brief downspell for someone to be enveloped in its web-like thingy. A simple google for “boobs” and — poof! — 7 hours of your life have disappeared.

Now, in my defense, it wasn’t from searching for anything salacious that got me so lost. And I’m not one of those celebrity obsessives, bloggers, gamers, Facespacers or news addicts who demands up-to-the-nanosecond feeds to keep functioning. No, what I’ve spent my time on is far more pernicious. I’m talking about self-diagnosis, the bane of every incurable hypochondriac.

I’d been seeing little snowflaky spots in front of my eyes for a few weeks longer than I’d have liked, and though in my heart I knew it was probably due to the infernal heat and the fact that I don’t wear prescription sunglasses, I was pretty positive it was because I had a brain tumor.

Some three weeks later, after checking for symptoms of blindness, I found that I suffered from walking pneumonia, Lou Gehrig’s, arthritis, malaria, the early onset of osteoporosis, meningitis, the Epstein-Barr virus, low-grade autism, lockjaw, neurofibromatosis, lumbago, fallen arches, advanced cardiovascular disease, an early, as yet undetected stage of Alzheimer’s, thrombosis, polio, St. Vitus’ Dance, tennis elbow, leprosy, post-nasal drip and bubonic plague. It seems the only thing I didn’t have was a yeast infection.

As a man trying to support a wife and two young children, I knew all these ailments would cost me a Russian oligarch’s fortune in medical bills.

Luckily, I remembered, I live in the wealthiest, most powerful industrialized nation in the world, and a goodly amount of my taxes have been set aside to pay into an efficient social health care system.

Wait.

I forgot… We don’t have one.

I mean, what the hell kind of crazy idea is that anyhow?

Dr. Editor

(R.I.P.)