Good-bye, old timer.

Can I get sentimental about anything?

Yes, yes I can.

Every year I dig out the decorations for Christmas, determined to be ruthless in weeding out whatever is broken, ancient, stupid, or otherwise useless. And every year I part with fewer things than such a resolve would anticipate. I hate throwing away anything having to do with Christmas.

But I've had to let go of two wired-up swags with broken cords and a busted snow globe already. And then, if that hadn't already broken my heart, there was this. I think it was bought by my mom.

Doesn't look like much, just the kind of timer one might use to set decorative lights or the kind of "really! someone is home" lights used to deter burglars when one is away. I have to say it is one of the best timers I've ever had, easy to set, with a big manual override switch, and totally reliable. 

I also think it reached the point now where it might burn down the house.

Mysterious scorching in multiple places on electrical devices do not fill me with confidence.

I know that this little object has earned its rest. You can almost guess its age by the font used for the numbers. Also, it says it is a product of Toastmaster's electrical devices division, which also serves to put it well in the past. Toastmaster, the famed maker of, well, toasters, active since 1921, is now a brand of the Middleby company. But when you click on Middleby's Toastmaster site, it takes you to Star Manufacturing, which makes toasters and other kitchen machines for the trade, not the private consumer. The Toastmaster history is very confusing, and Wikipedia's summary appears to end in 1992, which is not helpful.  Although Walmart sells a lot of home appliances under the Toastmaster name, Middleby doesn't include it in their list of residential product lines. So I don't know what the hell is going on. All I know is, if you try to look up Toastmaster timers, you wind up with helpful tips on managing time for presenters by the Toastmasters International, the speaking coach group with no connection to the toaster company. One thing for sure, no one is making Toastmaster electric timers like mine anymore.

And now mine, old Model 12-925, heads to the socket in the sky. Perhaps overdue. The thing is as loud as any plug-in timer I have ever heard. It gives off a constant whir, like a mouse blender. With its two-prong plug, it is ungrounded. It does not accept three-prong plugs, either. It is hopelessly out of date and may very well be a fire hazard.

It also may be partly discolored by the old man's cigarette smoke, the smoke that filled every room he was in, until it silenced him itself.

Oh, well. Things are just things, after all.

Yuletide Vote, or North Poll.

I am pressed for time today, so this is a lousy entry -- but I do have a serious topic on my mind and I'd like your input.

What's for eats?

I'm supposed to make dinner on Christmas Day this year. That's not unusual; I've done it in the past. While my wife does most of the Thanksgiving wrangling, I'm the Christmas go-to chef. But I don't know what to make. We have no truly traditional foods from either side of the family, although my grandmother used to do a pork roast and my wife can't tolerate pork roast. (I make the decision but she has veto power.) Neither of us had an Italian grandmother who made the feast of the seven fishes, six eels, five manicottis, four scungilli, three calzones, two lasagnas, and a pernice in un pero.

Here's one idea I had: The McDLT. It's red and green; look! Festive!

Just three small problems with that. 1) McDonald's hasn't made the McDLT since 1991. 2) Even our local McDonald's is probably going to be closed on Christmas Day. 3) My wife would veto this so hard you'll be able to hear it from wherever you are.

So here are some actual or close to actual ideas I've been kicking around:

Beef Wellington -- First time I made it, it was perfect. Every subsequent time the bottom of the pastry got mushy. No idea why.

Roast Beef Tenderloin -- EZPZ, but is it special enough for a landmark dinner?

Beef Stroganoff -- Ditto above; make this several times a year anyway. I leave the onions in. Don't tell the Russians.

Braised Lamb Shanks -- Delicious but too Eastery.

Alaskan King Crab Legs -- Also delicious, but so much work for the diners. Messy.

So these are some of my options. As you can tell, one way or another this is gonna cost me.

What do you think? More importantly, what is your main course on Christmas or any other major holiday gathering?

I'll tell you up front that Pop-Tarts and beer are right out. You have one off-year and no one ever forgets....

Ferocious bear adventure!

Yesterday afternoon I went on a secret bear mission in honor of the dead. I had to brave danger, come face-to-face with the bear itself, penetrate a structure in which I did not belong that was intended to keep out the likes of me, and escape quickly, all to keep a sacred promise to a friend.

Sounds pretty great, huh? Such high adventure!

I wish I could thrill you with pictures of the ferocious beast I wrestled, but I was unable to get a good photo. That's because he was wrapped in plastic. I thought it was best to keep him that way. Here's one of his relatives.

My friend's grandfather started a charity that collects teddy bears for children who will be hospitalized over Christmas. Although the grandfather has passed away, his family keeps his charity and his memory alive by collecting bears for the kids. So I ordered a bear, coming nose-to-nose with the monster when I got it out of the box, and the fight began -- the fight to fulfill my promise or to keep the cuddly bear myself, acting like the Winter Warlock with his choo-choo.

But no, my word is my bond, so off we went to the drop-off box at the American Legion. As a non-veteran, I am not entitled to join the Legion, which is why I describe the place as closed off to my kind. Indeed, the members' room seemed to be locked with an electronic key when I arrived, and I couldn't get in. One of the guys at the bar saw me through the window, though, and opened the door. The door was just stuck, not locked. He pointed me to the collection box, near the pool table, and my ferocious bear joined his ursine fellows in its depths. Then I got out quickly -- I had work on my desk to do.

So that was yesterday's big adventure, and jolly good it was. I was happy to help out, and I know that bear will be a great comfort to some boy or girl who needs comforting.

Oh, the danger part? Meh, still some icy spots on the roads out there. Had to drive carefully.

Fred's Book Club: Empire!

Welcome back to Fred's Book Club, home of the Humpback Writers feature, named so because it falls on Wednesday and we thought "Wednesday Writers" was too silly. We're morons, we know.

This week we bring you a bit of twentieth-century history, a 2001 book by Wall Street Journal editor and writer Mitchell Pacelle. 

Empire: A Tale of Obsession, Betrayal, and the Battle for an American Icon is about the famous and magnificent Empire State Building, as you might have guessed from the cover, but is mainly about the shenanigans of Japanese billionaire Hideki Yokoi and assorted other players vying for control of the landmark tower back in the 1990s. Among them are Yokoi's daughter, her French-Jewish husband Jean-Paul Renoir, Leona and Harry Helmlsley, real estate tycoon Peter L. Malkin, and a certain future president of the United States -- guess who!

After the real estate mania of the Go-Go Eighties had fallen away, Prudential Insurance, which owned the Empire State Building, was eager to unload it. It was and probably still is the most famous skyscraper in the world. But the prestige was not what it once was, having been overshadowed by so many other taller buildings, and its interior space was still mostly set up along typical use plans of the 1930s -- small offices connected on each floor by a common hall, rather than entire floors occupied by businesses surrounding a central elevator shaft. Occupancy was high in 1981, but as Pacelle writes, "the building's occupants -- 850 small businesses -- were hardly the sort coveted by glamour buildings. There were 302 menswear firms, 74 in the shoe business. There were second-tier lawyers, accountants, and travel agents. Most New Yorkers seldom even set foot in the place."

In 1991, the main problem Prudential faced was not the small tenants but the big renters; it was a dumb deal they had made 30 years earlier to rent the entire 102-story building to an investment company that controlled the actual leases to occupants. "Whoever bought the Empire State Building now would face prospect of wrangling with two of Manhattan's most difficult real estate magnates: Peter Malkin, an iron-willed Harvard-educated lawyer who was exacting to the point of annoyance, and Leona Helmsley, a notoriously volatile woman who was sowing terror through the billion-dollar real-estate empire assembled by her ailing husband, Harry. What Prudential was selling, in truth, was little more than sizzle: the right to boast, 'I own the Empire State Building.'"

And then the Japanese enter the picture.

We tend to remember Japanese real-estate deals in the United States as a purely eighties venture, but Mitsubishi Estate's foray into Rockefeller Center came in at the end of the decade, in 1989 (and they slumped right back out, selling in 1996). Billionaire Hideki Yokoi was a different sort. He had grown wealthy making uniforms for the Japanese army, and then after the war went into real estate, "snapping up treasures from Japan's royal family." He liked undervalued stocks. He collected European castles. He was a hardheaded businessman, but he was also a dreamer -- just the kind of man Prudential was looking for. 

The thing was, Yokoi's illegitimate daughter, Kiiko Nakahara, and her financier husband Renoir, also wanted in. Nakahara had spoken with Prudential initially as her father's representative, but while Dad was cooling his heels in prison back in Japan -- a fire at one of his hotels killed 32 people and he was found responsible -- she and her husband led a group of investors and made the deal to buy the building. Nakahara's group included a new partner -- one Mr. Donald Trump.

In all the hijinks going on over this building, it's weird to find Trump a relatively small player, and of course he never talked like one. When the deal was made his people shot out a press release that said "Trump Buys Empire State Building." He said, "It is my intent to take the actions necessary to restore the Empire State Building to its rightful position as a world class real estate asset." This led him into battle with his archenemy, the hated Leona Helmsley, which as we all know now is the kind of thing Trump lives for.

Trump and Renoir were of like minds in wanting to get rid of Helmsley and Malkin. They also intended to renovate the building's interior into a modern space, a job that Renoir estimated would cost hundreds of millions of dollars. Renoir thought Trump was just the man to make it work. "They would bring in classy tenants, like media companies. In the soaring tower, Renoir saw luxury condominiums, good restaurants, and a hotel. Renting a room in the Empire State Hotel, he felt, would be an unbeatable draw. And up top, of course, gold-class condos." Renoir had many such ideas, including exciting exterior elevators. None of them ever came to pass. 

In fact, by 1996 Yokoi was out of jail and back in the hunt. His daughter's actions were widely seen as betrayal, and he was not a man to take that lying down. Nor were Malkin and Helmsley going to let their lease be broken. So off came the gloves.

You'd think a story that involved enough lawyers to land an assault on Omaha Beach might make dry reading, but not here. Probably no story involving Trump could ever be dull, however one feels about the man. Pacelle is wisely dispassionate about all the subjects, letting the story tell itself as it ought to, and it's a fun read. 

Trump doesn't come off all that well -- the fact that no one remembers his boast of owning the building gives you an idea of how the deal worked out for him in the end -- but for all his bluster, he kept his wits and remained afloat while other owners sank. Nakahara and Renoir wound up in a mountain of legal trouble; Yokoi's battle became quixotic, as his life trailed toward its end; Malkin and Helmsley held an ironclad lease but turned on each other; and the tabloids of New York and Tokyo had a wonderful time. 

Pacelle notes that while Trump had the least on the line in the Empire State battle, he found it hardest to let go. With his love of prestige and his boundless optimism, Trump had a lot in common with Yokoi. "The building is magic," Pacelle quotes Trump as saying. "It's got a unique place in people's hearts."

Pacelle's story ends in the middle of 2001, so it takes place entirely in the pre-September 11 world. I got my copy from a friend at Wiley when the book was first published, in early 2002. I had hoped that Pacelle might write a new edition with the eventual fate of all the legal wrangling (largely resolved in 2002), and how the terrorist abomination on September 11 affected the real estate market, especially for skyscrapers. It would seem that Trump's election should interest a publisher in an updated edition as well. Sadly, neither Wiley nor the author have chosen to write one. But the book contains such an interesting story so well told that I endorse it all the same. 

DecemBRRRR.

Who are all you freaks dreaming about White Christmases out there? KNOCK IT OFF!

I'm writing this at lunchtime Monday, and last night we had a lot of freezing rain as well as snow and a little hail. This morning was a treacherous mess.

We were actually lucky to get a little snow, because it was the crunchy kind that was good for walking. The ice beneath it is a stone-cold killer, a menace to drivers and to pedestrians with two legs or fewer, and I've had enough concussions for one year and am not looking to add to the total.

We may get a foot of snow by the time it ends in the wee hours on Tuesday. It should be over by four a.m., so there will be at least a school delay, possibly another cancellation.

It wouldn't matter so much if we didn't have a still-not-healthy dog -- Nipper keeps improving but he isn't normal. He did play in the yard with his normal vim and verve this morning, so I have to count that as a good sign. I am mainly concerned about dehydration at this point. More selfishly, I am concerned about the frozen diarrhea awaiting when this white sky garbage starts to thaw later in the week (high on Wednesday: 38; next week we hit the forties).

Earlier this year I thought I'd do a little photo project for this site -- try to take the same tree picture to see how it changes over time. I actually forgot the November update, but here goes:

August 13, 6:50 a.m.

September 20, 6:41 a.m.

October 15, 6:52 a.m.

December 2, 6:48 a.m.

One of these things is not like the other...

Ugh. Any wonder I'm so depressed today?

⛄⛄⛄

TUESDAY MORNING UPDATE: Nipper's still not 100%, but is getting better. The Curse of Frustration is still upon me. I missed the garbage this morning, because I was digging out and trying to get the dogs to do their thing, and I expected the trash men to come a little late and they did not. Now I'm stuck with sick dog's poop and a turkey carcass until Friday.

I know that when things start to go wrong, it's easy to get confirmation bias; start looking for wrong things and you'll find them. But I can't escape the feeling that I have the Creeping Dangerfields upon me.

We all get it in the end.

Black Friday to Blarg Saturday.

Was planning to get up early Saturday to tend to the pups before an eight o'clock meeting down at the church -- alarm set to 5:15. But I was awakened an hour before that by the long-suffering Mrs. Key, who'd been up all night with junior varsity dog Nipper.

Nipper had a case of the runs, the trots, the flux, the loose bowels, the Aztec two-step, or I suppose four-step in his case. She'd taken him out any number of times and he was clamoring to go out again and she was completely shot.

I looked after him and senior varsity dog Tralfaz, who was and appears to be his normal healthy self, although also wiped out from all the commotion that I had slept through. The time was drawing nearer to my meeting, and I already figured I couldn't even take a shower; they might have to show true godly forbearance when I showed up unwashed. I defrosted a chicken breast in the microwave, boiled it, cooled it, made some rice, cooled that, and gave Nipper chicken & rice, Nipper's favorite when sick, or any other time. He ate it like a champ. I texted my buddy, who was expected at the meeting, to tell him I might be late. Then breakfast came back up on the office carpet. I texted again to say I would be missing the meeting.

Pro Tip: If you have pets and carpets, Bissell's SpotBot can't be beat. The place he threw up is now the cleanest spot in the office.

My wife woke up at noon and tagged me out so I could take a nap. This kid needed adult supervision.

As I write this draft on Saturday afternoon, the poor pup is still sick and we don't know why. He hasn't been around strange dogs since Monday, and that would be a long incubation period. He doesn't grab food off counters and is suspicious of all new foods; he seems to instinctively know when something is bad for him (grapes, onions) and rears away. He also is not a poop-eater -- well, not much -- noshing on whatever is on the grass or along the sidewalk, like other dogs in this house I could name. And Tralfaz is fine -- they use the same water bowl, so if it's contagious, wouldn't they both get it?

Maybe not. I just don't know. Anyway, it was a day of minor issues on the verge of major ones. I scraped my thumb badly fetching something off a store shelf and had to walk around the store with it stuck in my mouth like Wee Willie Winkie lest I bleed all over the place. Ultimately I wrapped it in a plastic produce bag until I could get to the first-aid aisle. I was hanging decorations that required thumbtacks and spent twenty minutes searching the entire house for thumbtacks that I knew we had. I hung four light-up swags on the porch to find out later that only three light up. (Changed the fuses after a frantic search for fuses and no dice.) I mean, nothing horrible happened but there were nuisances at every turn.

And poor Nipper is still sick. Keeps making little tiny poops, and threw up again -- on the lawn this time. Usually the vet says to keep him hydrated and wait 24 hours, but of course 24 hours from onset of signs the vet will be closed for Sunday. Not to mention that a snowstorm is bearing down on us, with accumulations projected to be anywhere between 0" and death. (You know what that means!)

So that was Saturday. And how was your day?