Kick it into high gear!

You're sick of Christmas already?

That's a shame.

Because tomorrow is December and we're kickin' it into high gear!

I was in the supermarket yesterday and it was all holiday-themed music on the PA. I was disgusted to hear a cover of the second-worst Christmas song ever, Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime." I wanted to find out what idiot would sing that stupid song, so I looked it up when I got home to find that 23 idiots have covered that song to one degree or other. To rub salt in the wound, not five minutes later the PA played the McCartney original. I think it was Mark Steyn who questioned the lyrics:

The choir of children sing their song
They practiced all year long
Ding dong, ding dong
Ding dong, ding dong
Ding dong, ding dong

Who the hell has to practice all year long to sing "Ding dong, ding dong"? Is this a choir of particularly slow children?

Of course, the worst Christmas song of all time is John Lennon's "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)," unless some fool thinks "Imagine," the worst song of all time, is suitable for Christmas. When I hear either song coming on I make Spencer Tracy's transformation to Mr. Hyde look like a walk in the park.

But lest I've left you with a bad taste in your ear, here's a seasonal ditty from another rock star you'll be sure to enjoy. 

 

Bob Dylan is the only Nobel laureate since Linus Pauling to record "Must Be Santa." Some people think Nicolaas Bloembergen was first, but he did "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus."

Merry Christmas!

When editors collide.

Writers usually don't appreciate copy editors. They send in perfect manuscripts, only to have the copy editors tell them they've misspelled things, their grammar sucks, their facts are weird, their plots have contradictions, and they're stoopid stoopidheads. Mind you, when copyediting that is not what I'm trying to do; but writers are often a bit fragile about their work, especially in the raw, still-bleeding form, and it seems awfully harsh to get those terse corrections.

As I have said here before, I'm not trying to make writers feel as though they are stupid; I'm trying to make writers look as though they are intelligent.

You think they'd appreciate that.

Usually the editor gets in the middle between the writer and copy editor to keep everyone happy. But I worked for a while for an academic publisher that allowed the editor to step out of the way; my comments would be sent as is to the writer (even those that were Eyes-Only for the editor) and the writer's remarks would come directly back to me. And let me tell you one thing about that -- the copy editor can lose his job if he's mean to a writer, but the writer is under contract and can say any goddamn thing he wants to the copy department. Some of them do. I would flinch every time one of my jobs came back from the writer, because there was about a 40% chance I was about to see myself being called an idiot or worse.

Maybe it's not so bad at other book publishing houses; as we know (or do we?), academic politics are vicious because the stakes are so small. Still, when the company dropped a quarter of its staff, I really didn't mind getting laid off.

Recently, though, I had to deal with some copy-on-copy violence. I had copyedited a kids' book -- a kids' book! -- and then was asked to look at it again, a couple of passes down the line, after it had been copyedited again by someone I don't know. Well, of COURSE she couldn't have spotted any errors, since I had already caught them all, right?

Wrong! This kid marked a number of things -- and now it is ON.

Who is this impertinent stripling? I shall show her! I had this right in the first place, according to the house style guide and the Chicago Manual of Style! I'll look it up to get chapter and verse. When I get through with her...

Oh... the new style guide doesn't mention this.

And... Chicago sides with her.

Traitor.

Well, what about... Oh, well THAT error must have been added after I saw the book. And THAT. And, er, THAT. I could check the draft I saw...

But now I'm thinking I'd better not.

Nothing like the taste of humble pie in one's mouth as a reminder to be humble. And polite.

Is there a bakery that makes humble pies? Because I'd like to send some to some university writers.

The turkey menace.

Of course I'm not addressing the problem of our fair-weather ally, if we can even use that term; our NATO pal Turkey, under the villainous Erdoğan. No, I shall leave that to the State Department for now. I am looking at the calendar -- almost a week since Thanksgiving and some of us are still dealing with turkey.

The problem is that the turkey, like some houseguests, tends to overstay its welcome. The first meal is great; the second is lovely, the third okay... by the fourth meal of turkey one starts to wonder if there's anything else in the world to eat.

A friend of mine was expecting his grown son and son's girlfriend for dinner on Thanksgiving, but as callow youth will, they canceled after dear ol' dad had bought a 20-pound bird. There were other guests, so he had to make the damn thing, but without his trencherman offspring at the feeding station, he wound up with a lot of leftovers. Yesterday he confessed to the sin of wasting food; he had had enough of the damned turkey and sent it flying into the garbage. A mortal sin for a guy raised by Depression-era parents.

Last week the Great Lileks posted a few old newspaper items related to Thanksgivings past, including this one from 1934:

While we are saddened for Mr. Short and his loss of an eight-pound bird, we have to ask ourselves -- eight pounds? Turkeys today fall in the range of 12 to 24 pounds, according to Epicurious. My experience in the supermarket, looking over the standard Broad Breasted White turkeys, puts the vast majority between 16 and 19. We may have gotten too big a bird -- we ate it Thursday, Friday, and Monday, and then I stripped the carcass and froze the rest. By then the sides were all gone. There's a casserole in our future, but that's enough turkey for now. Last night we had pizza.

If we'd had a li'l ol'-fashioned eight-pound turkey, the kind they liked to steal in 1934, the size of a Perdue Oven-Stuffer Roaster ... we'd probably still have been eating it for three days. Funny how that works.

But some people are not sick of turkey. Another friend works with a church group and makes soup for a passel of seniors on Tuesdays -- but to his surprise, they had some turkeys handy, and the seniors wanted turkey, so they made a turkey dinner for lunch.

So some people are not sick of turkey yet. There may be hope.

P.S.: You know how some brands like Butterball tie the bird in a mesh or plastic bag and leave a handy handle tied on the end for easy carrying? Am I the only guy who would like to see a Streets of Fire type movie fight with frozen turkeys instead of sledge hammers? I am? Never mind.

Against fun.

I don't know about you, but I've already been invited to a couple of office holiday parties. And I work at home!

No, I don't mean that the dogs have invited me to our annual office Christmas party, although you'd think they should. Really, after all I do for them.

The fact is, some of my clients, especially the ones that for legal or tax purposes like to pretend I am an employee, have included me on their invite lists, and I'm touched that they did. I'm not going to go, but it's always nice to be asked. Office parties are a drag when you're an outsider, even if you are an employee that happens to work outside the office. You wind up pestering the handful of people you deal with professionally; everyone else wonders who the hell you are. So I'll skip the long schlep to get there and just celebrate with the dogs.

Office parties probably should be avoided anyway. We are in an anti-fun era, and there's almost nothing good that can happen at an office party. Whatever you do, someone's going to get mad, and that's even if you don't see the party invitation as a glowing neon sign that says FREE BOOZE and behave like it's shore leave.

Although if you do, you might have a spectacular story to tell your intake agent at the unemployment office.

Best case scenario

So here are ten things you can do that will cause no end of trouble -- a list that is definitely not all-inclusive:

1) You may get drunk.
Even if you think you're excellent at holding your liquor, that may be when you are either A) paying for drinks and watching your wallet or B) pouring your drinks and watching the liquor content. This could be a whole different ball game. If you drink enough for it to affect your behavior, it will be noticed. The next day your drunken mispronunciation of the name of your head of HR (a man named Chidambaram) will be all over the office. They'll wonder why someone didn't take your car keys, even if you walk to work. It's not like the old days, Charlie.

2) You may insult someone.
You don't have to intend to insult someone. You don't even have to do it by mistake. These days you can insult someone and not even know you did it. You can microagress someone by winking because you got dust in your eye. If you ask Miguel if he brought the enchiladas to the potluck, guess what? You insulted him -- even if he did bring the enchiladas, you still insulted him. And God forbid you ask Jean if her boy is still in college, and she tells you that he is not because she is now identifying as an eight-year-old girl tortoise named Suzie QZ. You’d better have the poker face of Daniel Negreanu or else you insulted her and her boy/girl/reptile. Which brings us to:

3) You may insult something someone likes.
This may be a little more obvious, but the office party is no place to start a "Yankees suck!" or "Star Trek rules! Star Wars drools!" chant. It's easy to get carried away and think everyone just wants to fool around like you do with your old pals. Unlike your old pals, these folks A) don't, and B) are keeping score. You'd better believe they're keeping score.

4) You may hit on the wrong person.
Oh, this is a bad one, and usually is combined with the alcohol thing. Maybe the marijuana thing, if you live in a state where it's legal. Don't hit on your boss, or your boss's boss, or anyone over you. Definitely don't hit on your subordinate or anyone on that level or lower. But what if it's someone on the same level in a different department?

5) You may hit on the right person who later will turn out to be the very wrong person.
Scene: You are not drunk. You dressed nice. You aren't married. You hit it off with someone at your rung on the ladder in a totally different department. No problem, right? WRONG. Aside from the potential for the gossip mill to grind you up, if you hit it off this well one of you if going to be thinking long-term stuff... and odds are, the other will not. Then you have to go to work with this person on the premises. Just don't dip your pen in the company inkwell. It's safer that way.

6) You may hit a person.
Not on purpose. Could be an accident. Could jostle that red wine onto the boss's white blouse. Could whack the senior VP in the nose during a game of charades. Or you might just straight-up punch someone. If you're not there, it can't happen.

7) You may jokingly say something to start an argument.
Similar to #3, but it could be something as simple as, "Boy, these enchiladas sure go a long way toward Making Parties Great Again, huh?" Then someone makes a full-fledged Trump crack, and it's Game On.

8) You may joke about what you do to the wrong person.
"Workin' hard or hardly workin'? Ha ha!" That's funny (okay, not really) when you say it to your coworker. When a manager hears you say that, he or she may smile and pretend to laugh, but remember what I said: You'd better believe they're keeping score.

9) You may look like a pig.
Do you like to eat? Like, you'll have two cookies while everyone else is picking at the fruit salad? Pig. Depends on the workplace, but in a lot of them, three Ferrero Rochers mean you might as well have your face in the trough. What, did you think the food was there to be enjoyed? Don't be silly.

10) You may accidentally tell the truth.
If you divulge something your boss would rather that a rival boss didn't know, the truth will be no defense. In fact, it makes it worse; if it was a lie, it would be you bloviating; if it's the truth, your boss's rival will be using it. And your boss won't forget it.

The office environment has never really been chummy, but these days it is a total minefield, fraught with peril. Even if you're the boss, unless you completely own the company, you can blow yourself to bits. And if you do own the company, it's easy to say something innocuous that will bring a Twitter mob on your head to ruin the company's reputation with lies.

Take my advice: Pretend you're socked in with work. Pretend there's a crisis with a client. Come down with the flu and go home. Just don't go to the office party. Sure, some workplaces really resent when an employee doesn't put in some face time at social events, but will you get fired for missing the party? Probably not. Will you get fired for something you do there? Possibly not, unless you actually hurt someone or, worse, violate the rules of political correctness -- but you may put yourself on notice. I don't want to make anyone paranoid, but now I'm thinking I ought to stay away from the dogs' holiday party.

Remember: There's no such thing as fun anymore. And they're always keeping score, brother.

Are we decorated yet?

Normally I would never start decorating for Christmas until Advent starts. I make fun at my neighbor who puts 'em up on Black Friday and takes 'em down January 2.

But I did start -- at least, I mostly got the tree up. Mostly.

We are toying with the idea of doing a Christmas card featuring a picture of the you-know-whats.* But to get a shot of them in front of the tree in time to make the cards, the tree has to be up. So, here we are.

I noticed a lot of families had their Christmas lights out already. A month in advance of the day -- unheard of! But there's a good reason. Our recent cold snap faded after Friday, and those college kids had to ship back to campus Sunday. Got to get work out of them!

Seriously, I know a fellow on the street whose son comes over once in a while, and when he does, they're always clearing the yard or cleaning out the garage. This kid is lucky the family is Jewish, or he would have been dangling from the gutter on Saturday with a string of lights in his teeth.

Advent doesn't start until next weekend, which makes it seem late; most of the time it and Thanksgiving are closer together, and the Sunday after turkeyfest is the First Sunday of Advent. Everything's all higgledy-piggledy this year.

But things are humming along nonetheless. Although I had no child flunky to boss around, I had Junior Dog Nipper, who kept on me as I got things out of the cellar and moved them here and there. You ever get that feeling you're being followed? That strange, hairy creatures are breathing down your knees? That's my dog. Then he would get alarmed because I pulled a tree out of a box or something and he'd run to my wife for comfort. He's very, very brave, until he isn't.

So that's the report from here; I have a big deadline a week from today, so I have to get busy making money to pay for all the presents I've already bought online. Ho ho ho! Come Dasher, come Dancer, come Prancer and Lotto!

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*Dogs. Made ya look.

A came-of-age story?

Here's a question for you, as I honestly don't know the answer:

Has there ever been a really successful came-of-age story?

We love coming-of-age stories, stories that focus on the progression of the hero from a naive youngster to a wiser and competent adult. Breaking Away, the 1979 movie starring Dennis Christopher and Dennis Quaid, was one such, and is still beloved, and rightly so. Betty Smith's novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is another, and has been in print since it was first published in 1943.

I was thinking about it because Toothless, the dangerous dragon from the animated film How to Train Your Dragon, was a balloon in the Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan this year. I didn't see the parade; I only found out about it later. But it reminded me of how much I liked the original and disliked the sequel, and, you guessed it: Here Be Ye Spoilers.

The first film, centered on the young non-warrior Hiccup, was a great deal of fun and had a lot of heart. You have to accept that his small town of Viking lunatics could survive on a rocky outpost with constant dragon attacks and their livestock being stolen, which was where we come into the story. So, sure, it's preposterous, but we'll roll with it. Over the course of the film, Hiccup meets and saves Toothless, finds out why the dragons are attacking and stealing their flocks all the time, and leads humans and dragons to victory over the big bad in the film. The fact that the victory comes at a price only makes it that much more heartfelt. I enjoyed it.

The second film -- and of course this is all my opinion -- takes a dump on it all. It starts when we see Hiccup, now super slick and cocky and tough and a tribal big shot, having come of age, and that sets the tone throughout, that everything we liked has been turned on its head. His chieftain father gets killed. His mother, who was supposed to have been abducted when he was a little child, turns out to have gone with the dragons and left home, child, and husband to become a dragon lady -- WHAT? And no one ever says to her, "You left your baby boy for a bunch of flying lizards? Do you hate people or something? Couldn't you have sent a carrier dragon with a note saying, 'Love you, still alive, see ya one day, Mom'?" Nope, it's fine that she's a terrible mother. I didn't like anyone in the second film, even people I liked in the first one. It was only good when it was stealing emotional notes from the first movie. And it all started with the thought that maybe we don't really want to see more of the person who has come of age.

They never made Breaking Away II: Broke Away. Betty Smith didn't write A Shrub Also Grows in Brooklyn.

I have little interest in seeing the third Dragon movie, out in February.

Is it fair that I'm not interested in a character that's progressed to maturity? Isn't that the goal of childhood for the kid and his or her folks?

Yes, but the kind of story dictates the kind of sequel. When Shakespeare's or Wodehouse's comedies end in people pledging to be married, it doesn't mean we would want to see sequels forty years on with the heroes as old married couples. If they're happy, there's no story; if they're miserable, we feel cheated by the end of the first story.

When Disney did Bambi II, 64 years after the original Bambi, it may have been a bad idea but at least it wasn't about adult Bambi. No one is interested in adult Bambi.

Would we be interested in a TV show about Kevin, the kid from The Wonder Years, all grown up? Nope. Wisely, star Fred Savage said, "The show was about a time in your life. The show was about this finite moment in your life that has a beginning and an end, and I think that’s what makes people long for that time in your life."

Ah, someone says: How about a grown-up Harry Potter? That's different, says I, because the Rowling series is about a battle of good and evil in a fantasy world; its focus is not on the growth and development of one boy. It's a coming-of-age story only incidentally.

T. R. Pearson wrote an amazing trilogy, starting in 1985 with A Short History of a Small Place, followed by Off for the Sweet Hereafter and The Last of How It Was. The three books were told from the point of view of Louis Benfield, fictional kid in the fictional town of Neely, South Carolina. These don't count as coming-of-age books, because while Louis is an absolute delight as the long-winded narrator, the stories are more about his town and his family and his endless digressions than about him. And yet when Pearson wrote us a grown-up Louis in New York City in Glad News of the Natural World, the charm was lost. Whereas some awful things happened in the original books, they were related by Louis, not related to him; he becomes part of the dark side in the latter book, and it's painful. In that way it is like a coming-of-age book, or really a smart-kid-grows-up-and-gets-mixed-up-with-thugs book. It tries to be cynical sometimes, heartfelt others, and winds up insincere. (Louis's parents also come off worse in this book than in the originals.)

In the end, I think the main problem is that becoming an adult is one thing, and being an adult is another, and the genres don't really cross. It would be like Tom Clancy writing a ghost story starring Jack Ryan, or P. G. Wodehouse writing a war novel featuring Freddie Threepwood -- it could be done, but it would feel all wrong. One of Agatha Christie's rare missteps is (I think) The Clocks, a Hercule Poirot mystery that is actually a spy novel, published in 1963 when spy novels were huge and drawing-room mysteries were looking old-fashioned and quaint. Poirot is so good a character even in a minor role that he brings the story together and does solve the mystery, but the secret agency setting fits him poorly. Thus so the child-to-adult hero being seen as an adult; it's a different kind of story and it feels wrong.

Maybe there was one successful came-of-age story: Jo's Boys, the sequel to Little Men by Louisa May Alcott. Little Men was a sequel to Little Women, but was another coming-of-age book in its own right. Still, if Jo's Boys was a success, I imagine it worked because readers loved Alcott and would have read the phone book if she wrote it. But I'm not familiar with her work, so I can't judge Jo's Boys on its merits.

If you have any ideas or thoughts on this, please let me know; I'm genuinely curious about whether this is just me or if others feel the same. The sequel to the first Dragon movie made a pile of money, so I certainly could be mistaken.

Turkeyist.

Thanksgiving TV notes.

I don't know if you watched any television over the last couple of days. I saw some traditional favorites -- some of which made me wonder, why is this a favorite?

The first was A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving (first broadcast in 1973), which is always disappointing. The plot makes very little sense, and the characters are so frustrating that you hope that Lucy will let loose on them and give them hell -- but she never does.

If you're not familiar with the plot, such as it is, it's this: The terminally stupid Peppermint Patty invites herself and two of her friends over to the Brown house for Thanksgiving, even though the Browns will not be home, because she's a selfish jerk and that's what selfish jerks do. Charlie Brown knows they're coming, but behaves even more spinelessly than ever, not even able to use the simple truth as a means of keeping these freeloaders at bay. This means that Charlie, his friend Linus (who should know better), his dog, and his dog's bird have to make a woeful feast for these people, mostly of toast and popcorn. It is, predictably, a disaster. The situation is resolved thanks to Marcie, using a callback to the Miles Standish / Priscilla Mullins story in a way that fits just like a hand in a shoe.

Usually you overlook the fact that the parents of these children are just faceless ciphers, but in real life the Browns would have had to step in. At one point Charlie Brown decides to call his grandmother -- no parents are consulted -- to tell her they will be coming over late for dinner. Even as a little kid I found that behavior outrageous.

It has its moments, but it is a great fall-off from A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965) and It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown (1966), or non-holiday specials like Charlie Brown's All Stars! (1966), even though the Thanksgiving one was written by Schulz and put together by the same people. Part of the problem is that between 1966 and 1973 Snoopy became a cultural titan and Woodstock was introduced -- the era that Christopher Caldwell might consider its "dog ate my comic strip" downfall. I always found Peppermint Patty too stupid for a strip that had kids reading Tolstoy and the Epistles (Linus: “I always feel like I am reading someone elses's mail!"). I don't know why I watch it. It's the second-worst Peanuts special I recall, the worst being the just-mailing-it-in It's a Mystery, Charlie Brown in 1974. I haven't seen most of the post-Easter Beagle entries.

These days ABC shows it paired with "The Mayflower Voyagers," the first episode of This Is America, Charlie Brown. It was a historical program that I would have thought had been done for the Bicentennial, but actually ran in 1988-89. This is the only episode that has been rerun, probably because it makes a timely appearance with the other Thanksgiving special. It's also pretty alarming for a children's cartoon, for it features the various characters as kids aboard the Mayflower but makes no bones about the massive loss of life suffered by the Pilgrims between the time they left England to the first Thanksgiving. The kids also look small, because they are seen with actual adults, which makes them seem more vulnerable to their constant perils. It really is an excellent history lesson, though, for kids willing to stick with it.

Another thing I saw on Thanksgiving Day was The March of the Wooden Soldiers. Or most of it. For many years channel 11 in New York, WPIX, showed this 1934 Laurel and Hardy film on Thanksgiving, starting in 1963; I remember seeing it when I was a kid. It left me cold back then -- too many of those melodramatic 30's moments, too many long operetta songs. But when waterboarding started making the news over a decade ago, I immediately thought of Oliver Hardy getting ducked in the pond and nearly drowned as part of his penalty for burglary. That scene scared me more than the bogeymen, probably because it was supposed to be funny. (Now I think it is kind of funny.)

Seeing it again was interesting. The melodrama is still eye-rolling, but I have grown to appreciate the comic delivery and timing of Laurel and Hardy more than I ever did in my childhood. I also admired the part of the wicked Silas Barnaby, played by Henry Brandon (billed at the time as Henry Kleinbach). He does the melodramatic villain perfectly, chewing that scenery like it was made of gingerbread. I was surpised to find out that Henry was born in Germany (real name: Heinrich von Kleinbach) and was only 22 when he played Barnaby. Just a great, fun villain. He went on to have a long career playing all kinds of ethnic types, up until the year before he died, 1990.

The plot is brisk, if you leave out the songs, and I suppose the climax of the movie is thrilling. I don't know, because my dogs decided they both really, really had to go out just then and wouldn't stop whining, then they both dawdled outdoors like we weren't standing in 16-degree weather with a windchill of OW, and when I got back inside the movie was over and WPIX was on to something else. Thanks, boys.

Another thing I didn't see was Holiday Inn, the 1942 Bing Crosby / Fred Astaire film with a mostly terrific score by Irving Berlin. TCM has not run it yet, but it is scheduled for this Sunday at 10 p.m. The movie famously features songs for the various American holidays, and some are better than others -- you may have heard of a ditty called "White Christmas," which was an instant smash even though the film's New York premiere was August 4. (A late family member who saw the film first-run said that everyone left the theater singing "White Christmas." In August.)

Other songs from the film are less successful, to say the least. The Washington's Birthday number "I Can't Tell a Lie" is just a bad song. Hey, Berlin wrote an estimated 1,250 songs; got to be a few clunkers along the way. The Lincoln's Birthday number, "Abraham," is much better, but the movie plot requires it to be performed in blackface -- which is why TCM is not showing the movie in prime time, I would guess.

Other top-drawer songs include "Happy Holiday," "Easter Parade," "Lazy," and a straight musical number that Astaire taps out with fireworks that just gets better every time I see it. You know it's a successful score when two songs become the title tracks to other movies: "White Christmas" with Crosby (1954) and "Easter Parade" with Astaire (1948).

One of my other favorites from Holiday Inn, though, is the Thanksgiving song, "I've Got Plenty to Be Thankful For." And since we're in Thanksgiving weekend still, I'd like to leave you with it.

Happy holidays.

O happy day.

Thanksgiving is a happy day, one of the greatest holidays ever put on ours or any other calendar. You may know how important gratitude is to me; it is perhaps the highest emotion a human being is capable of enjoying and expressing.

You may have trouble feeling gratitude this year, for whatever reason. Maybe you're out of work. Maybe you have to work. Maybe you're spending the day with dread, knowing that tonight you report to the store where a mob of idiots is going to appear like magic for the sometimes-too-aptly-named "doorbusters." It's okay.

You may be alone, or feel ill, or be grieving, or have to deal with family members that drive you up the wall faster than a German shepherd drives a squirrel up a pine. I know the feeling.

I've had Thanksgivings where a bunch of people were crammed in a little house and everyone got sick. I've had years when a death in the family made me want to spend the day alone, guzzling beer and watching thirty straight hours of quality television (I was not allowed to). We got through.

You have worries, problems, concerns, fears. So do I. You've seen me vent that spleen on this page many times, you poor thing. But not today. Today I am putting all that crap on hold for 24 hours. All that garbage will be waiting for me on Leftovers Friday. Today is the day to think of things to be grateful for. If I have to work hard to do it, that's okay too; as long as I do it.

And hey, I can always start by being grateful I am an American. Other people live well in other places, maybe even better, but I'm telling you, if you ain't an American, you're missing out on something good.

Happy Thanksgiving.

PilGRIM II.

In the homestretch for Thanksgiving! Had to hit the store on Monday, and the celery-hoarding pigs were out in force. Hope you don't need to stop for just one more thing--you might not make it out! 

One thing I noted on Monday night was that the moon is filling out nicely -- should be full soon. In fact, it will be full Thanksgiving night--12:39 a.m. Friday morning Plymouth Rock Time, to be precise. Shortly after midnight. 

This inspired the sequel to the video game I designed a couple of years ago: PilGRIM, a Thanksgiving-themed XBox game for kids who like violence but don't like football. Here's the box for the new one:

WHAT HORROR LURKS IN THE NIGHT? SOME CREATURE THAT EATS HUMANS?

GOBBLE GOBBLE.

Whatever you do on Thanksgiving, we at the blog wish you a lovely and thankful one. If you live somewhere outside America and don't celebrate Thanksgiving, well, have a nice Thursday, and don't forget that there is always something for which to be grateful. We don't need roast turkey and yams and cranberry sauce and pie to be grateful.

But it does help. Especially the pie.

Holiday movie releases!

Yes, folks, we're about to enter that last big rush time for your movie-going dollar, the holiday season. Tired of the mall, tired of your kids, or just tired of life, you enter the theater looking for distraction and pleasure. Being that modern movies are being shown, you achieve neither. But thanks for playing!

Here are some of the big blockbusters and smaller gems playing this season at your local multiplex, art house, or in Redbox a week after closing.

🎬🎬🎬

The Girl That Rips Off Arms: The ultimate kickass heroine, Slashi Jones (Alicia Vikander), hits the screen and everyone else. Mild-mannered Jones is caught in a web of conspiracy, and can only extricate herself and her father by cutting a bloody swath through most of Europe, Central Africa, and parts of Southeast Asia. Body count described as "making Rambo look like Neville Chamberlain."

🎥🎥🎥

Muttonhead III: Plenty of Mutton: In the sequel to blockbuster superhero films Muttonhead and Muttonhead II, the titular hero fights his comic book enemies Pushbutton and Ragamutton while fending off the challenge of the usurper to his rep, the mechanical AutoMutton. Word has it that in this film Ragamutton kills Mutton Man, the 1940's-era superhero who mentored his great-nephew in the first two films. This time, it's personal.

🎦🎦🎦

The Shopping List: Adaptation of Nicholas Sparks's best-seller about a romance between a man and a woman in the frozen foods aisle. Emma Stone and Chris Pine star.

🎫🎫🎫

Rock'em is a new animated film about a Rock'em Sock'em Robot™ that wants to stop fighting and raise petunias. Voices by Tim Curry, Tim Allen, Tim Blake Nelson, Timothée Chalamet, and the late Tim Conway. Songs by Elton John.

🏬🏬🏬

Twits stars Ashton Kutcher and Jimmy Fallon as two rich idiots bumbling after the girl they both love (Salma Hayek), each relying heavily on Ex-Lax and ipecac to subdue his rival. This gross-out comedy is rated R for "cartoon violence" and "complete lack of taste" and "earth-shaking stupidity."

🎬🎬🎬

Ishtar is a remake of the beloved 1987 adventure film with an even bigger budget. Ryan Reynolds and Ryan Gosling star in the parts made famous by Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman. Songs by Elton John.

🎥🎥🎥

Bonebroth is a new film adaptation of the comic book about a hero who murders his victims (and anyone else in his way) by using his power to boil them alive in their own skin. Early buzz calls this action comedy "daring" and "heave-worthy" and "fun for the whole family." Watch for Bonebroth action figures in the toy section this Christmas!

🎦🎦🎦

Bloodied Rainbow is the powerful drama of a lesbian trans hermaphrodite who can't tell if he loves men or if she loves women. But can ze learn to love zirself? Opens December 14; closes December 17. Back in March if ol' Oscar shines on it!

🎫🎫🎫

Supertrain, the 1979 NBC TV series, gets the big-screen treatment courtesy of Sony. An action drama with comedic elements about the lives of the passengers on a huge nuclear-powered train crossing the continent. Look fast for a cameo by Governor Jerry Brown.

🏬🏬🏬

Iztaccihuatl: Disney has a treat for the family with its latest Princess movie, the story of an Aztec princess and Popocatepetl, who seeks her hand. Through many adventures with hilarious sidekicks, Iztaccihuatl does all kinds of things and sings all kinds of songs. Several questions are raised, such as: Does Popocatepetl actually serve any function in this movie? And: Are there any cultures left that Disney has not plumbed, looking for princesses? And: Can we buy a vowel? Songs by Green Day.

🎬🎬🎬

The Canarsie Job is a heist film starring Amy Adams as cat burglar Kat Canarsie, trying to steal an entire Banksy mural before rival thief Marcus Moyz (George Clooney) can, and before the wall is destroyed by evil capitalists (Ralph Fiennes and Howie Mandel). It's a cat-and-mouse game in the streets of London. 

🎦🎦🎦

The Film-Flam Man is the moving drama of a film executive (Alec Baldwin) who cannot understand why the retarded nose-picking cow-humping trailer-park yahoos of Flyover America won't watch his movies anymore, and carefully plots his suicide over the course of three hours. Songs by Elton John.

I am so lost.

I'm just lost this week.

It's all because November started on a Thursday. That makes Thanksgiving fall on November 22, the earliest it can occur. This has totally thrown me off. For example, I have a project due on December 3, the first Monday in December, and I feel like I'll have no time to complete it because it will be due right after the holiday weekend! But actually it will be due a week after the end of the holiday weekend! This early Thanksgiving makes it feel like we're almost out of November, but we still have a lot of November left in the tank.

What makes this even stranger is that next year we push everything up one day, and November starts on a Friday, and that makes Thanksgiving plummet all the way to November 28, the absolute latest it can occur.

All this goes back to Franklin D. Roosevelt, of course, who never met a federal standard he didn't want to screw around with. Most holidays that are not tied to a date are tied to a position on the calendar, like Memorial Day being observed the last Monday in May since 1971. Thanksgiving had been observed on the last Thursday in November until Frankie D. decided to make it the fourth Thursday in November. When November 1 falls on a Wednesday or Thursday, November has five Thursdays, which makes everything weird.

Some say Roosevelt did this as an economic boost to add an extra week on the Christmas shopping season, which he apparently did in 1939, moving the date to November 23 (which became known as "Franksgiving" to those who resented the move). The confusion went on for a couple of years until it was resolved in Congress to settle on the fourth Thursday. Why they did that instead of restoring it to the last Thursday, I don't know; I'm sure it was some stupid reason. I'm sick of thinking about it.

I do recall it resulted in a gag in the film Holiday Inn (1942), where the animated turkey can't even figure out when Thanksgiving falls.

I'm glad it's been a while since the federal government has monkeyed around with holidays. Let's just leave them where and as they are, okay? We don't want Trump turning Arbor Day into Mexican Wall Day, do we? Or do we? 😲

Contemplating the green bean casserole.

My Thanksgivings never featured green bean casserole, that American Thanksgiving favorite that, when I did try it later in life, I labeled "garbage." To borrow a page from Jim Gaffigan's bit about fruitcake, the parts seem to be there but they don't add up -- green beans, good; casseroles, good; green bean casserole, nasty crap.

Obviously your opinion may be different, and in the spirit of the holidays I will not give my standard answer in such cases: "People may disagree with me. These people are wrong."

And people do disagree. Years ago I worked at a magazine that published a lot of recipes, which is how I learned a lot about proper format for cookbook text. Around Thanksgiving I mentioned this gooey, gluey insult to a great vegetable, and both full-time chefs who worked there said how much they LOVED the classic GBC. "It's so salty and crunchy and AWWWESOME!" was the consensus. I was stunned.

The Pilgrims did not have green bean casserole, nor was this some Olde Englishe Qulinarie Dishe. Wikipedia says we have Campbell's Soup to thank for this abomination, and only 63 years ago:

The green bean casserole was first created in 1955 by the Campbell Soup Company. Dorcas Reilly led the team that created the recipe while working as a staff member in the home economics department. The inspiration for the dish was "to create a quick and easy recipe around two things most Americans always had on hand in the 1950s: green beans and Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup." It initially did not test well within the company but, in part because of Reilly's persistence, eventually earned a reputation for being "the ultimate comfort food."

Emphasis added.

French's, the McCormick-owned outfit that makes the famous yellow mustard, also makes tons of the canned, fried onions used in this casserole, and so I went to them to get the most authentic version of the recipe:

1 can (10 1/2 ounces) Campbell's® Condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup
3/4 cup milk
1/8 teaspoon McCormick® Black Pepper, Ground
2 cans (14 1/2 ounces each) any style Del Monte® Green Beans, drained
1 1/3 cups French’s Crispy Fried Onions, Original, divided

Basically you mix it all together except for a few onions, reserved for the top to float on the slop, then bake it. Oh, but get this: "For a kick of spice, double the black pepper in this recipe to 1/4 teaspoon and prepare as directed."

Whoa, there, Pedro! A quarter of a teaspoon of black pepper? What're ya trying to do, blow the doors off the joint?

Here's my objections:

I don't much care for cream and vegetables, unless the cream has gone all the way to butter and the vegetable is corn. Creamed corn, creamed spinach, milk and green beans -- I'd have included prohibitions on this if I'd been writing Deuteronomy. But I accept that this comes down to personal preference.

I do think that green beans are among the easiest vegetables to prepare fresh; you just have to clean 'em and clip 'em. Corn on the cob is more complicated. Carrots that aren't the baby variety are more complicated. And fresh green beans taste so good. You used to eat them raw in the produce department when you were a kid, didn't you? I understand that sometimes we're in a rush; I am too, and I'm not too proud to open a can of Green Giant. But there's no reason to use the canned variety on a dinner that's supposed to be the highlight of the family dining for the year.

And speaking of cans, have you ever tried to eat those fried onions right out of the package? Grease and more grease. You could keep it your plumber's kit for valve and faucet work.

As for canned soup, I have no problem. I even have used cream of mushroom soup out of the can in a recipe on this very blog. But have you ever just had a bowl of canned cream of mushroom soup? Has anyone ever said, "I could go for a big bowl of Campbell's cream o' mushroom"? Probably not. If the ingredient is that repellent it makes the dish suspect.

If you've read any of this blog you know none of my objections are of the my-body-is-a-temple variety. If my body were a temple, it would be one of those old rounded ones in jungle movies, falling apart and covered with vines. No food is too unhealthy for me to try. But green bean casserole? Tried it; nasty crap.

Nope, my verdict is immutable. Fortunately for me, my wife also dislikes the classic GBC, and she's doing the cooking this Thursday. At least you usually only get green bean casserole at Thanksgiving, where there are so many side dishes no one notices that you took no green bean slop but doubled up on the candied yams.

Mmm... candied yams....

If you want to try a version of the recipe that is not made of canned gunk, there are plenty of elevated ones out there. Williams-Sonoma has one that looks okay. Still not my bag, baby, but I'd be willing to taste it.

Of course I welcome your comments on this pressing issue, in the comments section or at frederick_key via yahoo dot com. I'm planning to start working on a new casserole that will sweep the nation. Something with kohlrabi? Mustard greens? Feel free to send in any ideas.

We all have our talents.

Captain Martinez's crew had to admit that, even though he was the worst navigator in the fleet,
he was undoubtedly the besr sailor. 

Leaf it as is?

In my town everyone was raking and blowing (and blowing and blowing) leaves to the side of the street. Guys were out with leaf blowers and flashlights in the dark. We don't do a pickup of leaf bags; what we do is, starting this year on November 5, have crews go around with a street sweeper and suck up all the leaves on the side of the road. There's no way to know what day they will show up. You have to get those leaves out ASAP and keep adding to the pile until they come by. After they've been down your street, any remaining leaves are your problem.

Well, they hadn't gotten down by my house yet, and now it's all gone to hell. The snow we got last night and into this morning required the town plows to come out of storage, so all those piles of leaves along the curb just got thrown back onto everyone's lawns.

This is why I use the lawnmower and mulch. It helps that I don't have a lot of tall trees.

Meanwhile, in California there are terrible wildfires killing people and razing entire towns, and the finger of blame is being spun around like the spinner in the Game of Life. Some people say it's global warming, and until we reduce carbon emissions to zero, wildfires will keep raging out of control. Others point to the more down-to-earth problem of poor forest management; when President Trump suggested that, all the smart people in the media had a collective cow. But he did not just make this up; serious foresters have suggested that the budgetary and environmentalist turn from thinning forests and removing brush is the obvious change that preceded the years of terrifying fires we see now.

I guess we'll find out, or not. The United States keeps lowering its emissions of carbon, but India and China and plenty of other countries keep pumping out more. So, if that's the real problem, better move out of California because there's nothing we can do.

Then again, there are memes like these that make the rounds:

Yep, all those dead leaves provide places for the butterfly larvae to chill out over the winter, I guess. And you know what else dead leaves do? Burn.

Dead leaves don't burn as well as dry grass, it's true -- like the grass that California has with its antiquated water system -- but there's more life in grass even this late in the year than there is in the fallen leaves. I wonder if a forest ranger would look me in the eye and say that a lawn with the leaves cleared off is in more danger of spreading fire than one with dead leaves thick on the ground.

Anyway, I can hardly trust the pop environmentalism one sees about. "Don't kill the dandelions!" they say. "Save the honeybees!"

Well, guess what? Dandelions are a poor source of food for honeybees. But they seem to be great for wasps. I don't have honeybees. I haven't poisoned the dandelions in a couple of years, but only because my doggone dogs keep eating the grass and I don't want them getting sick. But all I see are a scattered few bumblebees and an enormous number of yellow jackets, and I'm allergic to wasps, so to hell with them.

Besides, as Glenn Reynolds says of global warming (among other celebrity crusades), "I'll believe it's a crisis when the people who keep telling me it's a crisis act like it's a crisis." Those folks will have to give up their big houses, their private jets, their big cars. Hell will freeze over before that happens, so if it does happen I guess there'll be a cooling trend somewhere.

Snow's a-comin', maw.

We get some cold weather around here. We're just a bit north of New York City, but far enough inland to get more snow. The city tends to stay a little warmer anyway. Some say it's the ocean, holding on to heat. Others say it's just all the hot air generated in a city of eight million souls, plus politicians.

Anyway, we went from summery warmth in early October to our first snowfall one month later. It hardly seems fair. I know time goes quickly when you're busy (as I have been) and old (as I have been feeling), but this is ridiculous. I guess the unusual warmth in early October spoiled me. I keep thinking Labor Day just passed.

But no, it's time for -- to quote a famous woman -- Santa Claus and Ho Ho Ho and mistletoe and presents to pretty girls. Or at least that's how it feels now. Maybe I haven't been paying attention.

"YOU'VE GOT TO PAY ATTENTION!"

A few neighbors have actually got their Christmas swag up. Literally -- one family with a solid white PVC fence seven feet tall hung green swags all along its inscrutable face. I guess the friendliness of the decoration makes up for the stony silence of a giant, solid fence. I saw one of the folks in the house step out his front door once. He looked scared.

Another family put wreaths in all the windows. I wondered if they were thinking ahead. You know, going to Ma's in Boca for Thanksgiving; this way when they fly home, the house is ready for the next season.

That is, if they can fly out in the first place.

I wouldn't mind so much if the snow showed up after the pumpkin roll got eaten. Yesterday Accuweather had us at three to seven inches of the white crap from Thursday afternoon to Friday. I've lived in and around New York City all my life and I only ever saw rain before Thanksgiving. Global warming is letting me down. I had to put away the grill and put out reflector sticks so the nice man with the plow doesn't plow my lawn again like last year.

Now the forecast has it changing to rain overnight, and lots of it. Freezing rain? Who knows? Could be! Last I looked it was five weeks to winter, but here we go again.

Can we box some of this freezing crap up and send it to California? They sure could use it and we sure aren't ready for it. Thanks.

Pig.

I got my first giveaway 2019 calendar. 

Usually I get them from church, calendars with Renaissance paintings depicting scenes from the New Testament, calendars that list the secular holidays along with religious holy days and all the major saints' feast days. That one goes by the kitchen for quick reference. 

But the church calendar sponsor, a local funeral home (Your days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle! Make arrangements now!), hasn't delivered them yet. Instead, the first free 2019 calendar I got was from our local Chinese restaurant. 

Yes, 2019 -- or the part of it following Chinese New Year on February 5 -- is the Year of the Pig in the Chinese zodiac. The colorful calendar's pigs are pretty cute. They look like happy, fat little piggy banks without the slot on top.

According to the Chinese zodiac, as reported by Travel China Guide, "People with Chinese zodiac Pig sign are considerate, responsible, independent and optimistic. They always show generousness and mercy to endure other people's mistakes, which help them gain harmonious interpersonal relationships. However, sometimes they will behave lazy and lack actions. In addition, pure hearts would let them be cheated easily in daily life."

There are further sub-readings based on the month within the year; for example, a Pig Year person born in January can have lots of luck and bring others wealth, but the outlook is less assured for those Pigs born in June: "People born in June in year of the Pig are very clever. If they work hard, they can succeed in either official circle, business field or art area. If they only want to play around and do not have a goal to achieve, their career will not succeed."

I'm glad that there are differences from month to month, though. I was thinking about teachers in China, if they had to face a new class and knew what to expect by the year these kids were born in:

"Oh, good, we have some Sheep kids coming in this year. Tender, polite, filial, clever, and kindhearted."

"That's a relief. You remember the year we had all those Snakes? Cunning, sly, always hiding in the shadows."

"Boy, do I. I would call roll and half of them would be under their desks!"

The Western zodiac doesn't change much from year to year, just month to month, although risings and houses and other things I could never follow account for individual changes.

Of course, as a Catholic, I'm not supposed to put any credence in this stuff anyway. As Pope Francis says, "When we do not cling to the Word of the Lord, but consult horoscopes and fortune tellers, we begin to sink." We do not want to sink.

There's always a confirmation bias at work with zodiacal thinking -- if someone was born in May and is bullheaded, he's a typical Taurus and evidence of astrological truth; if another person born on the same day in the same town is weak-willed and wishy-washy, it's probably a sign of Ascendant Pisces and thus proof of astrological truth. In other words, there's enough variation to prove whatever you want to prove.

But I might hang up this Chinese astrologically based calendar in my office anyway. The pigs are pretty cute. And the colors are certainly vivid. Those Renaissance portraits are gorgeous and soulful, but the Chinese calendar will keep me awake.

Day of the Possum.

Forget this caravan nonsense on our lower border. I have news! The upper border, the one with Canada, the longest border in the world between two countries (and probably the least guarded), is where we need to focus.

The ketchup potato chips were a blatant attack, to be sure, but easily repelled -- or at least they didn't catch on. I haven't seen them lately. No, I am referring to the Maple Front that has just opened, swallowing up one of our national institutions:

Yes! Cheerios has been Maplecized -- the work of Canadian Fifth Columnists!

"Oh, Fred," you scoff. "I'm not scoffing, I'm coughing. Nah, I'm scoffing. Maple proves nothing! Does not maple syrup come from Vermont, Maine, New Hampshire? This could be 100 percent American maple syrup flavoring! After all, this has 'other natural flavors,' so it's clearly not all real maple syrup -- more of a maple-like product, perhaps, like Log Cabin (American as Lincoln!) or Vermont Maid (so Vermonty!). So stuff the paranoia, Fred."

And I reply: Sez you! (I always win arguments with the imaginary voices.) As always we turn to the Cereal Project run by Mr. Breakfast for answers. He does not provide a review of Maple Cheerios, but he writes as follows:

This cereal was first introduced in Canada in 2017 as a special edition product celebrating Canada's 150th anniversary. It came to the U.S. in the fall of 2018.

AHA!

The back of the box has games and some trivia; the latter section notes that it takes 40 gallons of maple sap to make one gallon of maple syrup. You see why they're spreading this kind of talk, right? Two words: Maple. Embargo.

It comes right after getting vast swatches of the U.S. population addicted to their product.

Fortunately I am on the case. While so many are distracted by that mob at our southern border -- which the media tell me are just plucky ragamuffins looking for a chance to mow our lawns and clean our toilets and open fabulous ethnic restaurants -- I am looking north, where the real menace is. Of course their leader, Prime Minster Zoolander, would never openly attack our nation; we outnumber them ten to one and we have a leader who, whatever his faults, likes to fight. But Zoolander has sent his secret operatives to undermine us, using maple and ketchup.

I haven't figured out the details of the plan yet. I think I have a line on the main operative, though. The coded message quando omni flunkus moritati has been traced to a snowback contingent. And there's been this photo of a man who is said to be their leader, who gets the movement to stick together. He is sometimes known as: The Possum.

Keep your eyes peeled, and your stick on the ice, my brothers.

Start training!

That's right, folks, it's time! I know Thanksgiving is ten days away, and you're saying, "Ten days! How can I ever get in shape by then?" Relax! Your old uncle Fred has done the research; you just have to do all the work.

Get ready.

Let's see how some of the pros do it.

For example, take Joey Chestnut, world-record champ, who ate 74 hot dogs (with buns!) in 10 minutes last Fourth of July. He begins his training two months in advance of the contest. It's so brutal that after his first practice he doesn't hold his second until a week and a half later. As quoted by ESPN: "It takes about two months to really know where I'm at, where I'm peaking, and my body's pretty much a hot dog-digesting machine."

But it's too late for that! You don't have two months to prepare!

Ah, that's all right -- cool your cranberries, pilgrim. Unless you have to eat your whole Thanksgiving dinner in 10 minutes, you don't need to achieve Chestnut levels of food inhalation. Of course, if your family is planning to go out for the Black Friday Doorbusters on Thanksgiving night, you may indeed only have 10 minutes. Next year start training in September.

Perhaps the distaff side of the sport of gourmands will yield something less brutal?

How about Molly Schuyler, who ate a record 501 chicken wings in at Wing Bowl in 30 minutes last February?

Normally, she says, she and her children eat a healthy diet. But the morning of the competition she drinks about three gallons of water to stretch the stomach. Put it another way, a pint being a pound the whole world 'round, she puts 24 pounds of water in her gut. And that's her equivalent of doing stretches in the outfield.

Are these the methods that will help you get through the turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, cranberry sauce, fruit salad, rolls, green bean casserole, candied yams, apple cider, creamed onions, and pumpkin pie with whipped cream?

Of course, you ought to bear in mind that competitive eating is not without risks. While you're devouring an entire turkey in 12 minutes, you might choke on a bone, you might have a heart attack, you might choke on your own vomit, and basically, you might die. Even drinking gallons of water to prepare can lead to water intoxication, which sounds silly but can throw your salts out of whack and -- you guessed it -- kill you. So maybe you should just eat what you can next Thursday and not go for Olympic gold here.

Of course, your Aunt Sally's green bean casserole might kill you all on its own, but that's a chance you'll have to take.

The man without a face.

When I was in college I had my only regular customer service job. Yes, I know, in a way all jobs are customer service jobs, as various enthusiastic vice presidents like to say, even if the customer is just the person in the next department. But I consider them to be jobs like McDonald's cashier or postal clerk or gas station attendant, where people arrive to make a commercial transaction and the kid is the person they see. I only ever had one job like that, in senior year.

There was one line, snaking up to the windows, and whichever clerk was free would call "next" to help the next person in line after we finished with the current one. You had to be on your toes, because you never knew what the next customer would want, but most of the time I liked the job well enough. The time went quickly. I would have hated the thought of doing it my whole life, but that's why I was in college.

One Tuesday when things were slow I looked up from finishing paperwork from the previous customer and noticed that the other clerks around me were all doing busywork at their stations, even if they had not had a customer recently. Some of us were quicker than others, but no one was a slouch. There was one person on line, standing quietly, and when I saw him I knew why no one had called him. He was the man without a face.

He had some face, but not much. He had one eye, most of the left side of his jaw. Where the right side of his face should have been -- eye, cheek, jaw, the whole nose -- was a white patch, about the size of his a man's hand, or a bit bigger. It flapped when he breathed. It was terrifying.

"Next, please," I said, bracing myself.

"Good afternoon," I said when he arrived.

He came up to the window easily, placing a pile of papers with instructions on the counter. I followed his directions meticulously, glad for something to do with my eyes, but a small part of me wanted to gawk like a child. I said nothing more until I had completed his requests, then handed him his receipts and said, "Thank you," as always. He nodded -- I  think -- and gathered up his papers, and I never saw him again.

That was a long time ago. Of the hundreds who went by my window that year, I remember four -- the guy who was mad because I was taking so long, the guy who tipped me five bucks when I caught a $20 error (it was not a business that expected or really allowed tipping), the lady with the counterfeit $100 bill, and this man.

I couldn't think of a way to ask any of the other employees about him without sounding like I was accusing them of ignoring him, so I didn't. I have always wondered whether he had suffered some horrible accident, some flesh-eating disease, some horrendous criminal act.

Or was he a veteran, someone whose war took his face.

Whoever he was, he lived in New York City and had a life harder than just about anyone I could imagine. Yet he still made it around, did what he needed to do. He clearly knew when the bank was likely to be empty. He probably spent his life knowing when things would be empty. How did he eat? Communicate? Did he live alone? Did he come back from war to a horrified family? Did he have regular medical help? What was under that bandage? Oh, God, do not let me find out. But I have certainly seen some U.S. military veterans who have suffered awful injuries, and am amazed how they carry themselves still with honor.

In the end, I have no idea if my customer was an injured veteran, but he was a human being and deserved respect, and I'm glad I gave it to him.

I wish that all our veterans will get the respect on this Veterans Day that they deserve. And if you are a United States veteran, I thank you for your service.

It's the law.

Remember, friends: Don't drink and ride chickens.

The Mighty Unpronounceables!

One of the least-beloved Avengers, at least judging by the number of times the character has been killed, is the Jack of Hearts, created by Bill Mantlo and Keith Giffen. For a while it seemed that every time the editors would sit around the Marvel bullpen saying, "We need to boost sales! Which hero can we kill?" they would look around hopelessly, scratching themselves, until they all snapped their fingers and said, "Jack of Hearts!" But you can only pull that trick so many times.

Part of the problem with ol' Jack (as Fred Hembeck once pointed out) was the horrible complexity of his jerkin thing -- a real pain for the pencillers to draw and the inkers to ink. Apparently Keith Giffen didn't mind, but lots of other artists may have.

It's the outerwear that's the issue.

He'll be fine if they stick him in one of their movies. Partly because you don't have to pencil every frame of a movie, and partly because all the superheroes in movies wind up wearing black anyway.

But there would be a problem with dialogue if some other heroes made it to the screen. I wondered if there were any comic book characters with unpronounceable names, aside from Superman's impish foe from the Fifth Dimension, Mr. Mxyzptlk (which in the animated TV show was rendered "mix-yes-spit-lick" -- and aptly voiced by Gilbert Gottfried, who may also be from the Fifth Dimension). Considering that some fairly common words are considered hard to pronounce, and as such make for popular topics of general interest publications and dictionary publishers, such unpronounceables would make for an interesting comic book group... Just think of it...

💭

Colonel Onomatopoeia: All right, everyone, let's quiet down. Or shall I say, Bang, bang! with my gavel?

Captain Isthmus: Quiet, everyone!

The Sesquipedalian: Quiescence, please.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Thank you. Welcome to the first meeting of the Mighty Unpronounceables. Our mission, to do justice and good deeds to all, despite the prejudice we have faced due to our unpronounceable names. I am Colonel Onomatopoeia (that's kernal ah-no-mah-toe-pee-ah), with the ability to cause destruction with sound effects. Now, who else is here? You, gray guy.

Molybdenum: I'm Molybdenum.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Ah, yes, one of the Metal Men, I thought.

Molybdenum: Not anymore. They couldn't pronounce my name either.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: And what are your powers?

Molybdenum: All the powers of the element molybdenum.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Which are...?

Molybdenum: Anti-corrosion, high melting point. Good conductor of electricity.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Well... that's fine. Who's next? You, in the armor.

Conch: Conch.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Because you conk things.

Conch: No, conch, like the seashell.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Oh, sorry.

Conch: But I also conk things. I live by the sea. My archenemies are Boatswain and Coxswain.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Bosun and Coxun?

Conch: Yeah. I used to hang around with Aquaman. 

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Oh, not anymore?

Conch: No, now that they have this movie coming out he's gotten too big for his fishes. Get it?

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Okay... Who's next?

Anemone: Me! I'm Anemone, the flower-powered superhero!

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Sounds... Well, I actually don't know what that sounds like.

Anemone: I can spew pollen, change color, lash out with fronds, and I have a secret bract attack.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Awesome. You, with the... whatever that symbol is on your chest.

Captain Isthmus: It's an isthmus. I come from an isthmus. My home is an isthmus.

Anemone: And I'll bet when you get there you say, "Isthmus be the place!"

Captain Isthmus: No. I am too busy using my heightened combat abilities to fight our foes, those who would carve us off the mainlands to make an island, and those who would jam us onto one of the mainlands to make new beachfront property.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: That must keep you busy.

Captain Isthmus: Or those who fight from either mainland or both to take our land, or those who wish to sink us to open a shipping lane...

Anemone: Do you celebrate Christmas on your isthmus?

Captain Isthmus: Silence, flower child.

Conch: With fronds like these, who needs anemones? Heh heh heh.

The Sesquipedalian: And I, the Sesquipedalian, am present for whatever benefaction I may provide.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: What's with the book?

The Sesquipedalian: I merely indicate what I need in the Magical Merriam-Webster, and it appears, albeit temporarily. As long as it's not too intricate, labyrinthine, or enigmatic.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: So, like...

The Sesquipedalian: Entrenching tool, yes; aircraft carrier, no.

Recondite Woman: I am Recondite Woman.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: What do you do?

Recondite Woman: You wouldn't understand.

Dr. Otorhinolaryngologist: I'm Dr. Otorhinolaryngologist, with amazing powers of ear, nose, and throat! And I'm licensed to practice medicine in five states.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: I'm guessing that medical assistance is going to be needed with this crowd.

The Sesquipedalian: A specialist? How recherché.

Colonel Onomatopoeia: All right, let's talk about training. We need to -- Oh no! Ah-OOOGA! Ah-OOOGA! Alarm! Alarm!

Anemone: What is it?

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Look at the viewscreen! It's the Legion of Unspeakables! Anathema, Mischievous Man, Blackguard, Draught/Drought, Sir Synecdoche, and Mr. Ignominious are attacking City Hall! We have to stop them!

Molybdenum: How do you spell "mischievous"?

Colonel Onomatopoeia: Never mind! Quick, let's go! To the Unpronounceablemobile!

Recondite Woman: What's that?

Colonel Onomatopoeia: It's the Nissan Qashqai parked outside. Let's go!

The Sesquipedalian: Unpronounceables, agglomerate!

************

UPDATE: Our old friend Mr. Philbin PM's me to note that Anemone should have also described herself as a "pistil-packin' mama." I'm so ashamed for having missed this gag that I will have to resent him for the rest of my life.