It's the most wonderful time of the year.

Next week, we can return to our regularly scheduled programming.

But it's Christmas. Sort of. And I promised to tell you what happened on Christmas Eve.

It was a dark and stormy night. A blizzard blew outside, and temperatures, without the wind chill, were well below ten. The snow was accumulating on the roads, and no one was plowing. In short, it was the kind of night when it is inadvisable to drive a small car up a giant hill and then off onto a dirt road in the country, drive it all the way to the end, and then stop at a group of barns and outbuildings that look vaguely familiar. But this is what I did, because it was Christmas Eve night, and Little Z had finally fallen asleep. And Santa Claus had promised to bring her two little bunnies.

So up the hill I went, in the putt putt mobile, thinking lovingly about how people are always their best selves on Christmas Eve, as I several times nearly skidded off the road. The wind was at twenty nots. (I actually don't know what that means, but it sounds cool.) No other tire marks had yet graced the road. The dark whiteness permeated every corner.

I finally reached the farm, and though I knew of a good place to park, I didn't use it, because that would require going down hill, and if I went down the hill, I would never be able to drive back up again. So, I exited the car and walked out into the blowing snow. Lazarus (his name isn't really Lazarus, but his name is equally biblical and equally creepy) had mentioned that I should go down to the back barn at the bottom of the hill. I didn't want to go to that barn, because it was at the bottom of the hill. So I went to the first barn, at the top of the hill. Which was a mistake. It had a light, which I thought was a good sign, but it was not. This is what I found in the first barn at the top of the hill. (Don't click there if you don't want to see something disturbing.)

So, yes, nothing was in that barn except a tire and a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling. But, hey, who doesn't have a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling when Christmastime arrives? It's like a Christmas tradition, right? Why, just yesterday, I was cutting down the Yule Wolf when...

No, really, this was so creepy. I stepped back for a minute, repulsed. And then I remembered you, and I stepped back in and took a picture. (It would also be good when the authorities tried to piece together, later, what happened.)

My resolve was strengthened, though, by thoughts of sad little girls on Christmas morning with no bunnies.

I took a few steps towards the old white farmhouse, and then I heard a voice from the house say,

"What the fuck did you just say to your sister?"

And then I just stopped walking. What if we just told Little Z, after all, that it was too cold Christmas Eve for bunnies to ride in the sleigh? Maybe? Who were these people? I'd met them, and knew them as much as everyone knows everyone out here, but... but... but. But. Clearly. These were not my people. Nevertheless, there be rabbits here, somewhere. I would find them.

The wind whistled. My resolve strengthened, again, I trudged toward the barn where Lazarus had said the bunnies were. I went down the hill. It was slippery and it was cold, but I made it down. There was too much snow around to see anything until I was right upon it, and then- it was locked! Barricaded! Impassable!

Back up the hill, I trudged. The whole scene vaguely reminded me of the Flaming Lips movie, Christmas on Mars. Except that this was scary. But the walking around part- they do a lot of walking around in that movie.

Back at the top of the hill, I didn't know what to do. But I saw a light, vaguely, in a distant spot, and I followed it. I was frozen from the cold, but still I walked forward. I heard noises from this building. Strange noises. Animals of all sorts were cooing and bleating and baaing and neighing. A cacophony of animals. A sound track for my amazingly creepy feeling. The wind went on. The snow blew. I followed the light. And then, truly, I saw what Alice once saw: A large white rabbit hopped by me. I followed him through a doorway.

And on the other side was a jolly fellow, near as jolly as Saint Nick. It was Lazarus. It was Lazarus surrounded by the manger. Jesus himself was about to be born in there, it seemed. There was a beautiful Christmas tree set up in the middle of the barn (seriously, who does this?) and all of God's creatures were surrounding Lazarus, mooing and baaing and neighing their various calls. And I saw at once why they were so noisy: he was feeding them. They were asking for food.

Lazarus gave out a mighty guffaw at the sight of me.

"Ho ho ho, yes, that rabbit has been with us since before the farm. He goes where he will. Funny guy. Sorry about the barn being locked on the other side. I didn't think of it until just now..."

All of the magic of Christmas surrounded us. I wanted to take a picture for you, but I feared what Lazarus might think- or what his brother might say ("What the fuck are you doing with that phone there?") and I kept my phone in my pocket. And lo, the miracle of Christmas was upon us, and Lazarus checked the sex of the bunnies,

"I think this one is a female, but it's hard to tell at this age. If it turns out to be the other, just come back and we can switch it out, you know." He put two sweet little creatures into a Huggies box, and sent me on my way.

Walking back up the hill to my car, my hands froze. My gloves were not good enough for this kind of cold. When I finally made it into the car, bunnies safely placed in the passenger seat, my hands started to warm up and they hurt in the way that only things that have almost gotten frostbitten and then warmed up again hurt. But I had bunnies. And all was right in the world.

I made it home, smuggled them into the cage by the fireplace, and poured myself a stiff eggnog.


In Two Weeks, I'll Have My Photo Professionally Taken In a Bathing Suit

So, it's not my soapbox to talk about how women should be having their pictures taken in bathing suits, regardless of weight or whatever, but... here's what happened:

Little Z (it's always all about Little Z, isn't it?) has swim lessons, and this pool where they have the swim lessons sent out this email that they were offering underwater portraits. So I asked Little Z if she wanted to do that, and she said,

"Definitely, yes!" and then I read about how if they are under eight, they need a parent with them. So, I called and scheduled our photo shoot.

So, today, while I was walking for exercise in knee deep snow, I suddenly realized, that I, yes me, I was to be having my picture taken in a bathing suit. A bathing suit! And this in the month of January, which is not, at least in my world, what I would call, "A Skinny Month." I could feel my jeans tightening across my stomach as I walked. During the course of my walk, I decided that I wouldn't eat anything for the next two weeks! And then I would not be overweight in my photo shoot in a bathing suit! And then I decided to wear an evening gown in the pool. And then I decided that, no, I could just wear the bathing suit with the skirt! The bathing suit with the skirt! That totally makes me look skinny! And then I decided that I would lose a modest seven pounds before the photo shoot, because that's doable, right? And then I remember Weight Watchers and I decided that that was so freakin not doable. And then I decided that I look great, no matter what, and I should gain weight before the photo shoot, and be all about women's lib and stuff.

And then, you know, I got home from my walk. And made pizza. But I'm still totally on a diet for the next two weeks.

Regardless of my weight, or age, or whatever, everyone should have their picture taken. All the time. Regardless. Semi naked or clothed. You are as you are. As Santa Claus once told me, "It's a moment in time."

I'll let you know, in two weeks, how it all went.

Photo by Emily Goad.

There Be Bunnies Here, Captain!

Santa only had to endure driving the sleigh through a blizzard, hiking through negative ten windchill, a dead wolf, a creepy voice from a creepy house, a bunch of creepy noises from a creepier barn, near frostbite and... well, that's enough. Santa very nearly turned back when she saw the dead wolf and heard the creepy voice from the creepy farmhouse. Someday, Santa will tell the whole story. With pictures. But, today, Santa is just patting herself on the back and saying, Mission accomplished.

Apologizing for the Inconvenience

I don't have the next instalment of the exciting bus ride story today. I have, instead, a high energy six year old to take care of for a couple of weeks, and a holiday or two. I could write something, but it wouldn't be good enough. Not right now. But soon. Soon. I promise. Soon there will be more of, "It's like the Love Boat, only sleazier," thanks Professor Batty!

I've been spending my creative energy making Christmas presents. I'll show you the last one, finished yesterday, because I don't think the recipient reads my blog. I made a portrait of my dad, for my stepmother:



Jean used to always say to me:

"You're treading on thin ice."

"You're cruisin' for a bruisin'" and, my favourite,

"Don't give me that look."

I was thinking about her because I had just finished the painting. I was skyping with my mother in law, Kathleen. Kathleen thought, somehow, that Gina, my friend, always said these things above to me. And then I thought that she thought that I was going to send my friend Gina the portrait of my dad.

So, then we hatched this plan, where nobody would get a portrait of anyone they had ever actually met in person. That I should send a portrait of my dad to Gina, and then a portrait of Gina's dad to Jean, and then a portrait of Kathleen to Grandma Ruth, and then I could do a portrait of Grandma Ruth and send it to Professor Batty.

Or something.

I won't really do this, because this whole mad cap scheme would cost so much time and money.

It would be pretty fun.



Thankful

Wheatbread Johnson bought this painting of the Dinosaur on the Moon from me:


Then he sent me this message on Facebook (I hope he doesn't mind my sharing!):

"I have been looking at your pic of the painting and I was inspired to write a fun little punk rock song in its honor.
DINOSAURS ON THE MOON By Wheatbread Johnson
Dinosaurs on the moon
Now we’re having fun
Dinosaurs back on earth
Said it couldn’t be done
Don’t be such a fool
They invented fossil fuel
This will be the jewel
In civilization’s crown (instrumental section like A verse)
Dinosaurs on the moon
Now we’re having fun
One hundred eighty million years
To prove the whole world wrong
Don’t be such a geek
It’s the beginning not the peak
Their puny brains weren’t too weak
What evidence can be found?
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
When you tuck your little ones in at night
Tell them about this ancient flight
Even though your ego says it can’t be right
And look up at their paradise found
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon
Dinosaurs on the moon"

And I think that, once someone writes a song about a painting you made, I think it puts you into a whole new state of being. While painting, I mean. I was painting today, muttering, Dinosaurs on the moon dinosaurs on the moon and feeling pretty good. Maybe now I'll be so complacent, all I'll do is crap! But honestly I always felt it's all crap until someone likes it, anyway. Shart.

And, yes, I'm also thankful for the rest of you who have supported my art recently! If you write any songs about it, let me know! I'll post them here. Fan art is always appreciated. Greatly appreciated.

Chemical Burn

Little Z informed her parents today that some of the kids at school aren't that smart. In fact, even her teacher said something that was wrong yesterday.

"What did the teacher say that was wrong?"

"She said that a flame would never burn green. But a chemical flame will burn green. She was wrong."

"Oh, but that doesn't mean she's stupid. Teachers have to know so much. She's still smart."

"Yeah, but a chemical flame will burn green."

Typical six year old with their typical observations of typical chemical flames.

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

In other Little Z news, we saw Santa a few days ago. Little Z wants two little bunnies for Christmas: one male and one female. She would like to be a rabbit breeder. She has already saved up her money and purchased a large cage and some typical bunny acoutrements. Her plan is to leave the cage fully stocked with food and open Christmas Eve night, and Santa can leave the bunny in there when he comes down the chimney.

She wrote this little letter to Santa Claus, telling him that she wants two bunnies, and nothing else, and then she drew a line for Santa to sign his name that yes, he has bunnies at the North Pole. Also, when we went, she brought the letter on a clipboard, and carried a pencil for Santa to sign his name to the fact that yes, he did have bunnies available. Then she dressed like an elf for the encounter.

We went to our local library. I told her, "People are going to think that you work there, with that clipboard and that elf outfit!"

So, we lined up at the library. She made me hold the clipboard while we waiting. Pretty soon, people were approaching me,

"Where do we get our number?" some guy asks me.

So I tell him. You know. How it works. He leaves.

When our turn comes to see Santa, he says to her,

"Are you an elf?"

She giggles.

When it comes time to sign on the clipboard that he has bunnies, he doesn't sign. Because. You know. He's Santa. Santa is vague. Santa is cagey. Santa does not sign on the dotted line! He knows better! He asks her if he should leave the bunnies in her bed. She says,

"No! Silly! The bunny would poop on my bed! And chew the wires in my room!"

But, honestly, and I'm not biased at all here, Santa is totally smitten with Little Z. Little Z is totally getting bunnies for Christmas, even if he wouldn't sign.

Remakes

I heard that they remade the Sound of Music. And I said,

"Why?" and BAH said,

"Because they have no new ideas."

Okay. But no one is going to watch the new Sound of Music and say,

"Oh, that first one sucked! This one is so much better! I'm so very glad they redid this."

No, no no. Nothing is going to make this okay. Nothing. They, those people, whoever they are, are going about it all wrong.

They need to remake bad movies! That way, we'll watch them and say,

"Oh, this one is so much better that the original. I'm so glad they remade this!"

I wish I could give an example, but the problem is, bad movies are forgettable. And they never do it!

Siskel and Ebert used to always have these magnificent suggestions for making films better.

Re-Run

I've lost the original file, somehow. Uncle Dennis in the kitchen.

What is Art?

There's this great movie out there, called, Beauty Is Embarrassing. One moment in this movie, they talk about what art is, and this guy says,

"When I was a kid, art was from K-Mart."

It's a great movie.

When I was a kid, art was what Uncle Dennis did.



Then, later in my childhood, art was what Grandma Ruth gave you.



And then, now, in the past week, I have sold six pieces of art. So, I guess, now, I am... an artist?

Three out of the six were these calendars, which I have to admit are pretty cool! But where did they come from? Where does art come from? Is it even "art"? What makes something art? When I make art, it doesn't feel like making art. It feels like playing. These thoughts keep knocking around in my head. Perhaps some questions are best left unanswered. People are paying me money to play. I should not ask questions!

Angels, First Class

I succumbed to a telemarketer a week or so ago. The reason is, it was from the 707 area code (Sonoma/ Napa Counties, CA) so I assumed it was family or friends from the ole homeland. But no. It was this nice guy selling wine.

Today, all of this arrived:



Notice how they are organized by colour of cap. Little Z did that. She reminds me of her grandfather who has to balance the eggs in the carton.

The silliest part about this is that, because we joined their club or whatever, the cartons all arrived with stickers that said, "VIP Angel" on them. And we didn't even have to save George Bailey for that title.


We haven't really been drinking much, lately. So this should last the weekend.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Next week, we can go back to our regularly scheduled programming.

But it's Christmas. Sort of. And I promised I would tell you what happened on Christmas Eve.

It was a dark and stormy night. A blizzard blew outside, and temperatures, without the wind chill, were well below ten. The snow was accumulating on the roads, and no one was plowing. In short, it was the kind of night when it is inadvisable to drive a small car up a giant hill and then off onto a dirt road in the country, drive it all the way to the end, and then stop at a group of barns and outbuildings that look vaguely familiar. But this is what I did, because it was Christmas Eve night, and Little Z had finally fallen asleep. And Santa Claus had promised to bring her two little bunnies.

So, up the hill I went, in the put put mobile, thinking lovingly about how people are always their best selves on Christmas Eve, as I several times nearly skid off the road. The wind was at twenty nots. (I actually don't know what that means, but it sounds cool.) No other tire marks had yet graced the road. The dark whiteness permeated every corner.

I finally reached the farm, and though I knew of a good place to park, I didn't use it, because that would require going down hill, and if I went down the hill, I would never be able to drive back up again. So, I went out into the blowing snow. Lazarus (his name isn't really Lazarus, but his name is equally biblical and equally creepy) had mentioned that I should go down to the back barn at the bottom of the hill. I didn't want to go to that barn, because it was at the bottom of the hill, so I went to the first barn, at the top of the hill, because it had a light on, so maybe he was home? So, I went to the barn and walked on in, and this is what I found. (Don't click on that if you don't want to see something a little disturbing.)

So, yes, nothing was in that barn except for a tire and a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling. But, hey, who doesn't have a gigantic dead wolf hanging from the ceiling when Christmas Eve arrives? It's like a Christmas tradition, right? Why, just yesterday, I was cutting down the Yule Wolf when...

No, really, this was so creepy. I stepped back for a minute, repulsed. And then I remembered you, and I stepped back in and took a picture. (The picture would also be a clue for the authorities, later, I thought in the back of my mind.)

My resolve was strengthened, though, by thoughts of sad little girls on Christmas morning with no bunnies.

I took a few steps in one direction, and I heard a voice from the old white farmhouse in the distance,

"What the fuck did you just say to your sister?"

And then I just stopped. Stopped walking. Where the heck was that bunny shack? Who were these people? I'd met them, and knew them as much as everyone knows everyone out here... but... but... but. But. Clearly, these weren't my people. Nevertheless, there be rabbits here, somewhere. I would find them.

The wind whistled. My resolve strengthened. I trudged toward the barn where Lazarus had said the bunnies were. I went down the hill. It was slippery and it was cold, but I made it down. There was too much snow around to see anything until I was right upon it, and then- it was locked! Barricaded! Impassable! The very building he told me to go to!

Back up the hill, I trudged. The whole scene vaguely reminded me of the Flaming Lips movie Christmas on Mars. Except that it was scary. But the walking around part- they do a lot of walking around in that movie.

Back at the top of the hill, I didn't know what to do. But I saw a light, vaguely, in a distant spot, and I followed it. And I was frozen. Literally frozen from cold, but somehow, I walked. I heard noises from this building. Strange noises. Animals of all sorts were cooing and bleating and baaing and everything under the sun. A cacophony of animals. A sound effect for my amazingly creepy feeling. The wind went on. I followed the light. And then, truly, I saw what Alice once saw: A large white rabbit jumped into a doorway. I followed.

And on the other side of the barn door was a jolly fellow, near as Jolly as Saint Nick himself. It was Lazarus. It was Lazarus surrounded by the manger. Jesus himself was about to be born in there, it seemed. There was a beautiful Christmas tree set up in the middle of the barn (seriously, who does this?) and all of God's great creatures were surrounding Lazarus, mooing and baaing and neighing their various calls. And I saw at once why they were so noisy: He was feeding them. They were asking for food.

Lazarus gave out a mighty guffaw at the sight of me,

"Ho ho ho, yeah, that rabbit has been with us since before the farm. He just goes where he will. Funny guy. Sorry about the barn being locked on that side. I didn't think of that until just now..."

All of the magic of Christmas surrounded us. I wanted to take a picture for you, but I feared what Lazarus might think- or what his brother might say ("what the fuck are you doing with that phone there?") and I kept my phone in my pocket. And lo, the miracle of Christmas was upon us, as Lazarus checked the sex of the bunnies,

"I think this one is a girl, but it's hard to tell at this age. If it turns out to be the other, just come back and we can switch it out, you know." He put two sweet little creatures into a Huggies box, and sent me on my way.

Walking back up the hill to my car, my hands froze. My gloves were not good enough for this kind of cold. When I finally made it into the car, bunnies safely placed in the passenger seat, my hands started to warm up and they hurt in the way that only things that have almost gotten terrible frost bight and then haven't hurt. But I had bunnies. And all was right in the world.

I made it home, smuggled them into the cage by the fireplace, and poured myself a stiff eggnog.