My family is very normal.  And one of the normal things we did recently was visit the famous Alcatraz prison on Christmas Eve.  Because how else would you want to spend such a holy day?

Admittedly, we did have a good reason for doing this.  The guy to the right of my father is Pierre Odier, and he wrote a history book about the prison called The Rock.  The book has sold a lot of copies, and it sold even more when the Nic Cage movie came out under the same title. Presumably, people thought they were buying a book that was connected to the movie.  In fact, they were just fattening the bank account of my sister-in-law’s father.  Ha!  Suckers.

Pierre said that the marketing people thought the book would sell more if there was a naked woman on the cover.  I enthusiastically agreed, but he said he’d rather sell fewer copies than prostitute out his work that way.  I found this comment staggering.  As someone who has spent a great deal of recent time working on a screenplay that has no artistic ambition other than transforming itself into a pile of cash, the whole notion of “artistic integrity” is about as easy for me to grasp as a Jackson Pollack painting.

Still, it’s good to have incorruptible people around, because they can point my attention to details I had missed the first time I visited Alcatraz, such as a red fist that had been painted during the Indian occupation of the island in 1969:

Now that’s spirit of Christmas!

Later, in a bizarre fit of actual normalcy, we went home and prepared presents, such as putting together a gigantic kitchen for my niece:

And come the next day, the kitchen proved to be a big hit--but she also liked my present, a kid’s digital camera:

Which is a good thing, because the camera was sold out everywhere and I ended up bidding against crazy mothers on eBay for it.  I eventually won.  True story.  And the moral of the story? I rule.

Well, okay, there’s another moral.  Which is that after piles of presents and literally hours of unwrapping, I never saw my niece as happy as when her father was giving her impromptu flight lessons:

The best things in life are free--even if they make your arms tired.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows?

Boy, if you wanted final proof that Rowling’s Nimbus 2000 is running out of gas as she approaches the end of the series, that’s pretty much your clincher.  “Deathly Hallows” isn’t a title; it’s words stuck together. 

I’d like to see the ones that she rejected before picking it:

Harry Potter and the Healthy Dallows
Harry Potter and Dearth of Heath Bars
Harry Potter and the Hello Dollies
Harry Potter and the Mrs. Dalloway

This is a reminder that one’s output suffers after cruising past the billionaire mark, but you can do some really great work while being a single mother on welfare.  Heck, I’m going to get on that right now.

Sometimes I upset people when I talk about Christians on this site, so I want to make very clear that I’m talking about certain Christians in this post--the hypocritical ones who represent stupid organizations and talk to newspapers about movies they will never go see.  There are plenty of Christians who don’t do this.  And believe me, I hate some atheists as much as I hate some Christians.  Atheists can be just as insufferable and self-righteous as their opposite numbers.  Oh, and I also hate agnostics.  Talk about a group of people who refuse to let go of the remote and watch a goddamn show; it’s always “CLICK CLICK CLICK,” gotta see what’s on next, can’t decide.

Anyway, I’m annoyed about the hypocrisy of Christians who complain about the slasher flick Black Christmas that’s being released on Christmas day.  Jennifer Giroux, who co-founded Operation Just Say Merry Christmas as a way to reclaim the season for Christians, said that the “The use of religious music—‘Silent Night’—and the nativity . . . are insensitive to Christians.”

I happen to like Christmas.  I like it when my neighbors say “Happy Holidays” to me.  I like the fact that there’s tons of food in the office at work.  I like the fact that, year after year, the Little Drummer Boy still doesn’t know how to play anything other than “pahrump-a-pum-pum.” (Talk about finding a groove and sticking with it; he was a Phil Collins for his time.)

So I, like Jennifer Giroux, don’t like movies that besmirch Christmas.  And nothing does that more than movies like Deck the Halls, the recently released atrocity starring Matthew Broderick and Danny DeVito.  Why was there no outcry about that?  What about that Ben Affleck movie last year, Surviving Christmas? A movie like that isn’t insensitive to Christians?

What about Tim Allen, who has now released three Santa Clause movies?  Three is half of six, which is 1/3 of the way to 666, the Number of the Beast.  So I now have theological proof that Allen is the Anti-Christ.

Unfunny and overly sentimental movies that wallow in treacly pablum in order to make a quick buck off of Christmas are far worse and far more insidious than a movie like Black Christmas, which at least wears its cycnicism on its celluloid sleeve.  I find a slasher movie released on December 25 to be like a guy walking around wearing a sandwich board that reads “I DOUBLE PARK AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY.” You may not like him, but you can’t fault his integrity.

Christians should be thrilled that Dimension Films is releasing this movie as counter-programming. It gets all the weirdos into the movie theater on Christmas and off the streets.  Won’t Christmas be nicer knowing that anyone who wants to spend the day watching a slasher movie is, in fact, watching a slasher movie?

Because personally, I’m sick of those creeps coming to my door and interrupting my own holiday.  And you can always tell who they are.  Most people want to borrow a cup of sugar or maybe some mulled wine; the slasher fans always want to borrow some blood pudding.

How was your day?  Did you do something interesting?  If so, do you have something to say about it?  How will you say it?  How will you phrase it?  Have you thought about it?  Are you going through the motions, or are you awake?  Did you do something funny?  If not, did someone else do something interesting or funny? Are you awake? Can you steal something? If you can steal something, can you make it your own?  Can you do it?  If not, why not?  If yes, how soon?  How fast? How good?

It’s not so difficult.  It’s not so painful.  And if you don’t do it, you’re nothing.  If you don’t do it, you’re less than nothing.  Even if you fail, you’re still something.  You’re still something.  You’re almost nothing now. You’re almost less than nothing.  Fear is nothing.  Fear is less than nothing.  Didn’t something happen?  Don’t you remember it?  Are you awake?  What happened to a page a day?  You would have surpassed the entire works of Victor Hugo five times over if you had followed that advice.  You would have wallpapered the world with words.  Instead you’re living on other people’s words. Other people’s pictures. Other people’s stories. Books.  Movies.  Articles.  Manifestos.  Successes.  All those people who looked at nothing and pulled together something.  All those people who stared infinity in the face and made a pattern that meant something.  Said something.  Was something.

Where are yours?  Where are your words? Where is your blood?  Where is your life?  It’s not so difficult. It’s not so painful.  It’s only fear.  Fear is nothing.  Fear is less than nothing. Where are your words?  Did you ever have them?  Do you have them now?  Where are they?  How soon can you have them?  How fast can you have them? How good are they?  Are you nothing?  Are you something?  Are you awake?  Are you awake?  Are you awake?

I’ve been thinking about selling my condo and buying a house, but I have so much to do before it’s ready for the market.  I have to paint the entire place.  Update the appliances.  Set a trap for the wild armadillo.

I recently learned about “house staging,” which seemed like a really great idea.  House staging is where you pay someone to fill your place full of furniture so that it looks “homey” and more appealing to a prospective buyer.  I have heard, of course, about eccentric people who keep large collections of random furniture for use at some point in the future, but I never thought of them as home stagers. I always thought of them as “other people’s grandmothers.”

I like the concept of home staging.  A buyer walks into your place, newly filled full of plants, paintings, and expensive accoutrements, and says “This could be my home.  I could live here.” And then all the stuff goes away and the buyer finishes the paperwork and walks back into the place, looks at all the empty rooms, and exclaims “I’ve been had!  I need to go hire a home stager and sell this dump.” Given the frequency of this cycle, I’d guess that home stagers have even more job security than morticians.

I think the concept of staging could be carried into other aspects of life.  I like the idea of walking into my company’s holiday party and introducing my date as “Vesper Lynde, treasury agent.” I could have fake stuff into my cube, such as a fountain or a vibrating massage chair.  I could lease a BMW to drive around in, or perhaps a jet pack.

If there’s a danger of staging, it’s that you eventually want it all to become reality.  I’ve been accused of spending too much of the day in a dreamworld, but at least I know enough to eventually stick my head back under the ozone layer.  I see people walk around with clothes and cars they can’t afford, and those are people who take staging too far. They decide they don’t just want to stage it; they want to live in it permanently.  You want to keep your kids away from these sort of individuals--although I don’t mind if they come see my condo when I have an open house.  I think they’ll like all the vases filled with flowers.

(I walk into the pub to meet my co-workers.  The waitress greets me and we hug.)

ME: (Sitting down)

CO-WORKER: (jaw dropped)

ME: What?

CO-WORKER: If you’re able to walk into a bar and hug the waitress, you can be pretty sure that you have a problem.

ME: I actually like to think of it as having the solution.

Disclaimer: This post is about a bloody battle between a snake and an alligator, which was really cool because the snake won and ate the alligator, but you should stop reading if you’re totally grossed out by this sort of thing, which would be too bad and you should engage in extensive self-analysis.  I mean, if you can’t get jazzed about a boa fighting an alligator, do you really have your priorities in life straight?

I have a friend who loves nature.  His apartment is filled with plants, frogs, and flowers.  He once showed off his new TV stereo system by turning on a nature show. I said, “Usually people put in The Matrix or something.  Not a lot of people need to hear crickets chirping in 5.1 surround.”

This weekend, I mentioned something about the famous fight between the alligator and the python in the Florida everglades.  I said, “The pictures were all over the Internet.  The python ate the gator but it was too much and its stomach exploded.  It was cool.”

He looked at me disdainfully.  “What, did you read that in The Enquirer?”

“No man, it really happened.”

“Snakes don’t eat things and explode.  If they eat it, they can digest it.”

“Oh yeah?  Look, you know your plants, but what are you--some sort of...of...snakeologist?”

He just shook his head. But when I looked it up on the web, I realized that in the year that the incident had happened, scientists got involved and basically proved that my friend was right.  This account in particular explains how scientists concluded that the facts were more complicated that how the news reported them.

For example, the alligator was indeed partially digested at the time they found the corpses.  So it seems unlikely that the boa was unable to eat its prey.  Furthermore, the boa was found with his head missing.  That seems to suggest that the boa ate the gator, went about its merry way, and was killed later by a second gator.

Do you see what this means?  There was a second shooter!  Just like on the grassy knoll!

“What makes you think Oswald didn’t act alone?” “Because of the angle of the shot, the involvement of Jack Ruby, and because we couldn’t find the President’s head.”

The entire thing illustrates my love/hate relationship with the scientific community.  Frankly, I was disappointed to find out that the snake didn’t explode, because that would have been just cool.  Having this illusion stripped from me reminded me of all the other cherished beliefs in my life that science has cast into doubt, such as the existence of Loch Ness and the ability of a radioactive spider to survive long enough to bite someone and give him powers.  Plus, it seems to suggest that sometimes the Internet disseminates false information.  No frickin’ way!

On the other hand, National Geographic’s theory means that there was not one but two fights between a giant boa and an alligator.  To which I say: Thank God for science.  Because I dig sequels.

Furthermore, I think that National Geographic’s analysis raises awareness of the ongoing boa/python conflict, and that we should all be on alert.  I think it makes sense to think of them as a pair of rival gangs.  The alligators are the Gats, and the pythons are the Bluebloods.

GATS: Did you eat one of our homies last year?

BLUEBLOODS: Yeah, bro, but then one of your crew came along and bit off our guy’s head.

GATS: That’s straight up, and we’ll do it again.  You ready to throw down?  Right now?

BLUEBLOODS: Nah, just ate a cheetah.  Gimme a week to digest, then bring it on.

I didn’t expect any helpful energy-saving tips when I opened up the newsletter from Pacific Gas & Electric Company, but I thought at least maybe I would get a useful reminder such as “Wear sweaters in the house.” That’s a useful tip.  I’m completely okay with getting that tip.  Instead I read: “Lower the thermostat five degrees from where you would normally have it.  You’d be surprised how much energy you can save.”

Oh, well, I didn’t even think about how easy it might be to simply lower the thermostat.  That’s just brilliant.  Except for the fact that at the height of winter--when the icy, death-white fingers of the Norwegian Frost Giants curl around your throat with bone-chilling ease--five degrees in your house is the difference between wanting to play sand volleyball in your living room and curling up on the carpet, desperately trying to hibernate until the St. Bernard can find you with his barrel of bourbon.  Five degrees is nothing to simply write off.  I couldn’t even the read the rest of the newsletter; I knew it would be stuff like “Think warm thoughts.  If that doesn’t work, think warmer thoughts.”

Screw you, PG&E.  I’m presenting my own tips for staying warm.  That’s right.  This site, which is completely unaffiliated with your corrupt and morally bankrupt institution, is willing to shoulder your burden and provide the energy saving tips that all right-thinking people need to survive the chilly months ahead.  You can save energy and warm up by:

1. Getting in bar fights.

2. Dancing around the room playing air guitar to Franz Ferdinand’s “Your Diary.”

3. Calling your friends and relatives whom you’re steamed at and get into blood-raising shouting matches.

4. Reading the blogs in your daily feeds out loud, acting out the posts with elaborate hand gestures and reciting the words in a heavy Scottish brogue.

5. Drinking Irish coffee with breakfast, hot buttered rum with lunch, and hot toddies with dinner.  Food optional.

6. Taking a hot bath with red food coloring in the water; turn on the shower and pretend it’s the last days of Krakatoa.

7. Buying up remaindered Ann Coulter books and starting bonfires all over town.

8. Juggling midgets.

You’re welcome.