...and never brought to mind

May you all have a very happy new year, and here's to a 2010 that doesn't suck.



A tip of the fedora to SomeECards

2009 Thankful list, part the fourth: Cami and Harry

This the fourth and final post in the series detailing things for which I'm thankful this year

Tangled puppies in a small bed.

There never was a plan to have two dogs. We were only looking for a female dog because that was what my wife wanted. I wanted a furry buddy, and I wasn't picky about the gender. However, while P was examining the girl, I distracted her brother, with no intention whatsoever of keeping him. This little 4 pound puppy with the soulful eyes had other ideas. He snuggled into my down jacket on that cold December afternoon in 2001 and gave a contented little sigh. I was a goner. We decided to get both. I looked into his eyes and knew his name should be Harry. I don't know why. The face said 'Harry'. “Potter Dachshund Greene” followed naturally after that.

Harry Potter Dachshund Greene

As for the girl, she was always going to be named Camilla, pronounced Ca-MEE-ya, as if you had a wicked New England accent, saying “come here”. We figured out immediately that of the two, she was the handful, with the personality that extended far beyond her little body. The rest of her name became nothing more than natural descriptors of who she was: Camilla Missy Diva Piglet Punky Girl. 'Piglet' replaced 'Princess' when it was clear she had the voracious appetite of a Labrador retriever, and Punky Girl came from her ceaselessly getting herself into trouble, often while her brother sat nearby, saying "hey, don't look at me. I'm merely sitting here watching."

Cami at a year and a half

I didn’t even want a dachshund. Truth be told, I’d always coveted golden retrievers or other big dogs I could play football with, and never had one of my very own. I didn't mind lapdogs a bit, but Dachshunds were too yippy, not especially friendly, and not nearly cute enough. The traditional smooth hair dachshund looked vaguely alien to me. I never had much use for the doxies I'd met, but P saw a longhaired dachshund in a store near where we lived in Boston and was immediately smitten. I researched the breed online. Damn, this variant was gorgeous. The coat is beautiful. I’ve come to describe them jokingly as resembling Irish Setters with their legs cut off (and about 100 IQ points smarter). Research indicated that the longhaired variety had some advantages over the traditional smooth haired dachshund. They tend to have gentler temperaments and are considered by some to be more trainable (a little less of the classic dachshund stubbornness). What we found in reality: gentler, for the most part yes. Trainable, sure. Reduced stubbornness, not so much.

Although Harry is very laid back, flawlessly obedient and endlessly accommodating, his sister's a different story. When she wants to be, Cami can be as willful as my mom’s late West Highland Terrier. She’s much sweeter than that Westie was, though, and that’s worth a lot. And then there was something I had never encountered before. In all my years of dog ownership, I’d never had a true alpha, until Cami. If she were a human being, I’m not entirely sure we'd be friends, but her overriding sweetness renders her utterly irresistible. She MUST be in charge at all times, and seems to enjoy dominating, well, any other dog who even looks at her funny. She’s has backed down German shepherds, Bernese mountain dogs and more Labs than I care to count. However, I have to acknowledge that dogs create their own socialized pecking orders, and Cami fits in to her “pack” just fine.

My favorite picture of Cami

While I don’t dispute people who say a dog is only as good as his owner, there is such a thing as a truly great dog. P and I have two of them. Dr. Marty Becker, my new colleague at Pet Connection, put it best in a recent conversation. "There's only one greatest pet in the world...and every family has it." He’s right, we do. They’re the happiest dogs I’ve ever had, and combined with their ridiculous smarts, it makes for a priceless combination.

Cami (l) and Harry (r) with Roz when they were puppies

Nobody told me beforehand or prepared me for how smart dachshunds are. We have to spell entirely too many words, or worse, become excessively wordy. I cannot, for instance, casually mention to P that I’m going for a walk, if it’s not going to involve the children. Instead, I will ‘engage in an out of doors perambulation’. Thank God I have a good vocabulary. In addition, their problem solving skills are better than those of some people I know. The word “manipulative” doesn’t even begin to describe what they’re capable of. Like a Border Collie, you can almost see the wheels turning when they have their minds set on a goal. I feel strongly that someone should have clued us into that beforehand.

Nevertheless, when I’m away from home on business, I miss them the most. I can (and do) speak to my wife multiple times a day. We also text each other. I can’t talk to Cami and Harry when I’m away. They don’t know where I am or why I’m not home. Daddy’s just inexplicably gone. Coming home, whether it’s after a few hours or a couple weeks, well, it’s priceless.

I’ve always felt badly for people who have never had pets, who have never felt the furry, cuddling body, or known the joy of your best buddy doing the full-body wag upon your return home, or witnessed the adoring eyes saying “I love you, daddy”. They’re priceless souls who add far more to our world than I’ll ever be able to express. Being known as Cami and Harry’s daddy is a wonderful feeling, and someday I hope I can be the man my dogs think I am.

The Vick saga gets bizarre: "Have you no sense of decency?"

The following was posted this afternoon to the blog for petconnection.com, and yes, I wrote it. Obviously, I've been having fun over there...
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I admit it. Before I click on my browser’s bookmark for Pet Connection each day, I click on ESPN.com. I’ve been a sports nut longer than I’ve been pretty much anything else. This morning, a sports headline nearly knocked me out of my chair. Michael Vick has been voted the Philadelphia Eagles’ recipient of the 2009 Block Courage Award.

The Block Award is named after Ed Block, who was a well-known humanitarian and former head athletic trainer of the Baltimore (now Indianapolis) Colts. Quoting from their own website:

The Ed Block Courage Award Foundation is dedicated to improving the lives of neglected children and ending the cycle of abuse. The purpose is to raise Awareness and Prevention of child abuse. That objective is coupled with the Foundation’s commitment to celebrating players of inspiration in the NFL.

This is, basically, the NFL’s lower-profile version of baseball’s Clemente Award, named for Roberto Clemente, who played for the Pittsburgh Pirates until he was killed in a plane crash on New Year’s Eve 1972 while delivering relief supplies to victims of a Nicaraguan earthquake. The Block Award exists to recognize and celebrate notable good works off the field more than on-field performance. Even more importantly, you should know it’s voted on by each team’s players, not front office, fans or media.

This means Vick’s teammates decided he was such a good guy, such a role model for his public works on behalf of others, that he deserved to be lauded as their own community role model. Going back to the mission of the Block Award “…dedicated to improving the lives of neglected children and ending the cycle of abuse. The purpose is to raise Awareness and Prevention of child abuse.” Abused children and abused dogs have a lot in common. Neither are able to defend themselves against marauding people bent on causing them harm, and neither deserve the horrors visited upon them. The Block Courage Award is dedicated to ending the cycle of such abuse. Michael Vick perpetuated, and indeed encouraged the abuse, going so far as to slaughter dogs himself, according to eyewitness reports (from his own former employees).

In the past year since he was released from prison and reinstated by the NFL, I’ve lost count of how many interviews I’ve read and seen from players, his colleagues, who have said substantially “Look, the guy was punished for his crimes. He did his time. He gets to resume his life now, so back off, leave him alone, and let the man earn a living.”

He isn’t a star, and in fact Vick’s only played an ancillary role in the Eagle offense this year. I don’t like his presence in the NFL, but that’s not my call. Now, though, he’s lauded by his teammates as a role model? How have we gotten to the point where we not only celebrate poor behavior (i.e. the movie “Mean Girls,” the ongoing fascination with stories such as Jon vs. Kate and balloon boy, etc.) but now the convicted felons receive prestigious awards?

Fine, he’s earning a living. But calling him a “player of inspiration” is beyond the pale. The memories of the dogs in whose slaughter he assisted are again insulted. The award, and the other 31 (more worthy) 2009 NFL recipients are also duly insulted. Vick shouldn’t be mentioned in the same breath as Mike Furrey of the Cleveland Browns, who truly is a good citizen, or Shawntae Spencer of the San Francisco 49ers, who returned from a devastating knee injury in 2008 to become a team leader and star.

Vick has done nothing laudable, courageous or even exemplary. He’s a convicted felon whose crimes are often minimized by some as “just a part of his upbringing in a tough neighborhood.” Instead of a cautionary tale, today I can imagine kids in Vick’s hometown of Newport News, Va., saying to themselves “Hey, no matter what we do wrong, no matter how much trouble we get into, we can still play in the NFL, and our teammates will say we’re OK.”

To Vick’s teammates on the Eagles who voted for him, all I can do is quote Joseph Welch in front of the Army-McCarthy hearings in 1954. “Have you no sense of decency sir[s], at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?”

The Hanukkah story, chapter 3

Here’s what really happened.

There was plenty of oil. There was ALWAYS plenty of oil. For those who tended to the temple lighting implements and monitored oil reserves, the amount of the oil was never in doubt. However, everyone fancies themself an expert, and people who didn’t have the foggiest idea what the hell they were talking about insisted on complaining and catastrophizing.

“Oy, there’s not enough oil! Oyvayzmir, what are we gonna do, this is awful, God will hate us, and smite us, and send more awful people to do more awful things to us, and the sky will fill with darkness, the cattle will fall over dead, my ankles will swell and I won’t be able to wear those wonderful shoes I just got, the strappy ones with the cute little buckle, you should see them, they’re so pretty, especially with the new black dress I found on sale, can you believe it. Oy, there’s not enough oil, we’re doomed”.

Let’s be clear, nobody ever listened to these insufferable bores. They talked, but so what? They always talked. They talked so much you didn’t hear them. Always inveighing against something, they were always wrong, and roundly ignored, even by their own children, who were busy trying to figure out how to become best friends with or seduce Bruce The Goodlooking Tall Dark And Handsome Oh My This Is A Boy That My Daughter Could Marry We Should Be So Lucky Maccabee.

There was one particular talker, the leader of the pack. This particular annoying, non-stop complaining person had a name. Now, I must acknowledge the obvious. History never recorded this person’s name. It could have been a man, but it wasn’t. You know it wasn’t. It was a woman. Her name could have been Riva, Harriet or Bertha, but it wasn’t any of those. Her name was Zelda.

Zelda had a mouth that could power Jerusalem by itself. Her voice cut through the morning fog like a hot knife through brisket. Zelda had her coterie of friends, but nobody else paid her any mind. Her husband Mordechai had died years before, after becoming terminally sick of his nonstop talking wife. He tried to disable his own ears by spearing them with a ram’s horn. The problem was the rest of the ram didn’t appreciate being utilized as a tool to solve someone else’s marital problem, and it quickly stomped Mordechai to death. The ram didn’t hang around to admire his handi, uh, hoofiwork. He couldn’t. Zelda started screaming again, and the ram suddenly realized he had just performed a messy, bloody but nevertheless kind mitzvah (blessed good deed) for poor Mordechai. The ram beat hooves out of Zelda’s hut, and retreated back to his lair to explain to his family what a weird day he'd just had, and perhaps those people deserved whatever happened to them, because even on their worst and smelliest days, rams aren't that annoying.

So back to Zelda. She wasn’t a stupid woman, but she wasn’t a happy one, either. She couldn’t attend High Holy Day services anymore, because one of the highlights is the ceremonial blowing of a ram’s horn, and her psychiatrist agreed that her PTSD would be exacerbated by the memory of the loss of her dearly (albeit strangely) departed husband. She was, therefore, shunned by most decent people. Zelda never understood that it had nothing to with whether or not she showed up for prayers. People just couldn’t stand her.

Nevertheless, the retaking of the temple was a communal event, and Zelda was there with everyone else. When it was discovered that the most of the oil had been spoiled by The Bad Guys, a collective gasp went up from the crowd. Although The Keeper Of The Oil (the Temple custodian and superintendant, a very nice man named Lenny, whom everyone loved, especially the kids, because he let them eat the leftover pastries from the larger and fancier bar and bat-mitzvahs) knew there was plenty of perfectly good oil left, Lenny never raised his voice much above a whisper. He didn’t see the point of yelling. Also, he was painfully shy around everyone over the age of 15. They intimidated him. So Lenny knew, the rabbis knew, the cantor knew, the cantor’s wife knew, the Temple president, vice-president, treasurer, secretary, president-emeritus, the president emeritus’ wife, and most everyone else in the crowd knew, but Zelda didn’t. Zelda was late to the temple meeting because she was stuck in traffic, so she was in the back of the room, which was very crowded. By the time word filtered to the back, “There’s enough oil” became “There’s not enough oil”. Zelda, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, started up. “Oy, there’s not enough oil! Oyvayzmir, what are we gonna do, this is awful, God will hate us, and smite us, and send more awful people to do more awful things to us, and the sky will fill with darkness, the cattle will fall over dead, my ankles will swell and I won’t be able to wear those wonderful shoes I just got, the strappy ones with the cute little buckle, you should see them, they’re so pretty, especially with the new black dress I found on sale, can you believe it. Oy, there’s not enough oil, we’re doomed”.

She didn’t just do this once. Every day, she’d return to the temple and say the same thing. (I’m not retyping it. You can just go back to the previous paragraph and read it again, ok? I typed it twice. You can read it twice. In fact, please read it eight times, just to save me the bother. Thanks)

As I said, there was always enough oil. Zelda was prone to overreaction. She repeated herself a great deal, and she was by now perhaps becoming a bit femisched (pronounced “fe-MISHed, meaning confused), and she kept on with the complaining as if she said it enough, it might come to pass. (This is the basis of The Big Lie. Say it enough times at a high enough volume, and hope people will eventually start to believe it. See: Abner Doubleday inventing baseball in Cooperstown, The Warren Commission Report, WMD in Iraq, and the edibility of blue cheese)

So the oil lasted through the entire eight days, of course. Lenny knew it would. All the Maccabees knew it would. The Rabbis knew. The Temple president knew. But none of them carried the history onward. Zelda was the one who kept talking, and Zelda was convinced it was a miracle from God. She was full of wildebeest entrails, but when everyone else forgot about what was honestly a total non-event, Zelda kept repeating the story over the years as if it was, well, gospel. She told her children. They weren’t paying attention at the time of the "miracle", of course. In fact, they weren’t in the temple when the so-called oil controversy began. They were out getting thoroughly stoned on ground-up ram’s horns they had snorted in the woods behind the temple parking lot. It was a real problem in those days. Eventually the problem got so out of control, there weren’t enough ram’s horns to use for High Holy Day Services, and the Jews had to barter with nearby Arabs. It cost them a very nice ark, rumored to contain the Holy Covenant. Quite the scandal, but that's grist for another post.

Zelda’s children told their children the apocryphal legend, they told their children, and so on and so on. History and legends are both written by those who tell the stories, whether it's the truth or not. Today, we light a menorah because an agitated, thoroughly annoying woman in the back of the temple who refused to listen to reason made up a story. We like holidays. The reason, like that used for Hanukkah, can be completely fokakta (screwed up), but hey, it’s an excuse to eat wonderfully addictive food. At Hanukkah, it’s latkes. Who doesn’t like little fried potato pancakes? Especially with sour cream or apple sauce. So thank you, Zelda. Lighting a menorah tonight, which commemorates your over-reactive hysteria, represents our version of the winter solstice holiday that every faith since the dawn of man has created. In the dead of winter, we create light to hope for the renewal of the sun, warmth and the blossoming of the earth again. The goyim do that at Christmas, we do it at Hanukkah. Tomorrow's the last night of Hanukkah. Light a candle for Zelda. She deserves it.

Enough talking. I smell latkes.

The Hanukkah story, chapter 2

In the last post, I recounted the official story of how Hanukkah came to be: a rebel family called the Maccabees fought off the Greco-Syrians to defend Judea, and in a divinely inspired miracle, enough oil to keep the menorah of the Holy Temple lit for one day lasted for eight. That’s the story, and to that I say hogwash. Or, pastramiwash.

Let’s start with a fact of the times. Most, if not all stories we now know from antiquity weren’t recorded contemporaneously. They were passed down for generations (or in many cases, centuries) as oral history. Grandparents to children to grandchildren and so on. And in so doing, they can become an elaborate example of the game Telephone. Details change, get twisted, and disappear. And the story is always skewed in favor of the person telling it, or friends of theirs.

So back to the Maccabees. They weren't just a family. They were more than just the guys doing the fighting, even though those are the only ones we hear about through the millennia. It was a big, extended crowd (or as we’d call it in Yiddish, a “gantse mishpuche” – a huge family, meaning it included inlaws, outlaws, close friends, wannabes and hangers on, too). They weren’t all brave, noble fighters. There were the nerds, like Harold The Bookworm Would It Hurt You To Go Outside Once In A While You're So Pasty Maccabee, the wimpy, downright cowardly relatives like Merton Afraid Of His Own Shadow It’s So Mortifying If Only Your Grandfather Were Alive To See This Maccabee , and completely apathetic relatives like Sid the Shiftless No Goodnik Who Didn’t Even Finish Law School, Can You Believe Maccabee. There were also the usual assortment of Bruce The Goodlooking Tall Dark And Handsome Oh My This Is A Boy That My Daughter Could Marry We Should Be So Lucky Maccabee and Aaron Ok He's Not the Sharpest Knife In the Drawer But He's a Good Man And You Can't Have Everything So You Should Be Happy And You Can't Always Get What You Want What A Catchy Phrase Maccabee. These guys all had wives, sisters, brothers, daughters, parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, dogs, cats, birds, gerbils, lizards, guinea pigs, you get the idea. It wasn’t just a few guys in a VW microbus.

The important thing to remember here is that Jewish families are just like all other families. As I often say, every family is (screwed) up in their own particular way. There’s no such thing as normal. Never has been. The Maccabees had the distinct disadvantage of being well-known and highly visible. That inevitably means the more embarrassing members of the clan had to be kept quieter than the regular rabble. After all, you don’t want to the big star soldier up on stage while the old biddies in the back of the hall are whispering to each other “oh sure, look at that hotshot getting the Maccabee Memorial Prize for Exceptionally Impressive Valor In The Face Of Enemies Who Want to Turn Us Into Chopped Liver, And Not the Good Stuff, Either, No, The Dietetic Crap You Have To Feed Your Grandmother Who Can’t Digest Anything Anymore. Did you hear about his cousin Shana The Miskeit? Such a shame about her, drunk as a skunk off the temple wine last Passover. She decided the Four Questions weren’t enough. Such a bigmouth. She must have asked thirty. Maybe forty. I lost count. The girl was yelling all kinds of things about goats and vegetables and what she had done with the Rabbi’s son last Simcha Torah. Oy, such a shunda (embarrassment). And those are our valiant role models? Feh.”

Don’t discount those biddies. They’re the ones who tell the stories. They’re the ones who, more often than not, are the root of the oral histories. You know it’s true, too. Your grandmother’s stories are told every year, over and over, until you’ve memorized them. She’s not just telling *you* the stories. She’s telling all her friends, too. She has her not inconsiderable circle of influence, and the more she talks, the wider the circle inevitably becomes, year after year, decade after decade, wider and wider, told over and over and over. And that’s how it starts.

There’s always an historian, but that doesn’t mean they necessarily wear bow ties and faded tweed jackets or they spend their time scolding kids with the eternal “Shhhhh”. The historians are the ones who tell the stories. Invariably, they do it from their own point of view. As the movie Rashomon taught us, there’s always the effect of the subjectivity of perception on recollections passed on to others. In other words, how you feel about what you saw will color what you say about it later.

That said, I know who the Maccabee historian was. It wasn’t one of the big, impressive male warriors. Guys who do the fighting don’t do the talking. They’d rather be left alone to take a shower, then have a beer with their buddies, replete with fist bumps, satisfied smiles and nods of “that’s right, we’ve got it goin’ on. You mess with the bull, you get the horns”.

And it wasn’t their wives or girlfriends. They were too busy basking in the reflected light of their heroes, and telling their friends “I know, right? Can you believe MY boyfriend just saved the whole country? How cool is that? You bet your ass I’m getting a big rock now to flaunt in the face of all those beeyotches who thought they deserved him over me”.

It also wasn’t their parents. They were too busy kvelling (bursting with pride), talking to their friends “I know, right? Can you believe MY son just saved the whole country? How cool is that? You bet your ass I’m getting a big portrait of My Son The Hero now to flaunt in the face of all those beeyotches who thought I was a lousy parent”.

It was one of The People Who Talk. Fortunately for you, I know who it was. In the next post, I’ll reveal her name, and tell you the rest of the story (Paul Harvey can’t sue me for writing that. He’s dead).

Come back Thursday.

The Hanukkah story, chapter 1

So what is Hanukkah (or Hannukah or Chanukah, or however the hell you want to spell it) about, anyway? The following is taken from Judaism.about.com:
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About 2200 years ago, Greek kings, who reigned from Damascus, ruled over the land of Judea and the Jews living there.

One Greco-Syrian King, Antiochus Epiphanes, forbade the Jewish people from praying to their God, practicing their customs, and studying their Torah. Antiochus forced the Jews to worship the Greek gods. It is said that he placed an idol of the Greek God Zeus on the alter in the Holy Temple of Jerusalem.

In response to this persecution, Judah Maccabee and his four brothers organized a group of resistance fighters known as the Maccabees. They fought against paganism and oppression. The tenacity of the rebels, which came from their steadfast faith in one God, is one reason this military victory has been so celebrated by Jews in future generations. In one battle near Beit Horon, Judah's small army is intimidated by the size of the enemy army and Judah tells them to have faith that God is on their side. Against great odds, after three years of fighting, the Maccabees succeeded to drive the Greco-Syrians out of Judea. The Maccabees reclaimed the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. They cleaned the Temple, removing the Greek symbols and statues. When Judah and his followers finished cleaning the temple, they rededicated it

According to tradition, when the Maccabees entered the Holy Temple, they discovered that the Greco-Syrians had defiled the oil which was used for the Temple's menorah. Only one vat of purified oil remained - enough for only one day. It would take the Jews a week to process more purified oil. Then a miracle occurred. The Maccabees lit the menorah and it burned for not one, but eight days, by which time the new, purified oil was ready. This is why the Hanukkah Menorah has eight candles (not including the shamash candle used to light the others) and one reason why Jews celebrate Hanukkah for eight days.



Ok, that’s the official story which Jewish kids are taught in Hebrew School. The essence is this: enough oil for one day lasted for eight, and God helped us through. We Jews pride ourselves on questioning everything, and I have to call BS on the Hanukkah story. It feels wrong, and I think, no, I know I can explain what really happened. What will follow in succeeding posts is my take on the official story, and why I believe that Hanukkah’s an embarrassingly silly holiday, and wasn’t a miracle at all. Not even close. When I’m done, you’ll believe me. Or you won’t, but you want to stay tuned. C’mon, you’ve read this far. Aren't you curious to know what really happened?


Come back for the next post tomorrow. You know you want to.

December Poll answers

Wow, I have to give you all more polls to answer!
Egg nog. LOVE the stuff. Lisa and Evelyn, that's ok, I'll take yours! Best answer was Gwenyth, who decided that anything tastes good with enough alcohol in it.


Snow. Most of you like it. You're decidedly strange people. Makes me want to hibernate. When I spent time in Syracuse, I was never more terrified than the first time I saw a horizontal snowstorm. When it was over, one end of the street was completely dry. The other end? A 20-foot snowdrift. That was just wrong, and depressed me more than I can tell you.


Handel's Messiah. If you don't like it, I'm betting you've never heard it done properly. Here in Boston we are blessed to have the Handel & Haydn Society, who annually put on a terrific performance, but there are also great Messiah's done each year in San Francisco, New York, Salt Lake City, and lots of other places. I don't care if you're Protestant, Catholic, Jewish or you believe in the Cosmic Muffin. Done right, this is a great piece of music, period. As for recordings, I submit to you one of the most astonishing performances you will ever hear. Andrew Davis, the Toronto Symphony, the Toronto Medelssohn Choir at the top of their game, a pipe organ that you can feel in your gut, and a quartet of soloists without equal. I look forward to listening to this 2-cd set in my car each year.


I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. Ohmigod I loathe this song. Just typing the title pains me. I worked in a mall selling jewelry over far too many Christmases, and when my manager wanted to get a rise out of me, he put this idiotic piece of trash on the store's little boombox, just to watch my ears bleed. Hate with the burning heat of a thousand suns. More than the Yankees. Yeah, that much.

(Leigh, Larry, Fred, and the rest of you who think this isn't a symbol of evil, you're welcome. Don't say I never gave you nuthin')


The Grinch. Only Lillian didn't like it. Dear Lillian, you realize I mean the animated show with Boris Karloff voicing the Grinch, not the puerile movie, right? I love the whole damn thing. "You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch" is a fookin' classic. Cindy Loo-Hoo, who was no more than two. Dahoo Doray. The very last can of Hoo Hash. Max and the sled. A heart two sizes too small. Pantoozles and Wuzzles. It's not just a classic. It's the best animated holiday show ever made, period, full stop. Nothing else close.


It's a Wonderful Life. I admit it's schlocky now, but I don't care. I'm an absolute sucker for Capra movies, and Jimmy Stewart is just, well, Jimmy Stewart. And I'm not afraid to admit that I get choked up at the end every time. Mock away. It's great movie-making.


Christmas Shopping. Lye. Tarantulas. Kissing Dick Cheney on the mouth. Eating brisket. Rooting for Derek Jeter, the Dallas Cowboys or Newt Gingrich. All of those are preferable to shopping. Even if I had money to spend. Well, okay, maybe not the Cheney thing.



Hanukkah is a profoundly dumb holiday. Seriously, it is. And you know I'm Jewish, right? I like menorahs, lighting candles and chocolate, but I've never heard of a more transparently silly story as the basis for a holiday. Hell, a virgin having a baby sounds reasonable compared to Hanukkah. Stay tuned for more posts on this little pet peeve of mine.


The trend away from actually saying Merry Christmas. C'mon, gang. It's Christmas. That's what the holiday is called. Why can't it be said out loud? I don't get offended by someone wishing me a Merry Christmas. They're saying something nice. They're not telling me how to vote or drive or what to eat. They're saying "blessings of the season to you". If someone has a problem with that, perhaps they should switch to decaf.




PLEASE NOTE: My new *other* blog project is about to go into its second week over at petconnection.com. I'm having a blast, and the people there are beyond delightful. Go read Gina's very gracious introduction for me (replete with a shot of Cami and Harry), my first post, my second post, and don't forget to check back every Monday and Thursday morning for more, plus the occasional other contributions to important pet-related discussions. If you're a pet person, petconnection should be required reading, anyway. These people know their stuff, and they're not afraid to share the knowledge.

A furry new gig

When I mentioned my friend Gina in the recent California Dreamin' post, I said "There's a good chance I'll have something more to say about Gina in the near future, but that's material for another post." Well, here you go.



I have a new gig. For those not familiar with it, Pet Connection is probably the best site out there for rational, unbiased information on all things pets. Dogs, cats, birds, horses, rabbits, and other critters get the love and attention they deserve here. The team is led by Dr. Marty Becker - more on him in a moment, Gina, who's the executive editor and keeps the trains running on time, Christie Keith, and a whole host of very talented and experienced pet experts. Do you remember the huge story a couple years back about a massive pet food recall that was spurred by the deaths of thousands of pets due to kidney failure? The root cause was eventually tied to contaminated wheat gluten from China. Pet Connection broke that story. They're not beholden (or owned by) any big companies. They aren't trying to sell you anything. Their agenda consists of scrupulous honesty, a careful examination of the facts relative to pet health, and the promotion of the happiness, safety and welfare of furry and feathered friends.

At the outset, I'll have a couple responsibilities for the pet connection team. The first will be noting and reporting on the Pet Connection staff's public appearances, notably those by Dr. Marty Becker. His name will be familiar to watchers of Good Morning America, where he's been the resident veterinarian for more than ten years. If you still have your Sunday paper, go grab the Parade Magazine. Gina and Dr. Becker have an article in it today about small dogs. They're frequent contributors to Parade, and have a whole passel of books they've written together (with another on the way).

I'll also be doing a twice a week recap of interesting articles, discussions and blog posts from around the Web that Pet Connection readers will want to check out. My first post will appear tomorrow. These posts will be viewable on Mondays and Thursdays.

Although this is a part time arrangement, it's still very important. To begin with, I'm writing, and that's always good. More importantly, it allows me to dust off my journalism hat. After all these years, I find it still fits. I'm excited and honored to be a part of this new team!


P.S. Keep the holiday poll votes coming in! Answers and my responses to come later this week, along with what I hope will be a fun, irreverent look at Hanukkah.

A December Poll

In honor of the season, it's time for a two part poll.
First, I'll ask you a series of questions. You tell me whether you agree with 1 or 2. Give me your answers via the comments below. Don't email me, please. Those won't count, and I'll mock you in response. You don't want that. I want to see your votes, and so does everyone else. After a week or so, I'll tally them up and then give you my answers (that's the second part of the two part poll. Pay attention). And as we know by now, it's all about me. So read, then ANSWER, DAMMIT!!!
Thanks.
Love,
David


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Egg nog

1. is yummy
2. makes me nauseous. Would you like some wallpaper paste with that?

Snow

1. makes me happy, and gets me in the holiday spirit
   
2. makes me want to hibernate

Handel’s Messiah:

1. is overplayed crap. So help me, if I hear the Hallelujah Chorus one more time, I’m going to scream. It’s worse than Pachelbel’s Canon
2. is just about the only thing I listen to on my car CD player during the entire month of December. I can't get enough of it.
   

"I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"

1. has to be the most thoroughly annoying Christmas song ever written. Every time I hear it I want to blow up the radio.
2. is a fun, romantic gem. A holiday classic.

"How the Grinch Stole Christmas"

1. is the best animated holiday show ever. Cindy Lou Hoo, Max, and the Grinch, whose heart was two sizes too small. And don’t forget the Hoo Hash. It’s an annual event, and I never miss it.
2. is dated and hasn’t been funny since I was about 9, which is the last time I watched it..

"It’s a Wonderful Life"

1. is sappy, simplistic drivel. Are you kidding me? When a bell rings an angel gets his wings? Mindless schlock.
2. is a classic. Jimmy Stewart, Donna Reed and Lionel Barrymore were all at the top of their game, and Frank Capra movies get me every time.

Christmas shopping

1. is an annual adventure, starting with Black Friday. I can't help it. I look forward to it!
2. is about as much fun as swallowing lye. In fact, I think I’d prefer the lye. During an earthquake. While rooting for the Yankees.

Hannukah

1. is the best. Eight days of presents! Also, this is when I get to show off my dreidel collection, including the dozen I’ve gotten from Israel.
2. is perhaps the dumbest holiday in the history of religious observance. Makes me cringe every time I hear the story.

The trend toward saying happy holidays instead of mentioning any particular celebration by name

1. is properly respectful of all faiths and creeds. Offending anyone is unnecessary, and we should be sensitive to all.
2. has gotten way out of hand. For god's sake, could people perhaps grow up and get over themselves? Wishing someone a Merry Christmas is a kindness, not an insult.

2009 Thankful list, part the third: Marc

My stepson Marc is an incredible guy. I'm not sure if I'm more thankful for him or proud of him. Perhaps both. Very, very early on in our relationship, before Marc and I had met, P told me about him, and although I don't remember if she said the words explicitly, the intent was clear. "I have a son, and he's the most important thing in my life. You don't get me without him."

He was just a teenager at the time. The first thing we bonded over was, of course, the Red Sox. Each year I've tried to take him to at least one Red Sox game. He's as much of a Sox addict as I am, though he doesn't have any use for my love of college athletics. We've agreed to disagree over that. Sports is always good, but there's so much more to him than that. Marc's just a tremendous guy. He's the twenty-something every mom wants her daughter to marry. He's honest, he has a great heart, he's funny, loves his family, works hard, and he's just a good man (sorry, ladies, he's taken). When Marc comes to visit, the dogs, especially Cami, lose their minds. They velcro themselves to him the instant he walks in the door until he leaves....then sulk for hours after he's gone.



Sometime after P and I were engaged, I sat Marc down one day and told him I had no intention of replacing his father. He has a terrific dad who loves him and has always been there for him. I told Marc I don't even want him to call me dad. David will do fine. I just wanted our relationship to be whatever it was going to be. I'd accept and love him unconditionally the way he was, and as long as he remembers his mom on her birthday, Christmas and Mother's Day, he and I would do just fine. True to his word, Marc is unfailingly loyal, loving and just plain great to his mother. In a generation not known for its work ethic or attention span, Marc is a breath of fresh air. He started working for a big retail company seven years ago, stocking shelves overnight. Today he's part of his store's executive staff, in charge of operations. In fact, the reason he's in Vermont is that he was re-located with the express purpose of opening the new store as a member of the management team. Through our discussions, it's obvious that Marc is a role model for how they expect employees to behave with customers and each other.

I not only love Marc, I trust him. He has his mom's soul, and an amazing sense of how to *be* in the world. He's one of those remarkable people who can be comfortable in any situation, because he is so wonderfully good at setting people at ease with his presence. I wish I was like that. And I'm thankful that for the past 8+ years, he's been my kid, too.