a christmas warning

So here we are.

I should be happy. It’s my silver blog-iversary! This is blog entry number 25. (And they said we wouldn’t last...)

But my brow is furrowed.

I am in the midst of a conundrum. A conundrum that is sweetened and buzzed by this mug of creamy Williams-Sonoma hot chocolate that I am nursing, but a conundrum nonetheless. 

The sun has set, the chill is deep, and Christmas Eve looms. So it begs the question: What shall I give to you, dear reader(s), on this, our first blog-iday together? I have no gift to bring, pa rum pa pum pum. And our relationship is still so new, not even four months old, and we all know how tricky that can be. A blog about my childhood is too personal, too soon. A blog about that sandwich I just ate is too superficial for the holidays. 

So perhaps it’s time I dust off something special from my personal archives.

silent night

So here we are.

It’s a silent night. Which is a good thing.

See, this is the first December in a very long time -- I daresay since preschool -- where I have not sung a single Christmas song in a concert or benefit or the like. So, in trying to fill that little auditory hole, I have accompanied this year’s card-writing and gift-wrapping and general all-around living with the many various holiday music channels available out there. 

This was a shift from the norm: limiting such music to my own traditional Christmas playlist that was built years ago on John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together and Vince Guaraldi’s A Charlie Brown Christmas, and has been augmented through the years with Phil Spector’s A Christmas Gift For You, The Butties’ 12 Greatest Carols, and various specialty singles: Dean, Wham!, Frank, Bing... they are comfort and joy year after year, my iPod’s seasonal street soundtrack, played when I am out and about.

But I wanted to shake things up during this different little Christmas.

mister steve martin

So here we are, in my head, on December 5, 2010:

ME: I want to do this, but I don’t want to do this. I’m a little afeared.

MYSELF: I know.

ME: I’ve always wanted to meet Steve Martin.

MYSELF: You love Steve Martin.

ME: Everyone loves Steve Martin. This is more than that. This is... this is...

MYSELF: You can’t win this, you know. This word game. There’s no correct, non-creepy word for your feelings about Steve Martin.

ME: I’m not a stalker. I’m not crazy.

MYSELF: Then why are you wearing that hat?

magic

So here we are. 

What a magical time in which we live. We carry the world in our pockets and hold the computing power of a hundred Apollo spacecrafts in our hands. What used to take up entire rooms and floors of office buildings in Don Draper’s day are now parked on any given lap at Starbucks, with a latte on the side. (Back then, one would probably assume that “a latte” was the title of Dean Martin’s latest hit.)

It’s not like the way it used to be. No sir. Things are way better now. It’s magic, I tells ye. (I say that in my best 1890s prospector voice.)