Merry Frickin' Christmas from the Highway Patrol.

So. N.O. and I leave his folks' house in one of the suburbs of Someothercity (heck, let's call it Square Stone) early on the 26th, after a lovely Christmas. I offer to drive, because N.O. is just getting over a hellacious cold (he never gets sick EVER, except at Christmas--then, always).

Within about ninety seconds, we see a state DPS trooper. Check the spedometer--actually going a wink under the limit, so, no problem. Nod, friendly-like, to the trooper and his partner, who are, for some reason, staring into our vehicle. Right. Not speeding, no big deal. So, WHY are they slowing down and pulling us over. CRAP! What did I dooooooo?

I start to unbuckle my seatbelt, in order to reach my wallet, but then, remember the seatbelt laws, and quickly buckle it back up again. Officer McNasty (just kidding, he was actually quite polite) walks up to the passenger-side window. N.O. rolls down the window.

Officer: We're looking for seatbelt violations today, and we noticed you didn't have your seatbelt on.
Me: Oh, no, officer, actually, I DID have it on, I just took it off for a second just now.
Officer: Not you, ma'am. This gentleman here.
N.O. and I (looking at each other blankly): What?

Because here's the thing. I'm the first to admit, N.O. does not always wear his seatbelt. Oh, he always gets it on eventually, he's just not super-great about putting it on before the car is moving. I am hyper-aware of this, because it drives me INSANE. I nag him about it continually. I mean, what is the point of having a seatbelt if you're only going to wear it sometimes? And what, you think accidents only happen at speeds greater than 50 mph? So what's the deal? PUT IT ON! That's always been my sure-fire, no-exceptions motto.

Which is probably one of the many reasons why, on this particular occasion, N.O. was safely buckled in.

We honestly and sincerely explain that, while we're sure that everyone says this, N.O. really, really was wearing his seatbelt. N.O. carefully demonstrates that the seatbelts in his truck actually emerge from the seatback rather than the doorjamb thingie, making it virtually impossible to see them from outside the vehicle, and rendering the officer's mistake, in this case, utterly understandable. We are polite, genuine, and un-argumentative. Upon seeing the unique seatbelt setup, the officer blinks (I think he was convinced, for a second there) and goes back to his irritating blonde partner, to see if she is sure.

He comes back a moment later, "I'm sorry, but my partner was sure she saw you lean over and you weren't wearing your seat belt. We're not allowed to write warnings for seat belt stops, so I'm going to have to give you a ticket, sir. I'll need your driver's license. Ma'am, can I also see your driver's license and insurance?"

Me: No problem, here it is.
Officer McPukeface: This insurance card is expired. Do you have a more recent copy?
Me (with sinking feeling, weakly digging in purse but knowing it's no use): What? Um, no. I really do have insurance, I guess we didn't put the latest copy in the truck yet.
Officer McJustdoinghisjob: It's the driver's responsibility to make sure there is current proof of insurance in the vehicle at all times. I'm going to issue you a citation. Make sure you call this number within ten days and provide them with proof of insurance. Merry Christmas.

Officer McGenericson, in an undated file photo

Argh. The insurance thing is a nuisance, but as we can prove we really were insured, it will probably just be a matter of a small charge, a fax or two, and we're on our way. But the seat belt thing really grates, because, while few things stink more than getting a ticket, even fewer things stink more than getting a ticket for something you didn't do!

But, on the plus side, know what I like about Everystate's Highway Patrol? Really, really like? The uniforms. No joke. Very cool, rugged, and a teense old-fashioned. Way to not screw it up, Everystate. Let's keep it that way.

And as a special little Happy New Year to me, I am now coming down with a yicky cold, too.

This New Year's Eve, even Dick Clark will look better than me.

Oh, the crazy things you can find on the internet.

Happy Day-After-Boxing-Day, everybody! Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas.

Now that you're (possibly) back at work, and probably not too happy about it, I thought I'd share a special treat I've been saving up. Perfect for a practically-Monday morning such as this.

It's one of the weirdest things I have ever accidentally stumbled across on the ol' WWW--a talented and proficient knitter somewhere out there in internet-land has decided to use her talents in very creative, unusual ways, such as knitting a complete, and anatomically correct, digestive system. Seriously, extremely impressive. Here are the pictures for your enjoyment.

Want to whip up your own GI tract? (Why not get a big head-start on next year's Christmas gifts?!) Here's her pattern. And here are some of her other wacky adventures in knitting (I especially like the choker that looks like a slit throat).

Christmas Vacation

I don't know about you, but I'm outta here for a week or so!

Merry Christmas!

If you're good...

maybe Santa will bring you a visit from this Uh.MAZing. singing telegram lady, Janice Griffin. Check out some of her many guises!

(Hint: this one's Marilyn Monroe)

She Lives in a Shoe*

Some of you may have read this story about the Ukrainian immigrant family that may be the largest all-biological family in the US. You may also have heard about the current demographic crisis in Russia, where the birth rate is almost twice as high as the death rate.** But have you heard about this busy lady?

"According to Guinness World Records 2001, the highest officially recorded number of children born to one mother is 69, to the first wife of Feodor Vassilyev (1707-1782) of Shuya, Russia. Between 1725 and 1765, in a total of 27 confinements, she gave birth to 16 pairs of twins, seven sets of triplets, and four sets of quadruplets. 67 of them survived infancy."

Good lord, she might as well have been a cat. And she was just his FIRST wife! Or did you know that the youngest person on record to give birth was five years old? Uh, sad. Details of these, and more fascinating and disturbing maternity-paternity facts can be found here, and a news account of a 26-year-old grandmother in Britain is here. Mary and Joseph's little arrival was practically pedestrian compared to some of these!

*Corrections. Apparently I was not quite awake when I wrote this. For one thing, I titled it "Old Mother Hubbard" when I was clearly thinking of the character who has so many children, she doesn't know what to do, not the old lady who something-something cupboard.

**Also, while I knew what I meant about the Russian Demographic Crisis thing, I typed the exact opposite. The death rate is almost twice as high as the birth rate, causing the population to plummet. They need more Mrs. Vassilyevs!

Deep, Dark Secret

Sometimes I put stuff down my bra (work skirts don't have pockets!) and forget about it. And then, many hours later, I'm getting undressed for the night and I'm like whaaa--oh, hello mascara.

And that is my Deep, Dark Secret.

Don't Look Now!

It's A Christmas Gory!

It isn't as good as The Shining Redux, but what is? I mean, that's just brilliant.

The Shameful Origins of Kwanzaa

On July 14, 1941, Ron N. Everett was born on a poultry farm in Parsonsburg, Maryland, the 14th child of a Baptist preacher. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, he attended universities in California, receiving his Master's degree in political science and African studies. In the early '60s, Everett met Malcolm X and began to embrace Black Nationalism, a radical political ideology of Black separatism that developed in the US during the 20th century.

Within a few years, Everett had adopted one of many pseudo-African pseudonyms to come, "Ron Ndabezitha Everett-Karenga," and awarded himself the title "maulana," which is Swahili for "master teacher." He shaved his head, donned African-style robes, and began a cult called US (for "United Slaves"), which gained some following and set itself up (almost as a rival gang) against the Black Panthers, who shared some views and differed on others.

In 1969, the US and the Black Panthers found themselves bitterly divided over who would head the newly-formed Afro-American Studies Center at UCLA. In their dispute, they even began to carry guns on campus. The Black Student Union set up a lunchroom discussion to try to find a solution to the situation. During the meeting, which was held on January 17, 1969, two Black Panthers verbally harangued Karenga. As soon as the meeting was over, those two Panthers were shot dead in a UCLA hallway by two of Karenga's followers.

Amazingly, UCLA officials do not seem to have been particularly bothered by the murder of two black students on their campus. Investigating the crime would have forced them to examine the illegal and unethical activities of the black campus groups they were so busy kowtowing to.

After the incident, Karenga grew increasingly paranoid. On May 9, 1970, after deciding that two of his female followers, who were living with him, were trying to kill him by putting "poison crystals" in his food, he and two other followers, Louis Smith and Luz Maria Tamayo, forced thet two women to strip and viciously tortured them over a period of several days. According to the LA Times:

"When they denied [poisoning Karenga], allegedly they were beaten with an electrical cord and a hot soldering iron was put in Miss Davis' mouth and against her face. Police were told that one of Miss Jones' toes was placed in a small vise which then was allegedly tightened by one of the defendants. The following day, Karenga allegedly told the women that 'Vietnamese torture is nothing compared to what I know." Miss Tamayo reportedly put detergent in their mouths, Smith turned a water hose full force on their faces, and Karenga, holding a gun, threatened to shoot both of them."

The three were eventually convicted of felonious assault and false imprisonment, and on September 17 of the following year, Karenga was sentenced to one to 10 years in prison (he served about four). The following is from a transcript of a psychiatrist's report, read at Karenga's sentencing hearing (the key issue of which was whether Karenga was sane):

"Since his admission here he has been isolated and has been exhibiting bizarre behavior, such as staring at the wall, talking to imaginary persons, claiming that he was attacked by dive-bombers and that his attorney was in the next cell... During part of the interview he would look around as if reacting to hallucination and when the examiner walked away for a moment he began a conversation with a blanket located on his bed, stating that there was someone there and implying indirectly that the 'someone' was a woman imprisoned with him for some offense. This man now presents a picture which can be considered both paranoid and schizophrenic, with hallucinations ... and impaired contact with the environment."

During his tenure at California State Prison, Karenga adopted a Marxist ideology and upon his release in 1975, re-established "US." In 1977, Karenga formed a religion called "Kawaida," a form of Marxist secular humanism. Central to the doctrine are the "Seven Principles of Blackness," which were to be celebrated during a seven-day holiday called Kwanzaa, which Karenga had invented in 1966. The principles (unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith) emphasize black separatism and Socialism. The movement rejected all other religion as "mythical." On Christianity, Karenga has this to say: "Belief in spooks who threaten us if we don't worship them and demand we turn over our destiny and daily lives must be categorized as spookism and condemned."

Kwanzaa itself is a corruption of a Swahili word for harvest. There are many unanswered questions about why Karenga created a holiday based on a nonexistent harvest festival in the winter, when almost nothing is harvested anywhere, and why he used a vocabulary of Swahili words when Swahili is spoken in Eastern Africa (Kenya and Tanzania) and the vast majority of American blacks are descended from West Africans (Ghana). One can only assume he didn't bother to do his research. Some have suggested that, despite his rhetoric, Karenga isn't very fond of black people at all. "I put it around Christmas because I knew that's when a lot of [blacks] would be partying," he said in 1978. Kwanzaa has very pagan roots. Karenga and his followers practice ancestor worship and partake in a "libation" ceremony, during which they ask their ancestors to be spiritual intercessors between them and God, thereby putting their African ancestors quite literally in the place of Jesus Christ.

By 1979, four years after leaving prison and only 10 years since his dispute over the head of the Afro-American Studies Center at UCLA ended with two men shot to death for speaking against him, the newly-minted Maulana Ron Karenga was made the head of the Black Studies Department at Cal State Long Beach. And they said Ronald Reagan was made of Teflon!

In the years since, Karenga has seen his "holiday" grow to the point where it is universally accepted (even praised by President Bush). The holiday was honored with an official US postage stamp in 1997. Even if it does come off as kooky and phony (even to those who have not researched it), most shrug it off and go through the motions of including it in the pantheon of December holidays, right up there with Christmas and Hanukkah, so as not to seem culturally insensitive. Karenga has toned down the paganistic and anti-Christian aspects of Kwanzaa in the last few decades, in order to attract black Christians to his lucrative celebration. He now says that Kwanzaa is a time for "giving reverence to the Creator," though he will not be more specific about just what he means by "Creator."

In summary, Kwanzaa is a fictitious holiday, created by a paranoid-schizophrenic, violent, ex-convict cult leader. Black Americans, particularly Christians, should re-think celebrating this pagan holiday, which has nothing to do with their culture or heritage, and is instead a celebration of separatism, Marxism, and violence.

Happy Kwanzaa.

Sources:
Barber, La Shawn. "Why Black Christians Shouldn't Celebrate Kwanzaa," The National Center for Public Policy Research, December 2003.
Malkin, Michelle. "Million Moan March: A Closer Look at the Speakers," michellemalkin.com, Oct. 15, 2002.
Mulshine, Paul. "Happy Kwanzaa," Frontpagemagazine.com, Dec. 26, 2002.
Wikipedia.com ("Ron Karenga")

The Official Kwanzaa Website

Merry Chrismakwanzukah!

Tomorrow: On the Dubious History of Kwanzaa.

On the fruitcake

We all know that the fruitcake is a much-maligned food, the butt of many jokes, due to its somewhat clunky heft and remarkably long shelf-like. Many opine that it does not resemble a cake so much as a brick or bowling ball. But how many of these jokesters have ever partaken of this classic Christmas treat? I've had many fruitcake-based conversations lately, and am amazed to find how many people (many of them in their fifties!) snort at my mention of this as one of my favorite annual traditions and then confess that they, themselves, have never tried it.

Well, as they used to say about something or another, a billion Chinese can't be wrong. Of course, that has nothing to do with fruitcake, and besides, a billion Chinese can very well be wrong, thank you very much. My point is, the fruitcake has not survived a MILLENNIUM--you heard right--for no reason. Let me tell you a little something about the history of the fruitcake.

The Noble Fruitcake

Fruitcake is a heavy, rich cake made with candied fruit and nuts. It may or may not contain liquor. Today, there are almost as many different recipes as there are different families, and they can vary quite widely. The earliest recipe for fruitcake dates back to Ancient Rome, although in a somewhat different form (more seeds than nuts, and very little fruit). The candied fruit and now-traditional nuts became standard in the late Middle Ages, and the fruitcake took on a form closer to what we see today. Crusaders and hunters used to take fruitcake along with them to sustain them on long journeys far from home.

That alone is enough to make it kind of cool. I mean, it's a tradition dating back many hundreds of years, linking us to our Old World ancestors. And it's been associated with Christmas for about 300 years, since a law in Europe banned fruitcakes except at Christmas, Easter, and a few other holidays. (They were deemed "sinfully rich.")

The laws, of course, eventually relaxed. A Victorian tea would not have been complete without a fruitcake. According to one source, "Queen Victoria is said to have waited a year to eat a fruitcake she received for her birthday because she felt it showed restraint, moderation and good taste. "

In 1913, the travelling Ringling Bros. Circus came through Corsicana, Texas, where they partook of the fruitcake at the Collin Street Bakery. The Circus Folk were so smitten with the cake, they ordered several to be sent to their friends at Christmastime, and the mail-order-gift fruitcake tradition began. The Collin Street Bakery is still selling fruitcakes all over the world, and is considered the be-all and end-all of purchased fruitcakes. (They are available year-round, and go for $20-$50 each.)

In all seriousness, fruitcake has been an important part of my family's Christmas traditions for as long as I can remember. My grandmother made it every year until recently, when my mother has taken over the responsibility. When I was a kid, it was reserved for adults, because it was assumed (rightly, I'm sure) that a child's unsophisticated palate wouldn't appreciate it. In our teens, my sisters and I bravely took a taste, and found that we loved it. My dad was saddened--less for him.

It's definitely not like your average cake. For one thing, it's extremely dense and not particularly soft or "cakey." In fact, there's really only enough cake batter there to keep the fruit and nuts from falling apart. In addition, it does weigh rather a lot, and actually improves with age, like a cheese (my grandmother's recipe has a note at the bottom saying the cake should sit a week before eating).

This year, for the first time, I made my very own. I haven't tasted it yet (waiting a week!), but it looks pretty in its foil, and I am proud to say that on our ordinary scale, it clocks in at a solid 6.5 lbs! I had to get out my biggest--mammoth--bowl, and had to have N-Or (gotta come up with a better name than that!) help pour the batter into the pan, because it was so heavy. But the experience was absolutely delightful--I felt linked to my mother, grandmother, and female ancestors across centuries and continents. So even if my first effort doesn't taste as good as Grandma's, I feel proud to have made it. And you're all invited to come over and have a slice. No lame jokes, please.

Mallory Bluth!

I have been longing for the day when Justine Bateman would do a cameo on Arrested Development. At long last, her episode is coming soon.

I wish Mitch had stuck with his original idea, though. That would have been awesome.

Christmas is coming soon!

A Texas Christmas

What shall it be today?

As many of you know (and I have been kind enough to share this little habit with several of you) I like to fill the slow moments in my workdays with visits to a little website known as the Crime Library. This little gem is host to hundreds of delightful tales of wickedness, guaranteed to send chills down the steeliest spine and satisfy the most prurient of imaginations.

I am disappointed, however, in one aspect of the Crime Library. No Scott Peterson feature. I mean, I know there's not exactly a dearth of Scott Peterson info on the web, but I want it the way only Crime Library can spin it! Replete with over-the-top melodrama and clunky literary pretensions of which Sir Bulwer-Lytton himself would be mightily proud!

Oh, well. Maybe someday. Meanwhile, what should it be today? Killer kiddies who kill for kicks? (to quote J-Fo.) Serial sex sadists? Angels of mercy? Wronged women exacting revenge? Celebrity murders? Or the "Truly Weird and Shocking?" (like all this other stuff is normal.) Hmmm. I think this may be a poisoning kind of day. Ohhh, yes. That prose looks positively purple. Can't wait!

Happy weekend.

Lost in Translation

This story reminded me of a funny incident I had once ordering a pizza in Sweden. Sweden is a beautiful country full of beautiful people who speak lovely English. It is also the country in which I had a memorable "Lost in Translation" (like the movie) conversation with a troubled young man named Juhan (I think? It was pronounced Yoo-ahn.) who gave me a light and chatted about American movie actors (he liked Philip Seymour Hoffman best--good taste!) and his multiple-girlfriend problems (multiple girlfriends and multiple problems) as I sat accidentally locked out of my hotel with no jacket, no identification, and no money--only a pack of cigarettes to keep me warm and a kindly, but drunken, over-sharing stranger to keep me company.

Juhan: In Sweden, we call this "Chain Smoking."
A-Dub: Yeah, that's what we call it in America, too.

Aaaanyway, back to pizza. After we left Stockholm, we spent a night in a smaller town called Malmo. It was a gorgeous little city--quintessentially European, if that means anything. (When searching for an appropriate link just now I learned that Malmo's population is now a quarter Muslim and they have lately been experiencing some civil unrest--sad.) Anyway, two friends and I--starving and searching for anything other than pickled herring to eat--decided to order pizza. You can't go wrong with pizza! It was a bit difficult finding the number for a pizza place, but we managed, and got someone on the phone. Unfortunately, we got the one person in the entire country who was not at least conversant in English. We settled on the most ordinary thing we could think of and finally managed to convey that we wanted one. large. pepperoni. pizza. We were a little bit disheartened by the fact that he seemed never to have heard of pepperoni before. "Pepper--pepper...oni?" he kept repeating. That should have been our first clue.

(But then, "skinka pizza" doesn't have the same ring to it.)

When the deliveryman arrived at our hotel, we got quite a surprise. Here is what we got:

One smallish pizza topped with four largeish peppers. And, as a bonus, two large plastic tubs of sauerkraut.

Genuine Swedish pepper-on-i(t) pizza

We did feel like idiot Americans, but we got over it...

My most unintentionally ironic comment EVER

This happened a couple of years ago, but I just thought of it, and had to share. I think it's one of the funniest things I've ever said because it was genuinely not even slightly intended to be funny.

I was regaling my younger sister, E-Dub, with a humorous "oh-poor-pitiful-me" story about how my three beloved college roommates, none of whom were theater majors, didn't quite understand me.

A-Dub: I come home from class, and we're chatting about whatever had happened to us that day, and they always tease me about the way I tell my stories! I think I'm just calmly telling them what happened to me, but they always accuse me of being dramatic!

E-Dub: Well, you can be a tad dramatic sometimes.

A-Dub (horrified, gasping): Et tu, Brute?!

Betrayal.

Guaranteed to give you nightmares

It's the World Beard and Mustache Championships.

Input, please.

A little housekeeping today... ever since I set up this blog, I've been a little displeased with the way it looks. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it doesn't seem quite... reader-friendly. While I think the black, white, and red is exactly what Norma would choose, and I like it looking "different," I'm beginning to wonder how easy it is to read on different monitors. So I've futzed with it a little, but I'd really appreciate your input on any of the following topics:

• How readable the white text is
• How readable the red text is
• How noticeable the links are
• The size of the fonts
• Anything else

Somebody call the Australian police!

Okay, maybe I've been reading too much Crime Library, but this story about Heath Ledger sounds like a desperate plea for help from a man teetering on the brink of infanticide.

New Dad Ledger's Life Is "Food and Sleeping"
Hollywood heart-throb Heath Ledger is reveling in his new role as a father, even though his waking hours are now devoted to preparing food and washing up. He says, "My life right now is ... I wouldn't say reduced to food but my duties in life are that I wake up, cook breakfast, clean the dishes, prepare lunch, clean those dishes, go to the market, get fresh produce, cook dinner, clean those dishes and then sleep if I can. And I love it. I actually adore it." After taking his new family to celebrate Christmas in Montana with Williams' parents, Ledger plans to take baby Matilda to his native Australia. He adds, "Next year my hope is to spend as much time in Australia as possible. I want to introduce Matilda to the ocean."

Let’s read between the lines, here. “Introduce Matilda to the ocean?!” He’s going to toss her in! I’m sure he’ll pretend it was a horrific accident (and it won’t do any damage to his career—Eric Clapton, anyone?), but seriously--doesn't that "I adore it" part feel a little tacked on, like a "just kidding"? Can't you just picture him manically laughing and hugging baby just a little too hard, his usual dim-bulb expression flickering a little psycho?

"Return from whence you came!"