I've mentioned that I'm reading Miss Misery by Andy Greenwald. What I haven't mentioned is that although it is often very good, it has also been laugh-out-loud ridiculously wrong as well.

One of the characters is a disenchanted Mormon teenager from Salt Lake (specifically, a gated community in South Jordan). I don't blame any fictionist for wanting to write about Mormons--we're a fascinating race. What other religion is assigned an entire state by the popular imagination? Not to mention those white-shirted missionaries, BYU Cougars, glowing temples and other mysterious and attractive curios that set them apart from Americana Proper.

But as a Mormon myself, I just can't take it when a fictionist who has been enchanted then proceeds to reveal an utter and astonishing ignorance of Mormonism.

At first it was a simple word choice, but it has now gotten out of hand.

You Mormons out there--see what you think of this scene:

Disenchanted Mormon teenage girl's parents come home early from a meeting at the temple that was supposed to last until eleven or ten at night. Here's what they're wearing:
    High-top sneakers, legs like ornery treestumps, and then...Roger Bortch, recognizable from his billboard, standing impressively at the foot of the stairs, his waxy blond mane golden in the bright light. He was wearing a blue and black Sergio Tacchini tracksuit and had a wingspan like an eagle; his think, sunburned neck gave way to rolling shoulders and muscular arms.... Gleaming in his left ear was a tiny hoop earring that fell somewhere between midlife crisis and pirate. To his right stood Mrs. Bortch, a tiny skeleton of a woman with a judgmental nose and Ashleigh's apple cheeks. She had a loud clattery doorknob earrings of her own and wore a gray sweatshirt that said MOMS RULE! in plaid stitching.
I repeat: They were coming from the temple.

Before I go on, I want to point out that I have tried very hard to accept the Mormon characters to this point. It's not hard to imagine that Utah harbors irreligious emo kids or parents who freak out over a daughter's innocuous if angsty poem. There's been silly stuff and wrong phrasing and so on, but a lot of it is dismissable because of the point of view we are experiencing it through. I very much doubt that people in SLC seriously claim the streets width is to accommodate Brother Brigham and his wives marching by side-by-side, but whatever. Also: a lot of his information comes not from the raised-Mormon girl, but from a guidebook which could very well be full of half-researched crap (ala Miss Misery).

Anyway, get what happens next: Daughter Ashleigh (believably Utah name) introduces our p-o-v as a BYU student. This is accepted even though he hasn't shaved in over a week. His age is explained away by being a grad student, fine, but the beard? Supposedly Roger Bortch is alumnus himself, or, rather, "a fellow BYU man."

The Bortches then, get this, invite this nice young BYU grad student in for coffee.


Okay. Um. Huh.



Okay, with a lot of effort I can explain away the earring/sweatshirt/temple thing and I could even imagine that these allegedly hyper-righteous people fuel their daughter's Dr. Pepper habit by keeping the pantry stocked, but coffee?!?!

Let's pretend yes.

But to invite a fine upstanding BYU student in for a mug?!?!

It's too much.

Then the Bortches are appalled to hear our hero pretend to be in a grad program in creative writing at BYU (horrors!) and that he "did a mission" in New York City (double horrors!!!!).

I'm too tired to argue the first one--maybe earringed Jordanian hyper-righteous Mormons would be appalled to learn the Lord's University teaches creative writing; but to be shocked that there are missionaries in the Big Apple is too, too much. I take it Andy Greenwald hasn't heard that there is one of those mystical Mormon temples right there in Manhattan.


I don't mind people writing about Mormons, I really don't.

But for heaven's sake, if you're going to do it, at least try not to make yourself an idiot in the process.


Do yourself a favor--before studying up on blood debt (snort) or Mark Twain's visit to Brigham Young, take a trip to mormon.org or look for a Mormon to read your MS on craigslist or something and figure out what a 21st century Mormon actually looks and talks like. It can't be that hard. For heaven's sake, there are 42,000 of them right in your hometown.


The Big O's Couvade Syndrome


I am a creature without empathy. Apparently. The Big O, however, obviously has it in droves. Mom thows up, he throws up. He hasn't packed any pounds on yet, but then, neither has she.

I've never heard of a child getting sympathetic pregnancy before.


What's wrong with me?


Tales of an Accidental Bookmark


A couple Saturdays ago, I attended a library sale and made out like a bandit. I've been reading ever since.

As a substitute teacher who walks to work, I am able to get a lot of reading in. For one of the first books I picked up, I grabbed a buy-me card for a LIFE book (this one) from the recycling bin and it became my bookmark, and has remained such since.

I like, with my bookmarks, to write on them which books they have graced--it makes for an interesting travelogue o' literature.

This particular bookmark has been traveling quickly, but it's not much to look at and doesn't have much open space to write down titles. It can't last long.

But here's where it's been so far:

Joyce Carol Oates

Heavens. I have read, oh, three of this woman's short stories before and I had been duly impressed, but not until I read this portrait of evil did I realize how potent she can be. This book is cruel. I read it with my jaw agape and my face contorted in horror. It may well be the worst thing I have ever read. Q— P— is certainly the worst character.

Go buy your own copy today.

But only if you're willing to get a handgun license.

The Te of Piglet
Benjamin Hoff

Some time ago, someone (Master Fob?) lent me The Tao of Pooh, which combined my beloved Taoism and my beloved Milne. So to read the followup for only a kennedy-head seemed a good deal. And it was.

It has been some years now since I read the first of Hoff's books so perhaps this undercurrent ran through the first book also, I don't know. But I was startled every time his happy Taoist philosophy was interrupted by harangues against International Corporations or Powergrubbing Politicos or Treechopping Whatsits. Of course, these are topics Lao Tze would not have ignored, but they always caught me off guard. And sometimes overwrought The good news is, Hoff sees a return to Paradise around the corner, so that's good. Woo hoo! Paradise!

But both books are wonderful and I love Taoism and if you're interested, read Hoff's books. (Cuz there won't be any more.)

Just don't blame me if you move to the mountains.

(My Chinese history professor had that happen to him. Nice but struggling Mormon boy sent to BYU by his parents to get his priorities in order. Signs up for a class in Chinese history. Takes his camping equipment and abandons civilization to become a Taoist. Parents presumably displeased.)

The Poems of Stephen Crane

This is an old book, and my library discard has a cover in better shape than the one Amazon found to represent it. It's a great edition--the illustrations by Nonny Hogrogian are terrific. But really, all you really need is the poems themselves, which are excellent.

All I knew of Crane's poetry before today was, of course, War Is Kind. I also knew this one, but did not know it was Crane's.

War Is Kind is typical Crane. The man is the Great American Ironist. I gave him that name after reading this one on the heels of War Is Kind. He totally deserves it.

Yet he can also be sweet and deeply religious (although, generally, I imagine calling God cold didn't go over too well with his dozens of Methodist Minister cousins).

He is unbelievably modern. His work I can imagine being written by any twenty-something friend of mine who suffers from love or war or pain or worry or ambition....

But if I were Crane, I would be dead.

Think about that next time life seems hard.


I intended to retire the bookmark at three. But before I got home, it found its way into Miss Misery ($1).

Long live the bookmark.


I kid you not!


So I just noticed that the Merrian-Webster website has undergone a redesign. Bully for them. But I am relieved to see their accidental sense of humor remains intact.

Go the website and look up joke. Read it to acquaint yourself with what joke means. Then click on the synonym kidding.

Now you really know what joke means.


He Was a Carpenter (in an age of no power tools)
-----a svithe-----


He was a carpenter
in an age of no power tools;
no Black & Decker for him

His friends were fishermen
without power trawls
or fluorescent PowerBait

They did a lot of walking

As he healed the sick
and raised the dead
and fed the thousands

And then, finally,
allowed his own murder,
and raised himself from the dead

Then generalized salvation
for you and you and you and you and me

Which thing is power.

last week's svithe


Never too late to learn how to distance spit


It's still not too late to play the game. And Robert Altman's death today certainly doesn't hurt his chances at a Best Director nod.


So today I enrolled in a distance-learning course (npi) in watermelon spittery. I hope to enter the East Bay championships next August. I really know nothing about the sport, but my first bit of coursework is all about strengthening the diaphragm and the lip muscles. The exercises they have me doing! This must be the first time I've had to contort my lips into such absurd positions since I was single and trying to get Lady Steed's attention from across the parking lot without alerting her roommates to my intentions.

One thing a lot of people don't realize about watermelon spittery is the money involved. Jake Jacobi, who recently won the Atlanta Open, took home something like $19 thousand in prize money. And that's just in Atlanta--their event is still in its first decade!

The East Bay event is officially 65 years old, but tradition has it being attended by Mark Twain and Ambrose Bierce, which would make it substantially older if true. In fact, as I understand it, there were no watermelons in California when Twain was here. But the point is, the East Bay event is a storied institution and quite a respectable pursuit. At the elementary school I'm subbing at this week, the kids are spitting pumpkin seeds to learn the skills. It's against the rules (it can be a huge mess), but it would be like telling kids in other parts of the countries not to, I don't know, tip cows during recess or something.

I've actually been interested in spittery for a while--Tehachapi has had an amateur competition for a while at its Mountain Festival--but I had never really considered doing it myself until I learned that it's tradition for the Berkeley Ward to front a team to compete in the qualifying round, and that one or two guys or gals usually make it into the competition.

So I figured why not? Do it with some friends; no need for embarrassment. Sounds good.

But then I started looking online and finding different methods for improving spitskills and now I'm really getting into it. I've considered buying the weighted steel seeds to practice with that you can get on Amazon, for instance. Maybe I still will. Christmas, anyone?

But the point is, it's never to late to learn a new skill, which is a good thing to learn as I embark on my fourth decade of life.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've a book to read. I'm on chapter six: "Exercise Your Way to Precise Seed Placement Part Two: Spit Like Your Lungs Are on Fire ('cuz its hot to be tops)."


Nonononono, thank you (a svithe)


I am grateful....
    for library sales;

    that sneezing is usually actually quite fun--since I'm going to have to do it anyway;

    that the world is filled with beautiful details;

    for the ability to make crap up;

    for today's cool breeze;

    for my sweet green shirt;

    that I can wear a tie to work;

    I'm an optimistic person;

    for a woman who thinks I'm borderline alright;

    for books to read;

    for great art;

    to be able to walk;

    for the magic of physical contact;

    to be able to express myself, given enough retries;

    for a son who is happy to see me;

    for the (temporary) end of diaper-changing;

    for the notion of forever;

    for parents who try to adjust their expectations the reality of Me;

    that I own a pair of orange shoes;

    that I'm not a picky eater;

    to have dreams;

    for weather;

    that our ward is stuffed full of strings players who graced us with Pachelbel's Canon which, no matter what the antipopulists say, is still a beautiful piece of music;

    for the kind people who've done kind things that I can file away for the times when I need those kinds of memories;

    that Moroni didn't give up when he felt weak;

    for genes that may keep me alive in spite of myself;

    that I can still think I'm one good-looking man even when I desperately need a haircut;

    to be a human jukebox--even if some songs seem to get stuck on endless repeat;

    for the Internet, which helps me keep in touch with so many people I otherwise might lose track of;

    for patience--especially that of others;

    for cranberries;

    for garlic;

    for the cuisines of Mexico and Korea and Italy and India and a bunch of other countries--some of which I've still to be introduced to;

    for the smiles of young children;

    that I suck at video games;

    that most sneezes smell good;

    for a faith that builds bridges in my mind;

    for the USGS earthquake reports online;

    to be able to laugh;

    for a lovely place to live;

    for easy freeway access;

    for love;

    for you.

visit last week's svithe


Library Sales Rock & Roll


I'm listening to Hail To The Thief , which I just picked up for 20¢ at a library sale. I also got an REM album for the same price and Peer Gynt for 50¢ and a box full of books--all for under $20.

Life is good.


What's keeping you from fabulous prizes?


Why haven't you played the game yet? Do you have a moral opposition to winning? A mortal fear of losing? Or is it because there are 16 rules?

Look, let me sum them up: copy and paste the categories into the comments / write in one movie per category (don't use any movie more than once) / feel free to skip any you're not sure about. That's it. It's easy. Do research if you want (this is a good place to start), just don't peek at others' guesses before posting your own.

Come! Join the party!


Preseason Oscar Game


The year is coming to an end and awards season is beginning. But before you go out to see For Your Consideration, please play Thmazing's Preseason Oscar Game. Here are the rules:

1. You are only predicting that a movie will be nominated--not that it will win.

2. You may only make one nomination per award.

3. You may nominate a movie in only one category. If you nominate a movie in more than one category, only the first will count. (In other words, you can't choose Smokey's Momma for best picture and best actress and best director and best art direction. And if you do, only the best picture guess will count.)

4. The winner will be the person who makes the most correct nomination guesses.

5. In the event of a tie, the tied player who posted first wins.

6. Categories marked with an * require a name / song title.

7. Categories marked with an * can receive half a point even if incorrect. For instance, if you thought Orson Welles would be nominated for best actor for his work in The Spitball Factory, but he was nominated instead for his role in Daisies Are Wholesome Flowers, you will receive half a point. Similarly, if instead or Orson, Paul Newman is nominated for best actor because of The Spitball Factory, half a point. But if Paul Newman is nominated for The Spitball Factory and Orsy is nommed for Daisies, you still only get one-half point. You were wrong after all.

8. All entries must be posted in the comments of this post by the last minute of November 2006. Part of the preseason fun is the impossibility of having seen every movie eligible.

9. You may research your answers anywhere you like except in the comments section of this post. Looking at others' guesses before posting your own makes you illegible to win. Honesty must be your ruler.

10. You do not have to make a guess in each category to qualify. But obviously, the more complete your survey, the better chance you have of winning.

11. Don't rearrange the nominations' order. That'll just annoy me.

12. So here's what you do: the categories appear below. Just copy them and paste them into the comments box, then fill them in.


14. After the real nominations come out, I will do the math and announce the winner.

15. The winner will get a cool prize.

16. Do your darnedest to beat Edgy.


    Best motion picture of the year

    Best animated feature film of the year

    Achievement in directing

    Performance by an actor in a leading role

    Performance by an actress in a leading role

    Performance by an actor in a supporting role

    Performance by an actress in a supporting role

    Adapted screenplay

    Original screenplay

    Best documentary feature

    Best foreign language film of the year

    Best animated short film

    Best live action short film

    Best documentary short subject

    Achievement in film editing

    Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original score)

    Achievement in music written for motion pictures (Original song)

    Achievement in art direction

    Achievement in cinematography

    Achievement in costume design

    Achievement in makeup

    Achievement in sound editing

    Achievement in sound mixing

    Achievement in visual effects

Keep in mind that you can nominate each movie only once. So if you're convinced Starbuck Diner will be nominated in both editing and visual effects, but have no idea what else will be nominated for editing. Nominate it for editing and pick one of your other choices for visual effects. Et cetera. Follow the rules and have fun. Glory awaits. Take it.


Caught in the svithe


I mean, of course, the Gospels are exciting. I mean--sitting before Christ and being taught by him--what could be more exciting?

Well, how about Acts?

Here are the Apostles, but now instead of listening, they are speaking. They are being what their Savior told them to be, doing what He told them to do. Following His commandment to go forth into all the world and bear testimony of Him. They are doing it. They are standing in His place and doing and acting and behaving and being as He would, were He there.

And they are like us.

I find that exciting.

last week's svithe


Saturday is a special day


It's the day we panic and realize oh crap we are totally not ready for Sunday.


A few short items of business


The House
    So I am glad that the Democrats took the House. I had hoped they would. I'm concerned that they did as well as they did, however. The last thing we need is another cocky majority.

Kevin McCarthy
    I'm glad that my hometown helped send Republican Kevin McCarthy to the House also. He's one of the few politicians I genuinely believe to be capable AND a good person AND properly ambitious AND full of good ideas. I also think he is the ideal sort of fellow freshman to work with the new Democratic majority. I hope most of the new Dems are the same sort of aisle-reachers. It seems that way, but time will tell. (cf:cocky)

The Senate
    I'm much less thrilled that the Democrats took the Senate. I like having the halves of Congress split up. We'll see how things go.

Robyn Hitchcock
    What made him think I would dig hearing about my large intestive?

Speaking of....
    I have to take a crap. You probably should have just skipped this item of business. My apologies for not warning you.

The Sundays & Sunfall Festival
    What did I do right that such music is in the world for no other reason than to make me happy?

Also Alison Krauss
    Man alive! but that woman has a beautiful voice!

I fear Thmazing no more
    After I publish this post, I'm going straight to the Thtore and yanking the I fear Thmazing design from production. You snooze, you lose.

They who did not snooze
    My friend Myke and his wife (who I am too lazy to name) purchased I fear Thmazings last week, becoming the world's first true thashionistas. When you consider how valuable the Thtore's flagship design will someday be, I think we can rest assured that Myke & Wife will someday own the rest of Idaho.

    The design of Dumptruck!, the Thtore's newest design, is modeled after the wonderful Objection! tshirt worn by Paul Adelstein in the tennis scene of Intolerable Cruelty. However, the Dumptruck! design improves on Paul's shirt. First by making it a ringer rather than a plain shirt, then by adding a back to it. (Pictures to follow.) Dumptruck! can mean many things to the wearer. It may simply refer to your great love for heavy machinery; it may be a celebration of the joys of childhood; it may be your passive aggressive way to tell your fellow pedestrians just what you think about them. The Dumptruck! design is the first at Thtore to be drawn directly from a blogpost. Namely this one:
      Dumptruck! Dumptruck! : A Tale of Language Acquisition . Next to trains, the Big O's favorite thing is dumptrucks. But the word dumptruck itself is a bit challenging for him to say. Truck, for instance, has many different pronunciations in the Onacular, but the one we'll be discussing today is the one in which the tr sound becomes more of an f sound. Which creates a new problem as the mpf phoneme set is nearly impossible for his little mouth to form. As a result, he leaves out the p. So when we're walking down the street and a dumptruck passes by, and O yells, "Dumptruck! Dumptruck!", people tend to shake their heads and know exactly what kind of parents we are.



Here we go!




that's not how that was supposed to work


But 100% Awesome


Others have posted their Republican/Democrat personality splits, and I have followed their lead, taken the tests, and, according to this (highly unscientific) methodology, I am 8% of one and 8% of the other.

Which sounds about right.

Edgy has suggested the remainder may be Libertarian, and I think he is mostly right--I'm am voting for the Libertarian candidate for governor, after all--but as much as I love the Libertarian Party and what they stand for, I also starkly disagree with some of their positions.

I also rah-rah the Greens, while violently disagreeing with some of their positions.

I consider myself sort of a Green/Libertarian mix, which is a pretty worthless political viewpoint in America these days.

I would love to see a third party ascend. We shall see.

Anyway, I think I've settled on what I am voting for this election, and here is the surprising breakdown by party:

American Independent - 1
Democratic - 0
Green - 1
Libertarian - 2
Peace & Freedom - 0
Republican - 7

I am frankly astonished by how many Republicans I voted for, and how few Democrats and third-party candidates. Secretary of State, for instance, was a tough call, D/R, but I went with the Republican.

I think the reason my votes lean so heavily red is because I live in such a blue state. I imagine if I was voting in Utah or Indiana, these numbers would skew in a very different direction.

Anyway, my choice of a vote is usually a pretty good indication of who will lose a race. So it looks like the Republicans are about to get walloped in California.

Viva la Moderation!

Class hijinks!


So I've taken a time machine and returned to elementary school. The classroom I was in the last five work days even smelled like my old school, and although I didn't make anyone cry, the week was not a total loss: several girls had a screamitout during PE and cried all on their own.

The facts are plain: crying follows me whenever I wade into the affairs of children.

But since Wise Bloggers say crying is good, I feel like this must be part of the altruistic service we teachers are so famous for.

At any rate, the crying notwithstanding, students tend to love me--especially when I am playing the role of substitute. Basically, I think, because I don't care so much if they say "shamalamadingdong" and laugh and laugh. After all, I'm not vested in their year's progress--I'm just interested in all twenty-five of us surviving the day.

The problem, of course, is that this attitude of mine can spiral into their psyches like a wanderlust demon and lead to all sorts of shenanigans. Which is my clever and long introduction to the two new shirts in the Thmazing Thtore collection.

Thasionistas take note! These shirts are fitted!

In fact, this design only comes in fitted. Unless I want to pay a regular fee to expand my store's offerings, I am somewhat limited in what I can offer at any given time. Now, as previously stated, all Thtore designs are limited edition (look for I fear Thmazing to disappear later this week), but now things will become even more limited than previously anticipated.

The reason is simple (I'm not making money) and the reason behind that reason is twofold:

1 - Of all the tshirt buyers in the world, few have the requisite taste to purchase theriphernalia and

2 - Of the four products currently available in the Thtore, I am making a profit on only one (1) of them.

Anyway, on to the introduction of this new design:

It is called Class Hijinks and is the ideal design for people who have taught, been taught, or ever seen a school. Buy one for the educator/educatee in your life!

By popular demand, my personal logo now appears on the back of all new Thtore designs.

Hot coeds!So edgy!

Note on the provenance of this image:

I have mentioned before that I have a unique drawing style, but it would be more accurate to say that I have styles, none of which quite meets the rigorous requirements of normality (or good taste). But I flatter myself that those styles have an inherent interest, and my first book, that legendary sasquatch of literature, was to have been author-illustrated before.... But that's another story.

This illustration is one of the extant illustrations from that book.


I Svithe America


So this week we vote. By we I mean all of you Americans out there. Get with it.

This year I have not received a sample ballot so I don't know what I'll be voting for, but I rest assured in the knowledge that I pretty much never vote for the winner anyway.

Lately I've been going through old notebooks and uncovering forgotten plays and short stories that I will be typing up and rewriting in the coming months. I have also found occasional religious notes which I will be cannibalizing now and then for svithey purposes, starting today.

Today's svithe begins with an opinion that most American Christians seem to hold and that Mormons worldwide accept as something close to a fundamental truth: God's hand was behind the founding of America.

Latter-day Saints feel so strongly about this because we figure that anywhere else in the world and at any previous time, we would have been wiped out by religious maniacs--and this is probably true. Religion has kind of an unpleasant record for killing people of differing opinions. And we Saints can't help but be different.

But the Land of the Free wasn't all peace love & tolerance either--plenty of early Mormons were killed/exiled/raped/pillaged/etceteraed by unpleasant neighbors, and since there was not yet a Fourteenth Amendment, the Supreme Court found that the Mormons didn't really have much complain about re: Freedom of Religion since it was a state oppressing their religion and not the feds. Which states had a right to do.

Missouri weren't no Rhode Island, people, and Lilburn Boggs weren't no Roger Williams, neither.

America might have been the freest, most tolerant nation on Earth, but it wasn't all that free and tolerant.

So here's a question for you: Why then was the Church restored in America in the 1830s? Why not wait another hundred-fifty years? And then go to Amsterdam?

Or, why not start the Church in Tonga, which has displayed such a knack for turning out copious Mormons? Maybe the Saints would never had to deal with any persecution at all!

Why in the United States? Why 1830?

Yes, America 1830 allowed for a legal restoration, but that did not stop the citizenry from trying to wipe them out.

So what I propose is this: The gospel was restored in America in 1830 because there and then and only there and then could be found the correct and proper--the perfect mix of freedom and intolerance.

Okay, but why not in Tonga? Why not restore the gospel somewhere with a (hypothetical) 100% conversion rate?

Because the trials the early church suffered made them strong.

Could an always-had-it-easy Church survive devilish wiles?

I suggest it could not.

So let's be grateful for the sufferings of those who went before and let's continue to struggle for the cause of freedom and let's svithe out the vote.


last week's svithe




For some time I have been meaning to draft a statement of purpose for Thmusings (or at the very least a styleguide so people can figure out what the heck my name is), but I have never quite gotten around to it. One reason for this is I'm still figuring out what the rules are myself.

I have newly discovered one by breaking it. For breaking this rule, I apologize.

Thmusings has many posts that are non sequiters or absurdities and such I have no problem with--anyone interested in getting to know the Baizzerist should expect such madness from time to time.

But you should always feel comfortable in knowing that all such non sequiters and absurdities do not place the author and the reader on unequal footing. I never know any more about them than you do. Granted, we see them from different angles, but our knowledge of them is equal. They are what they are and that is all.

My recent post on Santa broke this rule. I was never quite comfortable with the post, but I became enamored with the line "Well, I finally killed Santa today" and had to post it. It was not until Silly Marie commented that I began to realize how unfair this post was to my readership. It referenced something that no one but Theric knew about and thus was unfair to post without explanation. I give you that explanation now:

In the spirit of Halloween, I checked out a short story collection that I have been skipping through and which, as a whole, has been pretty good. The collection includes a story by James Dorr that disappointed me, however. It was not well writ and was too obvious. But the concept was brilliant--a little boy with a grudge against Santa leaves him poisoned treats which kill instead his mother's boyfriend. Good: Kid who wants to kill Santa. Bad: "A Christmas Story" by James Dorr.

So I decided to coöpt this concept and write a better story. My story stars the real Santa, does not have a grudge-holding tot, and, I hope, is much more violent and horrific.

Note: as Lady Steed said upon learning of this story, there is something wrong with me

I made short work of the ~1700 word rough draft and was pleased enough with it that I mentioned it on my blog, but decided to do so in a mysterious, joycean way that embarrasses me now. To make up for it, here are the first five rough-draft paragraphs of "Out for Santa":
    It’s a make-believe world but no one knows it. Santa is real and is constrained by maintaining his seeming fancy. Parents always assume the other [parent] or some other brought that little extra and Santa knows exactly how much he can bring without causing suspician / and get away with it. Which means rich kids get much and poor kids get little or nothing and there’s nothing he can do about it and he hates it but that’s the way it is. He can’t risk getting discovered by those with the power to legislate and enforce and he is, after all, make-believe. Children belive he is real make-believe, but not that he is real—and thus it must remain. He wound’t have it any other way. And thus he is limited.

    The great paradoxes of Santa’s existence produced by logical sixth graders do not trouble him at all. Of course, he does not literally visit every house in the world in one night, but the millions he does? No problem. In and out, in whatever way seems most convenient, a hundred million times, all in one night. He is Santa, Father Christmas, der Weinachtsmann, Juletomten, Pere Noel--of course he can do it. The doing of it causes him not the least anxiety. The only thing that troubles Santa is how transient all his gifts are / prove / prove to be. How few lives he changes. How worthless his efforts are. But of course he does not stop. He cannot stop. He is make-belibe. And so many believe.

    He is Santa.

    Now. About Jimmy. There will never be as many Jimmys as there are people named James, but there are many, many people named James, mostly English speakers, overwhelmingly white, nearly all male. It’s a popular name. And a reasonalble number of them spend their younger yeards as Jimmy. Jimmy is one of these. He is six years old (too young—10? 12 too old), English-speaking, white, male. A typical Jimmy. He has freckles.

    Jimmy attended (attends?---might be good in present tense) fourth grade at Norvest Elementary and was a reasonably good student except he loved saying butt when the teacher’s back was turned. His friends all agreed it was hilarious. Jimmy was an intense dodgeball player but otherwise he did not behave in a way that would raise suspician. In the shouebox in the hollow below the dead elm tree in his backyard were the heads (are) of six squirrels, two chipmunks, three robins, six sparrows, a starling, and the nieghbor’s toy poodle.




It is much too late for me to be the first to note Ben Christensen né Master Fob né Ben Christensen's birthday, but it's not too late for me to weigh in on the pressing issue of whether his birth was worth the bother.

After much thought and consideration and careful exploration of opposing viewpoints, I am going to have to say yes. It was worth it.

Ben has recorded our history on his blog and I'm not feeling the need to be redundant, so instead I will simply state how excellent a best friend he makes and how ashamed I am that I did not know his birthday was today. He is a superior sort of human being and I'm glad to know I will be in his orbit for many, many years to come.

Happy birthday, pal.


Well, I finally killed Santa today.


I suppose it was bound to happen.

And I guess it's not surprising it was me.

I'm just ashamed that I used a ten-year-old child as my weapon.