Here: I Give You The Himalayas

C'mon . . . let's watch this together . . . snuggle close . . . that's right . . . I'm yer lama and your my mama . . check it, one tahme . . .

Watch the full episode. See more Nature.

Chiller

It's been freezing in the outside world 'round these parts. I managed to venture forth in some of the worst weather because, because . . . I don't know why. I guess I wanted to, okay?

Look at this dangler:

And this footprint of a mechanical Sasquatch:

Cool, huh? Little blue houses for you and me. Well, me, anyway.

Help Not Wanted

Just for fun, during a moment of frozen immobility, I logged into my favourite job board account just for fun. I know that may sound odd, but here's what I looked for:

Surprising, considering what positions I've seen in business and how many of them seemed to fit this job title, even if not formally. Looks like all the spots are filled.

Hazardous Road Ahead

I'm shortly about to begin a very hazardous trip. I get the feeling that I may not make it. There's so much I wanted to say and do that will go undone now if I'm fated to meet my end. So, in the few minutes I have before losing touch with the blogosphere, at least, let me say a few things.

I would like my kid to know that I love her very much. Since I don't believe in a Great Beyond, (unless it includes unlimited sea-salted Wendy's fries, in which case, I'm on board,) I would ask that you tell her this for me and direct her to this blog. Tell her what you remember about me. Please be sure she can look at the thousands of e-mails and the journal that was to make up my book on the divorce. She should have the ammunition to at least understand. Please let her read at least some of the more appropriate e-mails between us, if not now, then when she's ready. I'm counting on you, as I said I would, like the Godfather counted on the undertaker, to grant me this favour, because I have faith that you can overcome any butt-holio-ness that gets in your way and because I would do it for you.

Call my brother and tell him for me that I feel sorry for him, that he couldn't delude himself long enough to realise that it would be possible to actually enjoy stuff because in the end, it's all irrelevant once we shuffle off this mortal coil. All the suffering in the world need not be yours. Really: get a grip, J, your time is nearly done. Okay, you're a brilliant guy or, if not, then at least in the top two percent on the planet and if that's still sad, go play some volleyball on a beach somewhere because why the f*ck not?

I made plenty of mistakes in my life, most out of fear, some out of stupidity and many because I just didn't "get it" in that special, EST-ian way. I'm sorry that I hurt whomever crossed my path. Please understand that I did so not out of malice but out of fear. I'm actually not a massive dick. Or, rather, I may be a massive dick, but with a heart of gold.

This is all too short, but I have to go now. They're giving me the two-minute warning, apparently.

It would have been nice to be with all of you one more time, give you all one more hug, tell you one more joke, share one more meal. It would have been nice. Instead, let me share this typically unsolicited and characteristically obvious advice: stay warm, except when you're trying to be cool. Be well, except when you're doing something sick. Never, ever, ever buy, make, wear or display anything with the phrase, "Live, Love, Laugh"' because if you need a slogan to remind you that this is what you should be doing, you're probably too stupid to keep breathing. Luge like there's no tomorrow. And it really is all small sh*t.

Dammit. No more edits. No more hidden messages or unintended double-meanings. No words powerful enough to change what will be. See you on the other side . . .

Yes, I know how to use an ellipsis. Geez.

I think I hear a helicopter. That's my cue.

Ciao, America!

Idiots

Christmas Time Machine

It's not possible to be with the ones we care about on Big Holidays, like this one, for reasons sad and diverse that range from misunderstanding to death.

I come from a Polish peasant family that made good in the New World. Thatched houses were replaced by brick and shingle. The food, though, stayed the same.

So, in an attempt to invoke the spirits of those gone and gone away, here's tonight's menu, all made by your truly, even if i didn't start off having any real idea of how to make it happen.

Pieorogies, potato and sauerkraut

Ham (no goose)

Pea salad

Unsweet sweet potatos

Sweet potatos for old time's sake

Onions and potatos

Fish, coconut encrusted

Red, white and chocolate ice cream

Smoked mozzarella

Spinach artichoke dip

Port

Riesling

Sherry

Zinfandel

Just missing one ingredient - you. Happy Christmas. You'll be remembered in every bite.

Be Of Good CHEER, Dammit!

You want proof of life? Here it is. I am quite alive, not enjoying standing in line at StallMart. I'm stuck amongst literally a thousand shoppers whose collective wish to jam through and out of this mega-store simply because, as one tired and resigned looking guy offered when i queried whether he was in line, "yeah, i figured like anybody else in here that because it was nighttime, the joint would be empty." What a singular world we live in, eh? It all stops for you and me, but mostly for me.

The registers are down. The massive flow of profits have abruptly stopped like menopausal menstruation, depriving HQ of a merrier XMas, but only temporarily. It's not as if any of these people are going anywhere. These folks are as committed to this queue as starving Somalis are to the World Hunger Project rice line.

The registers are now where in sight. A short, thin' black man is holding a spot in line in front of me while he coordinates and communicates by bluetooth and cell. "Just come to your left. Wait: did you back up? You should be able to see the GAME TRADE sign. Hullo? Hullo?" Abort, abort, abort!

I can see the register's shining beacon from my place in line, dim, but visibly indicating "10". We are moving now through disrupted and dishevled shelves littered with discarded wants and needs. Planter's Honey Roasted Nuts, in the 2 pound jar, a Conair XTreme Heat 75 second hair curler set, a two liter bottle of Minute Maid Lemonade are incongruously displayed along what's left on the jeggings display. Those are $3.50, if you can find one in your size. A burly guy scoots me forward so that he can assume his cart's place in line. More than one cart behind me is overloaded with a 32, 44 or 50 inch flat-screen TV. In the cart immediately ahead, having arrived and docked through the skillful guidance of Mr. Tiny Black Fellow, bears a 4€ Dora the Explorer 2 Piece cotton sleepwear set and an Oster 12 speed blender Deluxe.

I don't see: puppies, gingerbread men, eggnog, yule logs or even wrapping paper. Wait: scratch that. There's a cart loaded to overflowing being pushed by a seemingly good-natured Indian woman (she's wearing a sari and blue jeans) with exactly two rolls of wrap. She's going to need more, i'm thinking.

Still, where's that Dickensian patina, that "Zuzu's petals . . ." Moment that should be front and center at this very moment? Why do i smell cinnamon and mulled wine scents replaced by the odor of vomit, or is that coming from the in-store Subway's personal pizza output? Oh, yes, God, ech, that's it.

The wail of babies who know damn well that they're up too late echos off the corrugated steel ceiling. They don't want to be here anymore than i do. I'd rather be with you, sipping, nay, guzzling that mulled wine, watching the Yule Log burn, baby, burn. But that's not going to happen, is it. Nope. Trapped. Like a rat. Like a rat on the sinking ship of good cheer.

My feet are starting to hurt and. The line is moving. Hallelujah.