The Holiday Missive is complete at last!!

Click here to read it. Festive tidings!

12/20/02’s illustrious band:

Walrus Gumble

Brought to you by Lightbringer.

Walrus Gumble is not to be confused with former morning TV toadstool Bryant Gumbel, and also not to be mistaken for one of yesterday’s wild game recipes. This is a lyric scrap from “Come Together,” a song by immortal Beatle John Lennon. My trusty Internet tells me “Come Together” was released as a single in the U.S. of A. in October 1969, but was not performed in concert by the Beatles.

(Actually, there’s some disagreement as to whether the phrase is “walrus gumble” or “walrus gumball” or “walrus gumboot” or “walrus gumboat” or what. Beatles scholarship is nothing if not an interpretive art. I prefer to think that a gumble is exactly the sound a deep-voiced walrus makes.)

I first heard “Come Together,” like most Beatles music, not as originally recorded, but as covered by other artists. My best recollection of this tune is, predictably, the version sung by a cappella quartet The Bobs, who have either desecrated or rescued it, depending on which way you lean. I don’t consider this piece an example of The Bobs’ best work, but at least you can hear the words.

And Lennon’s words are what make this song great. His psychedelic ramblings allow for infinite explication, the hallmark of good poetry. Read it through your mojo filter and you’ll understand. Anyone who can collect royalties on the observation that “One and one and one makes three” gets a big hats-off from me.

Here come old flat-top
He come groovin' up slowly
He got ju ju eyeball
He one holy roller
He got hair down to his knee
Got to be a joker he just do what he please

He wear no shoeshine
He got toejam football
He got monkey finger
He shoot Coca-Cola
He say I know you, you know me
One thing I can tell you is you've got to be free
Come together...right now
Over me

He Bag Production, he got
Walrus gumboot, he got
Ono sideboard, he one
Spinal cracker, he got
Feet...down below his knee
Hold you in his armchair you can feel his disease
Come together...right now
Over me

He rollercoaster, he got
Early warning, he got
Muddy Water, he one
Mojo filter, he say
One and one and one is three
Got to be good lookin' 'cause he's so hard to see
Come Together...right now
Over me

Come together...yeah
Come together...yeah
Come together...yeah
Come together...yeah

Happy Holidays to all and to all a good night.
The Media Sensation is hereby on vacation until January 2, 2003.

12/19/02’s illustrious band:

Weasel Meat Roll

Brought to you by the Chicken Step Lady.

In her work as a book designer, the Chicken Step Lady sometimes works on books for hunting enthusiasts. Some of those are cookbooks, and some of those cookbooks feature recipes for wild game. Weasel Meat Roll is one such recipe.

This prompted me to look up other wild game recipes online. A 5-minute search yielded:

• Alligator Appetizer (that’s what they call that nutball Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter)
  
• Bog of Goose
  
• Confederate Possum
  
• Diver Chili (made with the type of duck that is a diver, not a puddle duck; no reference to scuba or skydivers)
  
• One-Pot Squirrel Dinner
  
• Chicken-Fried Rattlesnake
  
• Crockpot Coon
  
• Fried Groundhog
  
• Moose Nose (involves burning hair off over a fire [off the moose’s nose, not the cook’s])
  
• Noon Coon with Potato Spoon
  
• Oriental Armadillo
  
• Paul’s Baked Birds
  
• Pickled Jackrabbit (SDSU alumni during homecoming week? You’ll notice that MY alma mater’s mascot, the USD Coyote, is not represented here; he’s too wily to get caught.)
  
• Quick & Easy Sheep Stew (Since when are sheep wild game?)
  
• Roast Skunk a la Rosemary
  
• Venison Bombers
  
• Wild Boar & Kraut Casserole
  
• Wild Pig with Hunter Sauce (How do you get the hunter to agree to this?)
  

Mmm! What’s for dinner?

Administrative note: I’ve gotten a few queries this week about whether I’m writing a holiday missive for this year. The answer is yes. It is a work in progress, and I hope to post it by the end of the year — maybe even before Christmas, but not promises. Thanks for asking!

Supplemental: More on the Place Out of Time

SCROLL ON DOWN FOR TODAY'S BAND!

Apparently someone stole my idea — before I even had it. Sister-san writes:

“In junior high I read a school library book (titled Synchronicity, I think) with a similar subject. A pair of twin teenage boys was spending the summer with relatives and discovered a cabin hidden in the backyard ‹ the cabin was in some kind of weird time warp (I think 1 minute=1 day). Inside was a bunch of canned goods and reading material, so the place was obviously meant as a bomb shelter.

After the twins had played in it a few times, one of them got the bright idea that he could finally find a way to distinguish himself from his brother. He slipped out of bed early one night and gathered a few supplies and went to the cabin. He had calculated that he could age an entire year by spending time in the cabin overnight until his brother got up in the morning. He spent a whole “year” in the cabin reading tons of books and doing tons of push-ups and sit-ups and keeping a journal. Once every “day” he would go outside and run around for one minute in real time.

When he finally went back into the house, no one could believe he was the same boy. He had gotten quite muscular and had long hair in a ponytail. He certainly accomplished his goal of distinguishing himself from his brother, but also found out that that wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. People were spooked of him, and his twin felt slighted.

I don’t quite remember how it ended, but I really enjoyed the questions it sparked. I¹ve often thought about trying to track it down to read it again.”

SCROLL ON DOWN FOR TODAY'S BAND!

12/18/02’s illustrious band:

Milestones

Brought to you by a weird dream I had a couple months ago.

Under the heading “Signs you’ve been watching/reading too much sci-fi:”

I dreamed of people who wore their lives on their faces. Every time a milestone event occurred in an individual’s life, a kidney stone-like growth, a physical milestone, appeared on his or her face under the skin. They were a little smaller than a pencil eraser, smooth or bumpy depending on genetics.

Common events that resulted in “throwing a stone” included birth, first steps or words, first day of school, hitting puberty, first sexual experience, graduation, marriage, birth of one’s own children. Career or sporting success might also cause one to throw a stone — or it might not. There was no predicting what would turn out to be a milestone event, though; graduation might be a big event in one person’s life, causing him or her to throw a stone, but leave no mark on another. Maybe you’d make a seemingly insignificant decision one day and throw a stone but not figure out why until months or years later.

A parent would know the story behind every stone on a child’s face and the order in which they appeared; lovers would similarly know each other’s stones. And of course you’d know your own story stone by stone.

The max was 25 milestones: 5 on each brow ridge, 5 along each side of the jaw, and 5 down the bridge of the nose. They might appear in an orderly fashion — all the browstones first, then all the jawstones, then all the bridgestones — or in a random pattern. Smooth stones with symmetrical placement were considered beautiful. The rich and image-conscious might have their stones surgically smoothed, but taboo prohibited having fakes implanted to enhance symmetry. You could doctor a stone you already had (fashionable people stained or tattooed the overlying skin, for instance), but you couldn’t claim a stone you hadn’t earned.

Once the 25th stone came in, though, that was it. Game over. Limit reached. The appearance of the final stone set off a chemical chain reaction in the body that left you with a month to live, regardless of age. You’d had a full and eventful life, and that was it. A person could die early, of course, due to accident or illness, but “stoning out” was the most desirable way to go. It meant that you had fulfilled your destiny. Those who advocated living fast, dying young and leaving a good-looking corpse might pursue outrageous hobbies and lifestyles in hopes of hastening their stones, but prevailing wisdom was that you couldn’t force it. Milestones came when they came, and they weren’t under human (or medical) control.

People getting their 24th stone would ritually put their affairs in order so that when the 25th came in, they could spend that final month saying farewell to family and friends. The 25th might not appear for years afterward, but a near-ender had to be ready at any time. Not preparing for #25 was regarded as highly inconsiderate, as you would be passing up the chance to make things easier on your survivors.

Of course, there were always those who did not wish to die. They would seclude themselves and avoid all excitement and decision-making in hopes of avoiding experiencing any milestones. They still aged, but threw very few stones. However, they grew miserable and insane in their isolation. Removing stones was no good, either; a stone removed by accident or by surgery grew back within a week, and no treatment of the spot could prevent it. Similarly, no chemotherapy or radiation or anything else could prevent the growth of stones. But that didn’t stop people from trying.

So anyway. Interesting, eh? What would it be like to wear your experiences so boldly on your face?

12/17/02’s illustrious band:

The Place Out of Time

Brought to you by a ramble in the Maine woods.

Once upon a time when I was living in Orono, Maine, I grabbed a book and took a walk on a fine summer day. I wandered into a woodsy area just outside of the town proper, which didn’t take long, and sat down on a stump to read my sci-fi novel. After reading several chapters, I looked up with a start and realized that I’d better getting back. When I glanced at my watch on the way out of the glen to see how late it was, I got quite a surprise.

About 20 minutes had passed.

I stopped, blinked and looked around. Given the number of pages I’d read, I was sure I had been there for at least a couple hours. On a good day, reading fiction, I can cover about a page a minute, more if there’s lots of dialogue. I had read over 100 pages of my book that afternoon, and it hadn’t been easy going. I should have spent about two hours on that much text. I was quite sure I had. But the angle of the sun hadn’t changed, and I wasn’t hungry yet, although I should have been.

Bemused, I hiked back home. A quick comparison with the house clocks proved that my watch was showing the correct time: about 25 minutes after I’d left.

So what happened there in the woods? Did I misread my clock by two hours before setting out? Did I misread my watch when I started for home? Did I not read as much as I thought I had (even though I remembered the whole arc of story I’d covered that day)? Would any of that explain why the sun hadn’t moved or why I wasn’t hungry for my supper or desperate for my bathroom?

On a return trip to the woods, I found the approximate place I thought I’d sat to read and tried to recreate the scene, but time passed normally. I filed it under the heading Maine Can Be Strange. But I haven’t forgotten it. This episode has stayed with me through the past 10 years (during which I’ve ceased to wear a watch, incidentally).

The house I lived in before Sensational Acres had suffered the addition of what appeared to be a bomb shelter sometime around mid-century. It was a room about the size of a jail cell (not that I have firsthand knowledge of jail cells, mind you) with thick concrete walls — and a flimsy wooden door. Clearly it was not a part of the original house. So naturally I got to thinking . . .

What if that little room were its very own place out of time? What if I could go in there and shut the door and read, and although two hours passed for me, only two minutes elapsed in the outside world? I could pop in there and sleep eight hours, then come out 8 real-world minutes later completely refreshed. I could work two jobs or juggle two boyfriends or live two lives without worrying about when I’d find time to sleep. What a tool this would be!

Of course, I would appear to age faster than normal if I kept this up for too many years, since I’d be “living” a couple extra days a week in the bunker. They would add up. My leg hair would appear to grow even faster than it already does. And people might wonder how I could go home exhausted at 8:00 but be totally rejuvenated by 8:10. And surely they’d wonder why I had to spend 10 minutes locked in the basement by myself every so often. I’m sure the writers on The Twilight Zone could find all sorts of flaws.

Still, think about it: your own personal time machine. How would you use it?

12/16/02’s illustrious band:

The Oronoka

Brought to you by the Oronoka Restaurant and Hotel on Route 2 between Orono and Veazie, Maine.

As many of you know, the Media Sensation attended graduate school at the lovely University of Maine in Orono (about 8 miles north of Bangor) for a couple years. Among the many, many lessons I learned during my time there was (A) it’s pronounced “Bang-gore,” not “Banger” and (B) it’s pretty hard to get off the beaten path in Maine because the whole state is off the beaten path.

In the way of graduate students everywhere, my cohorts and I were always on the lookout for inexpensive places to eat and enjoy an evening of socializing. So I hadn’t been in town long before the previous year’s crowd introduced us newbies to the phenomenon that was, and perhaps still is, the Oronoka.

The Oronoka Restaurant and Hotel sat just off the not-too-beaten path between our university town and the thriving metropolis of Bangor. The Oronoka didn’t really take reservations, but if you called ahead and said you were bringing a crowd, they pretended they did. As a courtesy, you also mentioned that you’d be bringing some wine to drink with your meal, as the establishment did not serve liquor.

So you’d arrive at the Oronoka around 6:00 p.m. expecting to be seated and served by about 6:30. O naïve innocent! You’d be seated, all right; the place was never busy any time my friends and I were there. But served? Well, in a way. You’d be eating, that’s for sure. No one ever went home hungry from the Oronoka.

It started with the bread. There would always be a basket of homemade bread on the table, which quickly disappeared. More arrived to take its place — several baskets’ worth over the course of the next couple hours. You might also receive veggies and dip if there were extras sitting around the kitchen. And chunks of strawberries, watermelon and pineapple with margarita glasses full of powdered sugar for dipping.

And then the homemade potato chips, a spud lover’s dream. An inch or two in diameter and sliced in varying thicknesses, they’d arrive still sizzling from the grease. Some were crunchy, some were tender, and all were good with generous amounts of ketchup and salt. They were almost enough to make you forget the menu.

But eventually, around 7:30 or so, you would remember the menu, and ask for it. You’d scan the standard list of fare, which always included lobster due to the town’s proximity to the Maine coast. You’d place your order and turn back to your chips and cheap wine. Or you might wander into the back room, where live music was as likely as not to be performed. Around 8:30, after dancing and more chat, you’d realize that no one had been served a meal yet. But what the hell, there was always the homemade bread.

Sometime around 9:00, meals might start to arrive. If you were in the back with the music, someone would come to fetch you. Maybe you’d get what you ordered and maybe you wouldn’t; it depended on what the kitchen had available and whether the staff thought you might enjoy trying something different instead. If you acted appreciative, though — and graduate students are always appreciative in the presence of food — some extra dishes might find their way to your table.

So then there’d be an hour or two of table time, and more wandering back and forth between rooms. Eventually, around 10:30 or 11:00, as the musicians began to yawn and the staff to sweep floors, you’d think about heading out. Then came the search for and tallying up of the bill. This always took quite a while, especially for the mathematically challenged English students I hung out with. But you’d get it sorted, always owing less than you expected but not complaining, and say your farewells.

But wait! Don’t you want some more bread to take home, or some carrots, or a plate of lasagna? The hostess never let us leave until everyone was holding a doggie bag of some kind. Finally you’d stumble on home and dine on memories the rest of the week.

I heard a year or two after I left Maine that the Oronoka had been shut down — apparently not for the first time — due to health code violations. No wonder their food was so good! I’ll go back if I ever visit Orono again, but it couldn’t possibly be the same.

12/13/02’s illustrious band:

Cumshaw

Brought to you by A Word A Day.

Cumshaw (KUM-shaw), noun. A gift or a tip. [From Chinese (Amoy/Xiamen dialect), literally, grateful thanks.]

As a gesture of grateful thanks to all you nice readers, I will say briefly: ‘Tis the season for cumshaws. I appreciate your reading what I write and telling me what you think -- and helping me come up with topics. Thanks!

12/12/02’s illustrious band:

Cabinet Vest

Brought to you by an L.L. Bean online promotion: "Bathroom cabinet meets fly-fishing vest." Say what?

This thing is a portable “cabinet,” or personal organizer, that you can hang in the bathroom or wherever. It has lots of pouches and pockets and zippers like a fishing vest. And it's monogrammable! A nifty little gadget for travel, no doubt.

Nice combo: household item + clothing. I’m looking for Toaster Socks myself. They keep your feet warm but pop you out if things heat up too much. And Sprinkler Pants, which wet themselves on hot days. How ‘bout a Hoover Truss that literally sucks in your gut for you?

The all-time best invention, though, would have to be Post-It Hose. Instead of the pinch-you-in-half waistband, the top section of this panty hose would gently adhere to your abdomen, holding up your stockings without producing pain or digestive distress. Unstick it to attend to personal business, then simply press back into place when you’re done. Or, if you don’t want the on-again/off-again panty top, just the leg-only kind, you’d use the kind with stronger adhesive, like the kind used to keep a nicotine or estrogen patch in place. Not as sexy as garters, maybe, but a darn sight more comfortable.

Come to think of it, I don’t understand why certain clothes don’t already come with built-in body glue. I know pageant contestants have long used spray adhesive to keep the swimsuit portion of the competition PG, but my product would be part of the garment itself. It would be perfect for strapless evening gowns, for shirttails that you want to keep tucked in, for undershirt cuffs so they don’t ride up when you pull the sweater on over top, for loose blouses that fall open when you lean over.

Hmm. Garment Glue™ would have to adhere to skin without irritating, yet be peel-off-able and not degrade after contact with skin oils. And as long as we’re going this far, why not use the adhesive as a drug-delivery medium, as with the nicotine or hormone patch? I know clothing companies in Asia have recently begun marketing undergarments saturated with anti-aging formulas, so I could do the same thing. Of course, I would have to watch out for unscrupulous knock-offs that delivered illegal drugs via my proprietary adhesive. That would give butt crack a whole new meaning.

12/11/02’s illustrious band:

Essential Fraudulence

Brought to you by writer Anne Lamott, revealing a fear I think we all share: that someday They Will Find Out.

Find out what? That we're only masquerading as responsible adults; merely playing the role of important professionals; just trying on the garb of upstanding citizens. That we're not terribly clever or funny or even all that smart. Sure, my business card may have the grown-up title “editor” on it, but really I’m just a girl who likes to read.

I don’t think this essential fraudulence, as Lamott calls it, is a bad thing, necessarily. We all have roles to play, and most of us agree to play them in order to keep the big production going. I certainly wear a costume and makeup to my office every day. Fortunately, I get to play a role I enjoy. I like dressing up like an editor and being treated like an editor, and I like getting paid like an editor (although I’d rather get paid like a baseball player). But that’s not really who I am. Really I’m just a girl who likes to read. If I were discovered at my deception and required to comply with some truth-in-advertising law, that’s what I’d have to put on my card instead.

What does your real business card say?

Speed date update

I'm tentatively scheduled to attend a QuikDatz event on Thursday, January 9.

Let the betting pool begin!

12/10/02’s illustrious band:

Eudemonia

Brought to you by A Word A Day, www.wordsmith.org.

Eudemonia (yoo-di-MO-nee-uh) noun, also eudaemonia.
1. A state of happiness and well-being.
2. In Aristotelian philosophy, happiness in a life of activity governed by reason.
[From Greek eudaimonia (happiness), from eudaimon (having a good genius, happy), from eu- (good) + daimon (spirit, fate, fortune).]

Here are a few signposts on the road to the great state of Eudemonia:

• two cats, one couch, one book
  
• endorphins and an influx of vitamin chi from a good workout
  
• the four Cs of good eatin’: carbs, cheese, caffeine and chocolate
  
• really fine singing
  
• light traffic and a heavy foot as I head home for the holidays to make tributary cookies (gingersnaps) from my grandfather’s recipe
  

Signs I’m leaving Eudemonia:

• someone misquotes funny dialogue or a joke I know by heart
  
• resistance to the building of a light rail transit system in the metro area continues
  
• daytime TV is on
  
• people (particularly presidents) say new-Q-ler when it’s clearly spelled nu-clear; same goes for ick-scape instead of es-cape
  
• someone catches me saying newQler or ickscape
  

Come on, y’all. Share with me three from column A and three from column B — three things that that get you to Eudemonia and three that yank you out. Don’t bother mentioning chocolate; that one’s a given.

12/09/02’s illustrious band:

Glambalinglung

Brought to you by the first four notes played by the wind-up music box in the rump of my beloved Pooh Bear. “Glam-ba-ling-lung” are the “words” I always sang to the first bars of his song. I can remember the rest of the tune, but not the rest of my lyrics.

This Christmas marks Pooh’s and my 30th anniversary. I received him as a Christmas gift when I was, I think, 3 years old, and we remain together. Some highly embarrassing -- and, thankfully, silent -- home movie footage of me enthusing over my gift probably still exists in the Media family archives; doubtless Mother Media knows where it is.

Pooh has been a steadfast friend and companion throughout my many adventures. He’s been to numerous friends’ houses, to college in eastern South Dakota, even to grad school in Maine. He’s seen me single, married, and single again, and absorbed all the associated tears. He’s been sniffed by every cat I ever lived with. He’s been dressed in various articles of clothing, including a crocheted cap and jacket, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in pants. He is, in short, my main man.

I don’t need to sleep with Pooh any more to know his comforting presence is with me. But I remember the first time I slept without him. It was a big decision, the choice to leave him behind. I was as much worried for his peace of mind as for my own. My Girl Scout troop was planning a “camp-in” at the newly constructed Rushmore Mall, which was a Wonder of the World for that area at that time. I was afraid Pooh would get lost in the hubbub of Scouts hauling and dumping and rearranging their gear. I was also afraid I’d get teased for bringing my bear, and while I was willing to put up with it myself, I didn’t want Pooh to be subjected to humiliation. After many reassurances of my prompt return, I left him home. We both survived, but I tried not to do it too often.

Pooh is a mature bear now, with an arthritic shoulder that keeps one arm raised in cab-hailing position, a broken line of a mouth, and a Michael Jackson-esque sorta-there/sorta-not nose. He’s still smiling, though, still singing, and still keeping me company. Everyone should have a friend this good.

12/06/02’s illustrious band:

Polar Fleas

Brought to you by the itchy feeling of dry skin under layers of warm clothing, especially wool.

We hardy Midwesterners, God’s frozen chosen, are all afflicted by polar fleas during the winter. We scratch, we squirm, we apply a gallon of body lotion a day. Why? Because we’re not smart enough to move to Hawaii.

Busy weekend ahead, including haircuts, concerts, classes, meetings and literary endeavors. Gotta go. Stay warm!

12/05/02’s illustrious band:

Wax Donuts

Brought to you by my preoccupation with paraffinated pastries.

Wax donuts are the chocolate-covered mini-donuts you can buy from convenience stores and vending machines. The outer frosting is like more like wax than chocolate, and it leaves your teeth feeling slippery — but that doesn’t stop the little buggers from being wickedly tasty.

Wax donuts are first cousins to glazed donuts, which are larger and come in a mildly crispy sugar/lard shell. They, too, are delicious. A couple of Krispy Kreme franchises have recently sprung up here in the metropolis. The first was far enough away from Sensational Acres to be beyond temptation range, but another has just opened in the Darth Mall, which as you know is parked in my back yard. That one may prove a little harder to resist. So far I’ve managed, but I still may have to go over there for some holiday shopping. If they catch me in the wrong mood, who knows what will happen?

Sorry there was no BND yesterday; I was busy updating the index for the award-winning magazine.

And speaking of updates: Rest assured that I’m hard at work on this year’s scintillating holiday missive. It will once again appear online on my personal website. No promises on when it will be up, but I’m aiming to finish it before Christmas. Wish me luck!

12/03/02 news updates:

• Regarding my 15 seconds of fame: Technology is wonderful. Remember that handyman/consumer report news bite that was filmed at my house in October and aired a couple weeks ago? I’ve just learned that one can view it online! Just go to www.kstp.com. In the little search window (upper left, beneath the picture of the anchor people), type "handyman." One of the results lets you read a brief transcript of the segment and one lets you watch the actual video. It took a couple minutes to load on my machine at the office, but it worked. Cool, huh?
  
  Note: The news clip is preceded by a commercial for ethanol fuel, so don't worry that you clicked on the wrong thing. Just wait it out. I'm next.
  
  
• I have filled out my statement of interest in the QuikDatz speed dating service and am awaiting the next step. December looks a little busy for me, so I told them I’m willing to sign up for a January event. I’ll keep you posted. Meanwhile, keep those donations coming!
  

Scroll on down for today’s band.

12/03/02’s illustrious band:

Cheese Curd Remorse

Brought to you by Scarlett O’Hara. Cheese curd remorse is what she felt after overindulging in deep-fat-fried dairy products at the state fair. Also known as a food hangover.

We have now formally entered the season of cheese curd remorse. With the Thanksgiving glut behind us and a month’s worth of holiday parties ahead, we talk of little except what we ate, what we’re going to eat, and how bad it all is for us. However, I’d like to propose a new theme for this year.

As an official representative of the Health Police, I’m urging people not to fret over food, weight and eating behavior. The HP public policy statement is this: Have fun! Enjoy sharing the bounties of the season with family and friends. And enjoy a brisk walk with them after dinner. If you maintain reasonable eating and exercise habits most of the time, it ain’t gonna kill ya to go off the wagon here and there. If you gain a pound or two, so what? Return to your regular routine in January. This is why we save new year’s resolutions until after the last of the gingerbread has been consumed. I’m not saying we should all binge and purge our way through the month of December, but we shouldn’t starve ourselves or feel guilty about that last cookie, either. Maintain a happy medium, that’s all. Chances are you can come up with something more important to worry about if you try.

If you can’t, here are a couple ideas to start with. If nothing else, these activities should keep us out of the buffet line for a few more minutes, eh? :-)

1. See that Salvation Army bell ringer? Take the $2.50 you were going to spend on a super grande turtle mocha latte and stuff it into the little red kettle. Then buy the bell ringer a cup of hot chocolate. Two good deeds at once!
   
2. Take a homeless person to lunch. Or take lunch to the homeless. Do it in person, donate to a food shelf, participate in a church charity dinner, or tear off one of those donation coupons at the grocery store checkout counter. Don’t know any homeless people? Visit The Homeless Guy online and make a donation via PayPal.
   
3. Donate a few toys to Toys for Tots or a church or community angel tree. Volunteer to help wrap the gifts. If there isn’t such a program in your area or workplace, see if you can start one.
   
4. Take a senior citizen holiday shopping, or take the list and run the errands yourself if the person doesn’t travel. You’re going out anyway, right?
   
5. Starting in January, put your quarters in a jar. Get your family or your carpool or your Sunday school class to do the same. Next December, do something good with the money.
   
6. Pay it forward. Yes, I stole this idea from the movie of the same name, but it’s a good one. If a stroke of good luck comes your way, don’t pay it back to the person who brought it to you (but do say thank you!); instead, pay it forward to the next three people you meet who need a hand, without asking for anything in return. Urge them to do the same. In the movie, people give each other cars and homes and new leases on life, but I’m thinking more along the lines of an extra pair of mittens. Well, don’t let me discourage you; start small and work your way up.
   
7. The corollary to the above is, if someone wants to do you a favor, let him. You know it feels good to help someone, so let someone feel good by helping you.
   

Good deeds: one size fits most.

12/02/02’s illustrious band:

The Butterball Follies

Brought to you by Mother Media’s side of the family. Get this bunch all hopped up on turkey and dressing and there’s no telling what will happen.

The whole of the Thanksgiving holiday is too complex to recount, but I can provide a few highlights. They include:

• Having so much food for Thanksgiving dinner that we forgot to put some of it on the table. Thank you to the Hostess With the Mostess for specifying that green bean cassarole was not invited to the party.
  
• The entire clan (with the exception of Granny) taking turns riding the Hostess’s exercise ball like a bronc. This includes those family members pushing 70. No one was shy. I think Mother Media earned extra style points for some especially flamboyant dismounts.
  
• Playing “Christmas pie,” a game I learned from WhoSEZ, who tells me it’s an old English tradition. To make a Christmas pie, you gather a bunch of inexpensive gifts (lottery tickets, candies, stuff from the local dollar store), tie or tape a long strand of ribbon to each one, and put them all into a box or bag, with ribbons protruding. Everyone gets at least one chance to grasp a ribbon and follow it to its attached gift. Hours of fun for the whole family! Sister-san won this year’s rubber chicken award, which consisted of . . . a rubber chicken. According to the packaging, it feels completely lifelike. I’ll take the manufacturer’s word for it.
  
• Walking, walking, walking. This group walks after every meal -- and there’s no shortage of meals! -- and also for fun. A couple of my favorite uncles almost ended up in the pond during the post-turkey stroll. We spent Friday striding along the Katy Trail and among the antique shops of Rocheport. It would have been a great way to work off some calories from the big feast if we hadn’t stopped for an elegant lunch and ended the day with spaghetti and pie at Wienador House. I heard a rumor that some people even stopped for ice cream on the way back to their hotel.
  
• Taking a few photos. Did I say a few? I meant a few thousand! Mother Media and all four of her siblings showed up with cameras in hand. So did Granny’s boyfriend Charlie, and Sister-san and I, and the Hostess. Did I miss anybody? Half the T-day entertainment consisted of posing for portraits, and the other half of gathering around the computer to review the digital shots.
  
• Driving. It ain’t a family outing until everyone has climbed in and out of the car a few dozen times a day. Again, we do this to work of some of the calorie intake. With Thanksgiving celebrants scattered among four towns and a play day in a fifth, plus various handoffs, drop-offs and errands, we had no shortage of opportunities for exercising our vehicles. Oh, and did I mention the 700 or so miles of driving involved in getting there?
  

It was all good. Very, very good. I was sorry to find Granny in such grey spirits, but visiting everyone else was a hoot. Let’s do it again next year.