The Santa Clause

Hello World, Get-outta-Dodge greetings from the absolutely very tippy-top last weekend in December, before we kick 2012 to the curb once and for all on Tuesday, and that's not just a lot of auld lang syne, believe me. This last short week of the year brings with it a welter of occasions, celebrations and commemorations, from the ethnic to the extravagant, from the sacred to the stupid, and from the heart-warming to the mind-boggling, plus everything in between and something for everyone. This is no time for half-measures, or standing on the sidelines, so throw caution to the wind, jump in with both feet, and don't spare the horses, come what may. The time is ripe for just about everybody out there, whether you're descended from the ancient order of Druids, an international retail behemoth, a multi-cultural humanist, a year-end blowout party planner, a child of God and/or kin of Kris Kringle, a genteel English land-owner, a futuristic thrill-seeker, or even a closet triskaidekaphobic - we've got you covered. And nowadays, if it's any kind of event, you know that our friends in the snack industry are all over it like a bad suit, so you never lack for the finishing touch to make your decorations complete. Garcon, more Kwanzaa Peeps for everyone, if you please! Earlier in the week, I carved some time out of my hectic schedule to attend the Christmas Eve service at church, which was very lovely and I was glad I went. We have a violin soloist providing wonderful music such as Bach's festive "Sheep May Safely Graze," and also playing along with familiar old hymns like "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" and "It Came upon the Midnight Clear." They turned the lights out for a candle-lit "Silent Night," which is possible through the magic of modern technology, since the words were digitally projected onto a screen so people could read them even in the dark. We sang everyone's Christmas favorites, and heard The Nativity Story as told in Scripture, from the prophets of old, to the very Star of Bethlehem, and over 2,000 years later, it has lost none of its appeal. Interspersed with the hymns, people came forward to read excerpts from different books of The Bible, telling the tale of Christmas in chronological order - a sort of "Readers Digest Condensed Version" of the holy birth, presented in such a way that even decommissioned KGB agents, or space aliens from far distant galaxies, would be able to understand it. It's in this way that you can uncover some new wrinkles in the old story yet, which you would think would be pretty well ironed out after all this time. For instance, some of our readers described the blessed infant as being wrapped in "swaddling" clothes, rhyming that word with "paddling," rather than the more common pronunciation, where it rhymes with "toddling" instead. I can tell you that the dinosaurs and I are not straddling the fence on this one, we're strictly in the coddling camp here, and no fiddle-faddling about it. It's true that others may be saddling up and skedaddling, but we'll just keep right on waddling, and that's not just a bunch of twiddle-twaddling, by all the saints. Of course, Tuesday was Christmas the world over, for people who believe in all that folderol (or should I say, fa-la-la-la-la) and their name is legion, and the dinosaurs and I ought to know-ho-ho. It had started snowing the night before when I was at church, and although it rained after that, there was still the merest hint of a white Christmas for the perpetual child in all of us, which is such a rarity nowadays as to be noteworthy, compared to yuletides of the past. Another break with tradition was that we didn't get up in the middle of the night and start tearing through our presents like a house afire as we used to, but slept until a more reasonable hour and took a more leisurely approach to the whole day. Whatever last minute obstacles there might have been, they were soon swept away, and at least at our house, Santa Claus showed up right on schedule and did his usual masterful job. We happily unwrapped gifts of apparel, technology, entertainment, literature, nostalgia, and even a few practical household items tossed in for merry measure. (And let's face it, a hot pink high-heeled tape dispenser is truly a gift that keeps on giving, I dare say.) We couldn't overlook the newest member of our family, the Sony TV, and showered it with its own presents, which were surround-sound speakers and a DVR expansion drive for the TiVo. (Now we really will have to quit our jobs to watch all of our recorded programs - although I've always maintained that sleep is over-rated.) There were cinnamon buns for breakfast, and crumpets for lunch, and plenty of junk food in stockings to tide us over between meals as well. Everyone knows that Christmas really is the season of giving, but seriously, you can just go get your own Milky Way caramel snowmen, and keep your reindeer paws off of mine, by jingle. Notably missing from the festivities were the resident felines, who elected to observe the holiday by studying the inside of their eyelids, and they were nowhere to be found when presents were being handed out. The undisputed king of the roost, Max, turned up to sample some holiday treats, and stayed nearby to bat around bits of wadded-up wrapping paper, but the others found nothing to entice them, and took a pass on the whole event. The best news of all was that the roofers didn't show up, and after a silent night, we enjoyed a silent day, free from their incessant stomping and banging from every corner of the house, underscored with the drone of the air compressor, and of course, the raucous Mariachi music at full volume, it goes without saying. This turned out to be another quiet holiday at home, compared to the frenetic whirlwind of years gone by, with elaborate preparations months in the making, and a jam-packed itinerary of places to go and people to see that verily rivaled St. Nick's in its enormity. Now there's even time to squeeze in a nurturing Noel nap, which would have been nothing but a candy-coated pipe-dream in the past. So whether it was our deodorant that wore off, or our mouthwash stopped working, for whatever reason nobody wants to see us on Christmas anymore, there's certainly something to be said for being unpopular, and that's not just the fruitcake talking, believe me. For me, the best part of the holiday is taking time off from work, and I was out last Friday plus this whole week, and loving every minute of it, I can assure you. I find that it really takes the pressure out of getting ready for the big day, especially those last-minute emergencies that always seem to crop up when you least expect them, no matter how carefully everything is planned, down to the nth degree. Afterward, it's such a luxury to relax and savor the memories, play with new gadgets, take the time to watch seasonal movies and specials, or just enjoy some blissfully unstructured down-time for a change. I did go in to work for a while on Friday to wrap up the year-end payroll, and things seemed quiet and under control - quite unlike the usual chaos when I take time off, and I come back to find an avalanche of papers where my desk should be, and my office full of screaming lunatics. I guess there really is something to be said for bad deodorant and ineffective mouthwash after all. At least that should work until they found out that fruitcake tin on my credenza is really filled with Milky Way caramel snowmen instead, and then all bets are off. Elle

Stand Up And Cheer

Hello World, You would think, with Christmas basically right around the corner at this point, that there would be an all-out, full-throttle, pull-out-the-stops push for the last weekend before the big day, to sell every last little scrap of anything that's still on the shelves before it's too late. And yet, Bill and I were in several stores on Friday during the day and night, separately and together, and there was not a Christmas carol to be heard from one end to the other. It seems as far as in-store radio was concerned, Santa Claus had already come and gone, and taken his yuletide caravan right along with him, and it was back to business as usual, with nary a ho to be hoed or a plum to be sugared. It's true that the dinosaurs will accuse me of sounding like a broken record (and they ought to know) but I always say that when they start putting out the Christmas merchandise in September, then by the time the holiday actually rolls around in December, people have lost all interest in it. It's a clear-cut case of holly overload and garland pollution, and that's not just the eggnog talking, believe me. And I can further assure you that it's not just your imagination at work here. We have it right from the horse's mouth, so to speak, courtesy of the go-getters at WhaleShark Media (I don't doubt it!) and please feel free to just go ahead and visit their web site at www.RetailMeNot.com and see for yourself, for instance, this message from early October. (That's October, mind you.) ===================== “The reality is that holiday shopping is officially in full swing,” said Jill Balis, senior vice president of marketing at WhaleShark Media, the operator of RetailMeNot.com. The group has even gone so far as to trademark a term for the phenomenon, “OctoNovemCember,” and it plans to center a new marketing campaign — complete with a mascot, the Pumpkin-Headed Turkey Claus — around the idea. RetailMeNot’s research shows that only 15 percent of consumers wait until after Cyber Monday — the Monday after Thanksgiving, which now marks the end of the Thanksgiving weekend shopping frenzy — to begin their shopping. Far more, some 32 percent, said they are done with their holiday shopping by the end of Cyber Monday. ===================== I would be happy to share the pumpkin-headed turkey in a Santa suit for anyone who is in the least bit interested, however, I warn you that it is not for the faint-hearted - and especially not for the hide-bound traditionalists among us, and the dinosaurs and I ought to know. In fact, I've known jack-o'-lanterns to weep, and Pilgrims to swoon at the sight of it, and the poor elves may never be the same. I guess the lesson to be learned is that when you swim with sharks, you can't be surprised to wake up with pumpkin-headed turkey Santas, and that's not just a lot of cranberry sauce, by goblin. And while we're on the topic of lessons, alert readers may be wondering, if we're already on the doorstep of the final Sunday in Advent, whatever happened with Lessons & Carols at church, and well may they wonder. Well, wonder no more, because the venerable holiday treat came and went right on schedule, and without a hitch - and thanks to Bill's able assistance, I have the videotape to prove it, and I feel it's only fair to warn everyone that I am not afraid to use it. The weather last Sunday was anything but cooperative, but for the hardy souls who braved the elements, it was an event worth waiting for. Of course, we call it the Christmas Carols Sing-Along now, one supposes on the theory of making it sound less intimidating to outsiders, but it's really the same old follow-that-star standby, with special seasonal music on organ and cello, and lively congregational singing on many favorite old Christmas hymns, like "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "Joy to the World." I teamed up with another soprano for a rousing version of "The Birthday of a King," and two other church members presented a lovely rendition of "Siku Ya Furaha" in their native Swahili, that was refreshingly different. After the service was a wide-ranging buffet downstairs in the social hall, and it would be fair to say that the caterers outdid themselves by all accounts. Of course, it's a well-worn axiom that all you need to do is serve food for Lutherans to show up, but even without that enticement, the evening was well worth the trip, and sure to warm the hearts of even the most world-weary or down-trodden folks out in the cold this time of year. As early Christmas presents go, this was just what the doctor ordered. Dr. Santa, that is - and I don't mean a pumpkin-headed turkey Santa, either. And speaking of early Christmas presents, were we ever surprised when our cable provider (the aptly-named GrappleVision, for its stranglehold over the viewing options in the local area) suddenly provided, at no extra charge, a whole new channel for us to enjoy. And unlike the usual additions - along the lines of The Carpet Channel or The Stained Glass Network - this one was really something, and definitely worth having in the lineup. The newest member of our media family is ESPN 3-D, and for people like us with a new HD and 3-D wide-screen TV, this could not have come along at a better time, by golly. The sports giant ESPN runs programming on this channel 24-hours a day, so you can get your 3-D fix whenever you have a hankering for it, which at our house, is pretty much full-time. I can tell you that college football never looked so good, and even sports you don't care about have a mesmerizing allure that you can't turn away from. The field-level cameras put you right in the thick of the action, or the laps of the cheerleaders, depending on your preferences, while the near-side wide receivers on the line of scrimmage are basically standing right in your living room with you. When the quarterback throws a touchdown pass and they show it from the end zone camera, why heck, even I could have caught that ball, because it just about ended up in my lap. (My apologies to the equipment manager for the spaghetti sauce, but frankly, I was expecting a running play at the time.) It's a wonder to me that people actually leave their house, if they have a big TV with continuous 3-D sports, and I can see where this would be a boon for stores that deliver pizzas or Chinese food at all hours of the day or night. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be with the cheerleaders. Elle

Bringing Up The Rear

Dear , As much as I hate to be an alarmist, there's no escaping the fact that this Sunday we'll be lighting the third candle on the Advent wreath, and everybody (except perhaps the KGB agents monitoring my email) knows what that means. Anyone who's not already prepared for the perpetual reindeer rooftop ramble with the jolly old elf himself - well, that someone had better pick up the pace a few notches, or risk being caught short when the big day rolls around, and don't kid yourself, that day will be here before you know it. So if that's not a clarion call to rouse the idle from their slumbers, I don't know what is, and all of you procrastinators out there (you know who you are) who need a fire lit under them, consider this your match, and get your elf on, by jingle. Speaking of Christmas, we took the opportunity last weekend to visit the local VFW post in our annual quest for the world's most perfect tree, or know the reason why. The weather had been cold and rainy for days, and we were hoping that it would have improved by Sunday afternoon, but no such luck. We consoled ourselves with the thought that at least nobody else would be out on such an errand in this sloppy and dreary weather, but we were proved wrong by the boisterous crowds that greeted us when we arrived at our destination. There were happy families on every side, bearing with them the youngest of youngsters and the oldest of oldsters, oblivious to the bitter precipitation from above and the sodden mud underfoot, making the place look a lot more like Middle Earth from the new "Hobbit" movie than the winter wonderland we might have hoped for. it didn't take us long to find a specimen that we were satisfied with, although I had the nagging suspicion that it was somehow not up to our usual standards in height or girth, or both. We were once again proved wrong when Bill, with Herculean effort, wrestled it into the living room, then stood it up in the stand and cut it loose from its restraints - and I can tell you at that moment, that it was glorious to behold, and every bit the tree of our dreams. With a bit of judicious trimming, it just fit under the ceiling with room for the angel at the top, and it spread out widely round-about in every direction like a runaway milkshake overflowing its confines. it certainly didn't lack anything in size, compared to our previous trees, and of course, you can't beat that smell, which is easily one of the true joys of the season. Our current crop of cats seems to find the whole Christmas tree idea a rather humdrum affair by all accounts, and their bored indifference is legendary. Our previous cats ran the gamut from obsessive fascination to sheer terror, often with unfortunate consequences, so this want of interest is something of a new direction in our household, that is by no means a reflection on the magnificence of the tree, believe me. We also tried them on eggnog, which they walked away from with barely a sniff, leaving us with the uneasy but undeniable feeling that they might all be tiny Moslem terrorists in disguise after all. In other local news, we finally performed all of the requisite arcane rituals, chanted the necessary incantations, and signed away our life, freedom, souls and future income, until even the roofers could invent no more excuses, and had no other choice but to actually come to our house and replace the ancient leaky roof at long last. They showed up bright and early on Monday with a truck full of materials and their own little forklift to trundle it around as the mood strikes them. I happened to be leaving for work when the forklift operator picked up a skid full of shingles and started up the driveway - one might say, in a jaunty fashion - with the idea of dropping them off somewhere in the backyard. He did seem somewhat taken aback when he realized that the driveway is not only noticeably sloped, but also sports two significant curves in the front yard alone - and after just barely navigating one of them, and then catching sight of our derelict boat trailer looming ominously past the second one, he probably wondered if this wasn't the time to just rethink this whole scenario, and I can't say that I blame him. I admit that I was surprised when I came home later and found the pallets of shingles in the backyard after all, with minimal damage to the surroundings, so it was clear that forklift driver hadn't just fallen off the turnip truck, as it were, and obviously did not frighten easily. And speaking of easily frightened, it was the next morning when I was leaving for work that I spotted the workers energetically chopping away at our old roof with pickaxes, sending shingles, boards, nails and tar paper flying in every direction, in a hail of detritus that future archaeologists would have found irresistible. Their vigorous ministrations throughout the day also chased the motley assortment of local wildlife that roosts in the nooks and crannies of the old homestead, from the tiniest furry critters to the stoutest lumbering beasts - although I wouldn't describe their mass exodus as exactly frightened, so much as plainly affronted at this inexcusable treatment. I'm sure the broad scope of their rude gestures and uncouth behavior was not lost on the roofers (and let's face it, this is not their first time at the rodeo either) and while I suppose that we've all long since gotten used to their little protest signs and angry petitions, frankly, I thought the press conferences were just way too much. The floor plan of our house measures 40 feet by 60 feet, not including the porches, and features two steeply pitched gables for symmetrical purposes above the attic. All of that surface area makes for a copious amount of roof to be torn apart, and it wasn't long after the pickaxes got underway that a giant Dumpster was, well, dumped in our front yard, smack in the middle of the driveway, thereby effectively cutting off any and all vehicular access to our backyard, thanks not. Even though this container is extremely large in all dimensions, it only took a few days of hardy pickaxe work for the jettisoned debris to make a serious impact in its cavernous interior - and that was without all the neighbors scurrying over to toss in their own unwanted effluvium under cover of darkness, which apparently is a well-documented phenomenon associated with these receptacles. That's probably only because all of the various evicted wildlife was already in the Dumpster all night, retrieving their personal household items from the roofers' assault, and I'm perfectly content for them to take back their pictures and keepsakes, kitchen utensils and entertainment gadgets, bedding, sporting goods, and all what-have-you. Although, what a skunk needs with a rhinestone evening bag, is a mystery to me, I'm sure. Normally, this is where I would poke fun at some egregious misprint or inadvertently humorous typo, and along comes this little item that seemed to fit the bill to a T, which leaped off of the Welcome screen at me earlier in the week: ========= CHEVY'S REAR-END DEALS ========= Unfortunately, I can't really blame the giant automaker GM for that amusing tidbit this time, because it turned out that it was only me who READ it that way, and on closer inspection, the ad clearly said "year-end" as it was supposed to, and not what it looked like to me the first time around, alas. But I can tell you that it was pretty darned funny when I first saw it, or thought I did, and I had quite a laugh, at Chevy's expense, over the implications of their misleading message - many of which, as the saying goes, could not be published in a family newspaper, I can assure you. It was quite disappointing when the notice came around the second time and I was able to view it more carefully, and noticed that the error was on my part and not theirs, because it truly would have been a classic of the genre. In fact, I would call it a "whopper," but I'm afraid that would be nothing but a backhanded compliment that could only be considered a kick in the chassis, and I ought to know. Elle

East Meets West

Hello World, Happy Hanukkah! Or in the immortal words of Adam Sandler, "Put on your yarmulke, it's time for Hanukkah! So much fun-i-ca, to celebrate Hanukkah!" Of course, it's all too easy to scoff at holiday doggerel of this sort - although when it comes to doggerel, it would be hard to top the king of scoffers, as the dinosaurs and I remember how the inimitable Steve Allen would invite audiences to "drink in the poetry of these lyrics," and then bring down the house with his deadpan reading of the words to some wacky pop tune like "Be Bop A Lula, She's My Baby." But I have to give The Sand-Man credit because, let's face it, it can't be easy to come up with a whole song (or several) full of rhymes for Hanukkah, of all things, from the tried-and-true "Veronica" and "harmonica," to the more offbeat "gin-and-tonic-a," "supersonic-a" and "hooked-on-phonic-a," which a whole temple full of Catskills comics probably would not have thought of in a month of Sabbaths, oy veh. I think even Steve Allen would have to admit that takes a lot of chutzpah, and that's not just the latkes talking, believe me. Also noteworthy at this time of year, the football season continues apace, with mixed results, and a cursory glance at the standings shows more than a few woeful records that are certainly not what the home-town faithful might have hoped for. In fact, the wailing and gnashing of teeth in cities like Philadelphia, Miami and Oakland must be of epic proportions, especially with the season too far gone by now for any sort of turn-around to make a significant difference at this point. These are the times that try men's souls indeed, and we all know that time and tide wait for no man, and besides which, no man is an island, especially my man Friday. It's at times like these that a person can't help but think of Beth Thornley's hit single "Wash U Clean," with its classic line: "If you've got a match, I've got the gasoline." That sound you hear is the hopes and dreams of long-suffering fans being shot down in flames, and the new year will not be bringing a bright and shiny Vince Lombardi trophy their way, however many rivers of team color paint they may have sloshed all over themselves up to now. Football may be a game of inches, but you'd better fasten your seatbelt, because it can be a long way down. Fourth down, that is. Fortunately for local sports fans eager to escape the pigskin punishment, they need look no further than the fledgling basketball season, where the surprising Knicks have roared out to a 14-4 record out of the gate, and that's without the services of Amar'e Stoudemire, who is still recovering from a knee injury. (Now, my personal feeling is that if the team can go 14-4 without him, then there's really not much incentive for bringing him back, and thanks anyway, Amar'e.) Even the plucky Nets have posted a respectable 11-7 record so far, suggesting that a meaningful inter-borough rivalry, like the Yankees and Mets, might soon be in the offing. Long-time hoops fans will remember the original New York Nets starting up with the ABA in 1967, playing their games at the Nassau Coliseum, along with the New York Islanders hockey club. The ABA was absorbed by the NBA in 1976, and the Coliseum lost half its tenants when the senior franchise was lured away to the Meadowlands in the swamps of East Rutherford (with the football Jets and Giants) and became the New Jersey Nets instead. Things stayed that way for 35 years, until the spanking new Barclays Center burst upon the scene this year, the team jumped ship once again, and are now the darlings of Kings County as the new and improved Brooklyn Nets. The move seems to suit them so far, especially compared to their pitiful 22-44 record last year, plus look at all the extra money they can make, selling the Brooklyn Bridge to visiting teams. One good thing is that even if their season spirals out of control and they stink up the joint, at least nobody can call them "Dem Bums," because that deceptively gruff appellation will forever belong to the Boys of Summer from Ebbets Field, the storied Dodgers of yore. When it comes to Brooklyn teams, those old-time Dodgers may have been rather short in stature by today's standards, but these new-fangled Nets still have some pretty big shoes to fill, Dr. J. And while we're on the subject of sports, I will be the first to admit that geography is not my strong suit, and apparently it's not the NBA management's either - or perhaps like New Math, we've entered the modern era of New Geography, where locations are relative, and nothing is where you think it is. I believe it would come as a (perhaps unwelcome) surprise to the residents of the Windy City and Motown, that in the NBA at least, they consider the Eastern Conference to consist of such mid-western stalwarts as Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, Indianapolis and Milwaukee, of all places. Meanwhile in the wild and woolly West of the NBA's imagination, you will find the likes of Memphis, Minneapolis, New Orleans and Oklahoma City, at least two of which aren't any farther west than St. Louis, which under the guidelines of the Old Geography, had the distinction of being "The Gateway to the West" - although admittedly, this was before the NBA got their hands on it. I don't know about everyone else, but for me, this begs the question that if there was a professional basketball team in St. Louis itself, if the NBA would consider it East or West, or throw their collective hands up in despair and just move it to another city. I hear the East Rutherford swamps are very nice this time of year. In other news, alert readers may remember our new Hurricane-Sandy-causing television set (with apologies to millions of affected residents in the tri-state area) which among its many fine qualities, is not only HD, but fully 3-D capable, and even comes with its own handy 3-D glasses for your viewing pleasure. The gift elves also brought us a snazzy new Blu-Ray player, which is also HD and 3-D capable, and this is all well and good, providing that you can find the HD and 3-D content to enjoy on it. Most of what falls into this category are choices that we would not be interested in watching, such as the latest horror movies, violent action films, extreme nature documentaries, and inane children's programs. The remaining selection is woefully limited, and it's a wonder that we could come up with anything at all. (But I will say that one of the most enchanting things about looking for 3-D movies is that they make the packaging with 3-D covers, so the characters seem to leap out at you right from the box.) We finally settled on "The Pirates!" animated comedy, which we had seen in previews the last time we were at the movie theater, and thought it might not be so bad after all. It features the vocal talents of Hugh Grant, Martin Freeman, Salma Hayek, and Jeremy Piven, with guest appearances by Queen Victoria and Charles Darwin tossed in for good measure. The story is somewhat slapdash, but all in good fun, and the spunky crew's comic misadventures have moments of genuine hilarity along the way. It's a bumpy but entertaining ride, and it certainly never lags, while the 3-D effects are nothing short of spectacular. So that was our adventure on the high seas, and happy to recommend it for anyone who wants to put their HD and 3-D to the test. Of course, if it was a geography test, we already know that the NBA would fail it, and that's not just a lot of longitude and latitude, believe me. Elle

Conflict of Interest

Hello World, And so we find ourselves at long last, finally embarking upon the very final month of the entire year, as hard as that might seem to believe, and it won't be long before 2012 is nothing but a distant memory - and not all of it a good one, I don't mind saying. Of course, things can always be worse, heaven knows, and we can't rule out the possibility that the year may still have some tricks up its sleeve yet, with an eye toward redeeming itself in the hearts and minds of the general populace, not to mention, its place in the history books. But time is running short, and personally, I think recent catastrophic events might be too much to overcome in an attempt to mend the tattered reputation of the year at this point, which may have irrevocably worn out its welcome long before its time was up. While I wouldn't go so far as to say that 2012 will strike a new low in the annals of history (the "Black Death" of 1348 springs immediately to mind) but I'm guessing there won't be much of a line to sign up for its fan club either, by golly. Of course, last week was Thanksgiving, better known as a picture-perfect time to gather around the hearth with friends and family, and celebrate the occasion with all the pomp and circumstance that could be hoped for. It's true that people everywhere observe the holiday in many and varied ways, from the storied traditions of yesteryear, to the radical novelties of tomorrow, in spite of the Holiday Police, and don't spare the creamed onions. Now, we also want to be mindful of any orphan pilgrims in our midst, and sometimes those pilgrims are we, so I'm not just whistling Dixie, believe me. Rather than shifting for ourselves on the big day, we were invited to enjoy Thanksgiving at the log cabin with my sister, and we jumped at the opportunity, one might say, at a trot. (Turkey trot, that is.) We left home bright and early on Thursday, and fortunately, the way we go avoids all of the prominent shopping meccas along the way, so there was no traffic to speak of, and we arrived with hooves flying and our appetites on overdrive. After a hearty meal, we took advantage of the glorious weather to hike around the scenic Ashokan Reservoir, which never fails to delight at any time of year, presenting vistas at every turn like a beautiful painting. We noticed that the foraging deer were so abundant that they easily outnumbered the pedestrians on the walkway above them, although I did feel that them pointing at us and laughing was entirely uncalled for. Meanwhile, the majestic bald eagles that we always look forward to seeing in the trees must have been otherwise occupied, and we were all disappointed that we never caught sight of them the whole time we were there. Getting an early jump on their Black Friday shopping, perhaps. This time around, we decided to stay overnight at the Quality Inn, which turned out to be handily located just about across the street from where we stayed last year, so we lost nothing in terms of convenience, and the price was about the same. The Quality Inn had more amenities, and the staff was as friendly as could be, so we were pretty much as happy as a turkey in the straw, although I really can't independently verify just exactly how happy that might actually be, from a turkey's standpoint. In the morning, we did not avail ourselves of the breakfast buffet, which was provided in their on-site restaurant, and I'm sure it would have been very nice - but we had a date with pancakes and cinnamon buns back at the cabin, and we lost no time in hurrying over there, I can assure you. We also played an interesting board game called Sequence while we had some time on our hands, proving that our brains hadn't all turned to maple syrup and sugar frosting after all, or at least, that's what we kept telling ourselves. We followed up this exercise of brain power with Thanksgiving left-overs and dessert, and just as welcome the day after as originally, I can tell you that. Finally it was starting to get dark, so we bid our fond farewells, and headed east, young man. Our eventual destination was going to be Denny's for dinner, but as it was still much too early to eat again (even for us, and even more so for Denny's) we made a pit stop at a shopping center in Kingston, to wander around and kill some time before our appetites revived. Considering that it was still Black Friday at the time, we found the stores remarkably unpopulated, and the shelves had not been completely denuded by hordes of crazed bargain hunters before us. We picked up a few things here and there, being glad to add our pittance to the Black Friday coffers, and then went our merry way. Denny's heard no complaints from us, that's for sure, and the trip home was blissfully uneventful, with no traffic or weather problems along the way. Back at the house, the cats had all died of starvation in our absence, or so they tried to convince us, and insisted that only the most extravagant and succulent morsels could be relied upon to resurrect them back to life. They drive a hard bargain, but after all, I guess it's Thanksgiving for the cats too. Speaking of extravagance, a person couldn't help but notice last week, splashed all over the Welcome screen were very large and intrusive animated ads from our friends at Nieman Marcus for their select assortment of what they were touting as "Gifts Under $300." Stocking stuffers, perhaps? Around here, this is what we would describe as a textbook example of a tidbit from the category of "This Is Why The Terrorists Hate Us," and that's not just the $295 Ralph Lauren Horseshoe Trinket Tray talking, believe me. Running a week worth of giant ads hawking $300 gifts, especially in this economy, makes you wonder if the whole world hasn't just gone completely to the dogs. And by "dogs," I mean The Kardashians, of course. (Oh, hit that easy target!) In other local news, alert readers may recall a couple of months ago in October when I mentioned the crew from the hit CBS TV show, "Person of Interest" was filming scenes at the hospital where I work. I'm thinking they must do some pretty quick turn-around in the post-production process on that series, because the finished product, an episode called "Critical," aired on television in the middle of November, a scant 6 weeks later. It may not be interesting to the population at large (we don't watch the show, so I don't know if this would be considered representative of the series as a whole or not) but to anyone who works there, the show holds a fascination beyond words. I found myself riveted to the screen in rapt attention, scene by scene, watching the backdrop of familiar hallways, offices, rooms and stairways, as the story unfolded before them - although Bill would be eager to tell anyone how the narrative was in no way improved by my running commentary of: "Look, it's the 7th floor!" or "Hey, that's the doctors dining room!" or "Those are the doors to the new Diabetes Education Center!" Of course, anybody can mock up an Operating Room, and I wouldn't know it from a hole in the wall, because I've never been in the O.R. at the hospital. But you can't help but recognize the common areas where you work, with their familiar floor tiles, wall lights, windows, artwork and signs - and seeing them parade before you on television is a sort of giddy experience that is oddly exhilarating. My favorite part (and my coworkers agree) would be the scenes filmed in the Fesjian Ambulatory Care Pavilion, with its distinctive wall of decorative windows, through which (in the show) you can see a large and imposing office building across the street. Don't you believe it! What's actually across the street in real life is the venerable old St. Gabriel's Catholic Church, which has probably been standing there at least as long as the hospital, and you can bet that it certainly looks nothing like a modern office building, by all the saints. So that was a little bit of "poetic license" that only the insiders would spot, and added a touch of inadvertent humor where it may not have been intended. Anyway, I can't say that I have any idea what the episode was all about, because I spent the whole time watching the background, and not the actors trying to tell what was probably a taut and spine-tingling story. I may have to watch it again when it comes around in reruns, although I can't promise that the results will be any different on my part. "Wait, it's the new Bariatric-Orthopedic Unit on 3 North!" Elle