A Christmas Play for the Ages

 Here is a little Christmas play to read while sipping your eggnog. Some say it is a future classic. Others are repelled by the thought of eggnog.

It’s a Wonderful Nose

 

Narrator: We open in a dark apartment, sparsely decorated for Christmas. There is soft, sad Christmas music playing. Rudolph, the famous crimson-nosed reindeer sits alone, depressed, and contemplating his life.

Rudolph: Oh, woe is me. I’m so miserable and unimportant. It’s Christmas Eve and nobody calls me. They don’t need me any more. Just like always. Life has no meaning any more. Nobody needs me. I can’t face another Christmas. I am going to eat this liverwurst and end it all.

Narr: As most people know, liverwurst is deadly poison to reindeer.

Rudolph: Good-bye, cruel world.

Narr: Suddenly, there is a flash of light and a ghost appears, decked out in a garish  Christmas sweater and a Santa hat.

Ghost: Hey, ho! What’s all this? Put down that liverwurst!

Rudolph: What in the—Who are you?

Ghost: I am the Ghost of Christmas Present.

Rudolph: Christmas presents?

Ghost: No. Present. As in present tense. I’ve been sent here to show you you’re wrong about yourself, that your life does have meaning, that you are important.

Rudolph: You’re wrong. I’m going to end it all, Mr. Present.

Ghost: You can’t!

Rudolph: I wish I’d never been born.

Ghost: Oh, ho! That’s it.

Rudolph: What’s it?

Ghost: I’m going to show you how wrong you are, little friend. We’re going to show you what the world would be like if you’d never been born.

Rudolph: We?

Ghost: Yes. Hey, GC Past! Come over here.

Narr: There is another flash of light and the Ghost of Christmas Past enters. He is wearing a green velour bathrobe and pajamas. On his feet are fuzzy slippers.

Ghost: May I present the Ghost of Christmas Past. This is Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.

GCPast: Nice to meet you.

Rudolph: It’s a pleasure. What’s he here for?

GCPast: We’re going to take a little trip down memory lane. Here. Hold my sleeve.

Rudolph: I can’t. I have hooves, not hands.

GCPast: Oh. Well, take a mouthful of sleeve then… And here we goooo!

Narr: They drift out of the room and another place begins to take shape. We hear bells ringing and see a group of reindeer playing so-called reindeer games.

Rudolph: What is this place?

GCPast: Don’t you remember? It’s the reindeer ranch at the North Pole. It’s three days before Christmas, many years ago, the day you first arrived.

Dasher: Hey, Blitzen. Look what we have here. A new guy.

Blitzen: A new guy, eh? What’s your name, pal?

Rudolph: Rudolph.

Blitzen: Nice to meet you, Randolph. I’m Blitzen. This is Dasher.

Rudolph: The name’s Rudolph, not –

Dasher: Hey, gang! Come on over and meet the new guy.

Blitzen: This is Dasher.

Dasher: Hi.

Blitzen: Prancer, Cupid.

Cupid: Hello.

Blitzen: Comet. Meet Randolph.

Comet: Nice to meet you.

Rudolph: You too. It’s Rudolph, not –

Blitzen: This is Dancer.

Rudolph: Hello.

Blitzen: And this is Vixen.

Vixen: We were just playing some reindeer games. Would you like to join us?

Rudolph: Oh, boy! I love reindeer games.

Vixen: Great. Why  don’t you come over here and –

Cupid: Whoa! Just a minute.

Dasher: What’s the matter Cupid?

Cupid: Don’t you see it?

Vixen: What?

Cupid: Look at his nose.

Comet: It’s red!

Donner: It’s glowing… It’s shining!

(There are gasps and exclamations of astonishment)

Prancer: We can’t play reindeer games with some guy with a glowing red nose.

Dancer: You got that right, Prancer.

Donner: Yeah, games are for reindeer, not monsters.

Comet: You said it.

Cupid: Come on everybody. We’ve got games to play.

Dasher: See you round, kid.

Narr: Off they go, back to their playing. Leaving poor Rudolph and the Ghost.

Rudolph: Ghost, why are you showing me this sad memory? It makes me want to go back and gobble down that liverwurst.

GCPast: Well, things didn’t start out so well, I know. Let’s fast forward a little way – to Christmas Eve.

Rudolph: Hey, guys. What’s going on?

Dasher: Oh look who it is. Randolph the red-nosed weirdo.

Rudolph: My name’s not Randolph it’s –

Comet: Hey Freakazoid. How’s everything?

(Laughing and general derision ensue.)

Rudolph: They used to laugh and call me names.

GCPast: Well, they were about to learn a valuable lesson.

Donner: Hey, Blitzen, kick that ball over here.

Blitzen: Where is it, Donner? This fog is getting really thick and I can’t see where it is.

Vixen: Gee. It’s starting to get bad.

Dasher: It sure is.

Comet: I hope it goes away soon or we won’t be able to pull Santa’s sleigh tonight.

Cupid: It’s like pea soup!

Prancer: We can’t fly in this.

Dancer: What are we going to do?

Narr: Suddenly, into this scene of uncertainty the big man himself arrives. He’s jolly, fat, bearded, decked out all in red with white trim, around his waist a black belt with a large buckle.

Santa: Ho, ho, ho!

Rudolph: There he is! My old boss.

GCPast: Good old Santa Claus.

Santa: Ho, ho, ho!

Narr: The reindeer abandon their games and gather around Santa.

Cupid: Oh, Santa. Look at this awful fog.

Donner: It’s too thick.

Dasher: We’ll never be able to fly in this pea soup.

Vixen: This is one foggy Christmas Eve. What are we going to do?

(There is a cacophony of questions and exclamations from all the reindeer.)

Santa: Silence!... (Immediate silence, awkward pause) I mean – Ho, ho, ho! Don’t worry. I think I have the answer right here. Rudolph, with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?

Rudolph: Me?

Blitzen: Yeah! (There is a chorus of excited reindeer begging Rudy to do it)

Rudolph: Silence! (Immediate silence, awkward pause) Er, I mean… Yes, I’ll do it!

All: Hooray!

Santa: Ho, ho, ho! You’ve saved Christmas, my boy. What a wonderful nose!

(They all cheer and the cheering fades into the background.)

GCPast: And then all the reindeer loved you.

Rudolph: Boy oh boy. That was great.

GCPast: You went down in history that night. Let’s head back, Rudolph. Here, grab my sleeve.

Rudolph: But I don’t have hands, remember.

GCPast: I know. I know. Hooves. Just bite, Rudolph. Here we gooo!

Narr: And with that, the two find themselves back at Rudolph’s apartment. The Ghost of Christmas Present is there, sipping egg nog.

Ghost: Back so soon?

Rudolph: Yes. He showed me how important I used to be.

GCPast: Hey now, young buck. That wasn’t the point.

Ghost: Hmm. All right. Give him to me, GC Past. I am the Ghost of Christmas Present, so I’ll show you a few things. Hold on to my sleeve.

GCPast: He can’t. He only has hooves.

Ghost: Okay. I’ll grab your antler then.

Narr: Again, the room recedes and another comes into focus. It is a small, dingy living room, modestly decorated with a few Christmas stockings. We see the Cratchit family, Bob, Mrs Cratchit and Tiny Tim, who is just putting the star on top of a pitiful little Christmas tree.

Rudolph: Where are we, Ghost? Who are these people?

Ghost: This is the Cratchit family. It’s Christmas Eve. Today.

Bob: Good boy, Tim. That star looks splendid on the tree.

Tim: I’m so excited, father. It’s Christmas Eve and tonight Santa Claus will bring us all presents.

Mrs Cratchit: Of course he will, dear. But we all know that presents don’t make it Christmas, Tim.

Bob: Yes, Tim. You remember how when the Grinch stole all the presents in Whoville, they still sang and celebrated.

Tim: Oh, Father, you’re such a kidder.

Mrs Cratchit: Come now, young man. Grab your crutch and head off to bed.

Tim: Yes, Mother. Good night. Good night, Father. And God bless us all – everyone!

Bob: Good night. Merry Christmas.

Narr: Tiny Tim exits, visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

Mrs Cratchit: Oh, Bob. I’m starting to worry about this dreadful fog. However will Santa Claus get here in this pea soup? If he can’t make it here, our dear children won’t get any toys tomorrow. They will all be crushed, especially Tiny Tim. He’s so delicate. What will become of him if Santa doesn’t come?

Bob: There, there, my dear. Santa has never let us down before. He won’t let us down now.

Rudolph: I wouldn’t worry too much, Mrs Cratchit.

Ghost: She can’t hear you, my boy.

Rudolph: Are these real people?

Ghost: Of course they are. And there are many more like them, all over the world.

Rudolph: Gosh.

Ghost: Yes. Gosh is right. You don’t want to let them down, do you?

Rudolph: Oh, it’s not up to me, Mr Present. I’m not that important any more. They’ve been getting along without me for years now.

Ghost: Really? You’ve still got that ‘I’m unimportant. Nobody needs me’ bee in your bonnet? Maybe you need to see a Christmas future – a future in a world where you’ve never been born. Let’s head  back home. I want you to meet somebody. Here we gooo!

Narr: They are back in the apartment. There is a mysterious figure with his back to us. We hear ominous music.

Ghost: This (indicating mystery figure) is the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Narr: The figure turns slowly around, revealing a pleasant looking old gentleman in an old suit.

Ghost: His name is Clarence. He is here to show you what you wish for, a world where you have never been born.

Rudolph: He looks like the kind of Ghost of Christmas Future I’d get.

Clarence: Well, I’m still only a Ghost Second Class. But my helping you might just be what pushes me up to the next level.

Ghost: Okay, Clarence. You know what to do. Grab onto – bite down on his sleeve and off you go!

Clarence: Careful, Rudolph. This suit is 130  years old.

Narr: Everything goes dark. The lights come up gradually, but there is an eerie fog enveloping the scene.

Rudolph: Oh look. We’re back at the North Pole. It’s so foggy. Hey! There’s the sleigh filled with toys. And the other reindeer, just standing around. Hey, Blitzen! Shouldn’t you guys be getting ready?

Clarence: Nobody can hear you, Rudolph. You’ve never been born.

Blitzen: What are we gonna do? We can’t see in this fog. How’s Santa supposed to deliver all these toys in this pea soup?

Comet: We can try that thing where Santa duct tapes a flashlight to one of us again.

Donner: That didn’t work the last time we tried it.

Comet: Yeah, you’re right. I still  have the scars to prove it.

Prancer: If the fog doesn’t lift in the next half hour Santa’s going to have to resort to Plan B.

Dancer: Plan B? You mean…?

Prancer: That’s right – the Elfmobile.

(Everybody groans)

Cupid: That’s not going to work. Those silly elves never even put snow tires on it.

Dancer: Those little so-and-sos are great little helpers, but they sure lack initiative.

Rudolph. Oh. Here comes Santa.

(The reindeer gather around him)

Santa: Hello. Er- I mean, ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas… Oh, who am I trying to kid. I’ve got some bad news everyone.

Vixen: We’re going to start late?

Santa: No, Vixen. According to Accuweather, this fog isn’t going to lift for days. And I’ve got no way to see through it and steer us through.

Dasher: If only one of us had a glowing, shining red nose. That could illuminate our way and get us through this horrid fog.

Prancer: Yeah, that’s what we need. And if such a reindeer ever existed, we wouldn’t ever make fun of him or laugh at him or anything.

Dancer: He’d be celebrated in song. He’d go down in history.

Santa: That would be great, Dancer. But such a special reindeer has never been born.

Rudolph: [Gasp!]

Santa: What a world. Well, anyway. I won’t be needing you tonight. You may as weill go to bed and try to forget all this sad stuff – maybe get in a few reindeer games or something. Me- I’m going to spend Christmas Eve with Jim Beam. Ho, ho, ho!

(The stage darkens, except for a spot on Rudolph and Clarence)

Rudolph: Oh, no! But Santa –

Clarence: Let’s go, Rudolph. We’ve got one more stop on this Tour de Misery.

Narr: They find themselves back in the dingy Cratchit living room. It’s early morning. Christmas morning. Christmas Future morning.

Rudolph: I remember this place. It belongs to that poor Cratchit family. Clarence, how come I don’t see any presents under the tree? Isn’t it Christmas?

Clarence: Yes.

Narr: Mr and Mrs Cratchit enter the scene. They’ve just gotten out of bed and find an unpleasant surprise

Mrs Cratchit: Oh no! Bob, he didn’t come. Santa didn’t come. It must be the fog. What are we going to do? The children will be crushed, crestfallen, disappointed, broken-hearted, disconsolate –

Bob: Dear! I get it.

Mrs Cratchit: Especially Tiny Tim. He’s so delicate, Bob. Oh, Christmas is ruined.

Bob: There, there, my dear. There must be a reason for all this. Maybe the children were naughty this year?

Mrs Cratchit: No, Bob, no. They were perfect angels all year. Especially Tiny Tim.

Bob: I just don’t get it. We were counting on Santa to bring presents. There’s only one thing we can do now.

Mrs Cratchit: You mean –

Bob: Yes, dear. I’ve got to take the ten dollar bonus I got from Mr Scrooge and run out to Drug Mart for last minute gifts.

Mrs Cratchit: Oh, I guess so. But what if the children come down in the meantime?

Bob: I don’t know. Maybe you can have a fire drill or something. I gotta go. (He races off)

Rudolph: Clarence, this is awful! Why didn’t Santa deliver the presents to these nice people? Were they naughty?

Clarence: No! They weren’t naughty. Haven’t you been paying attention here? It was the fog, Rudolph, The sleigh couldn’t fly in the fog. It’s like pea soup out there for goodness sakes.

Rudolph: You’re saying that without my nose to guide the sleigh they had to cancel Christmas?

Clarence: That is exactly what I’m saying. And it’s not just here, Rudolph. It’s all over the world. Children everywhere are crushed, crestfallen, disappointed, broken-hearted, disconsolate, dispirited, un ---

Rudolph: I get it, I get it ...  And it’s all because little old Rudolph was never born?

Clarence: Yep.

Rudolph: Gosh. I thought I was so unimportant, that nobody needed me.

Clarence: You were wrong, my friend. You are important. You are needed. The world needs you. The world misses you.

Rudolph: Clarence, are these sad scenes real? Or are these all just shadows of things that might be or just would have been or some such alternate reality type deal? In other words, can this be changed somehow?

Narr: Suddenly, we hear Tiny Tim’s voice offstage.

Tim: Mother? Father? It’s Christmas. As soon as I find my crutch I’ll be downstairs to see the presents. Come, my beloved brothers and sisters. Let’s go down and see what Santa brought.

(We hear commotion and excitement from Tim and his siblings)

Rudolph: Great jumping mistletoe! Clarence! We can’t let this happen. The children can’t see this. Please! Don’t let this happen…I want to live! Bring me back Clarence. Please. Bring me back.

Narr: The lights go down momentarily and we hear the Christmas music we heard playing at the beginning. As the lights come up we see Rudolph, alone in his apartment. There is banging heard on his door as he wakes from his altered state.

Blitzen: Open up, Rudolph. What’s going on?

Narr: Rudolph jumps up and runs to the door and opens it.

Rudolph: Blitzen!  Donner! What are you doing here?

Blitzen: Finally…Where have you been? We’ve been trying to call you forever. It’s Christmas Eve. We need you. Come on!

Donner: Yeah. Don’t you ever answer your phone?

Rudolph: My phone? (He realizes his mistake) Oh yeah. I turned it to do not disturb mode so I could take a nap. Has all this been a bad dream?

Blitzen: Some nap. We’ve been worried sick about you, kid. Grab your phone and call Santa and let him know you’re alive.

Donner: We need you today, Rudolph. I’ve never seen such a thick fog. Bring that wonderful nose of yours and let’s go. It’s time to save Christmas.

Rudolph: A dream…

Blitzen: Call the Big Guy first.

(Rudolph pulls out his phone and dials)

Rudolph: Hello?...Santa? This is Rudolph… Yeah, thanks. I’m happy to hear you, too… I left my phone off… I understand there’s some trouble tonight… Right… I’m on my way… Be there in a few minutes… Merry Christmas to you, too. Bye. Let’s go, friends. What a dream!

Narr: The three rush out and slam the door. We hear a voice coming from the opposite direction. It’s the Ghost of Christmas Past. He’s waving at the departed reindeer.

GCPast: Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. (He enters in his robe and PJs) Hey, Clarence,  did you happen to see where he put that liverwurst?

Some Problems with Time Travel

    Call me a wet blanket, but I must point out certain difficulties in the whole concept of time travel. Now I know that people love stories of time traveling, either forward into the future or back to the past, and many often speculate about it happening in reality. There have been countless films, television shows, books, comic books, commercials, cartoons and who-knows-what centered on people traveling through time. It would certainly be nifty if it were a reality, opening up all kinds of interesting possibilities and complications. Unfortunately, I don't think it can happen without overcoming some major, seemingly insurmountable problems. And by the way, it isn't nice to use the term wet blanket to describe somebody, so I take back that first sentence.

    Suppose a person, we'll call him Harvey, wants to travel back in time, to 1860, to warn President-elect Abraham Lincoln that he is in grave danger of looking silly if he grows a beard without also growing a mustache. And suppose Harvey also has what is thought to be a working model of a time machine. The first thing he should do is to put it in a vehicle and drive it to Springfield, Illinois. That way, he doesn't have to lug the thing across country on horseback or on a train. Then, Harvey goes to a field outside of town, but within walking distance of Abe's place. There he dons the helmet, protective suit, goggles and gloves that come standard with the time machine, and sits on the seat inside the machine. He fires it up and sets it for "Right here, November 1860" and pulls the switch. 

    Here is where one of the biggest problems of time travel rears its ugly head. "Here, November 1860" is a place in the universe where Springfield is when Harvey pulls the switch. However, this place in the universe back in 1860 did not contain Springfield, nor even the Earth. The Earth was not here yet. It was immeasurably far away, rotating around the Sun, spinning on its axis in the solar system, part of a galaxy hurtling through the universe at high speed, only ending up here at the very moment he pulls the switch. Unfortunately for Harvey, when he pulls the switch he gets sent, not to the field outside Springfield, but to a lonely spot in outer space, empty, airless and pitch black. He's dead. And none the wiser, Abe Lincoln never grows his mustache, and the body of poor Harvey just floats around in deep space forever, or until the Earth smacks into it in the 21st Century.

    The point is that a time traveler is sent to a time and a place, and the place on Earth that he's aiming for is nowhere near the spot in space that it occupies in the present. How can he go to where the Earth used to be? Isn't it enough of a problem just devising and building a machine to take you to a different time? Now you've got to make sure it sends you, with pinpoint accuracy, to a different part of the universe. The mind boggles, as well it should.

    So any machine that travels through time must also travel through space, too. But suppose, (you retort, haughtily) such an amazing technology is invented and that the machine can actually send the traveler to the correct spot in the universe? Where's the problem now, Mr Fishbrick? I don't know, Haughty Questioner. How good is your machine? What if Harvey goes to that field outside of Springfield, his

special suit filled with brochures depicting comely mustaches, he pulls the switch, he goes to the exact right time, 1860, and to the exact right space in the universe, on Earth, where it was then, in Springfield. But then it turns out that back then, in that exact place, there sat a majestic elm tree, wind wafting through its branches. And now Harvey and his time/space machine and the elm tree are all somehow melded together as one - a horrifying half-man, half-machine, half-tree, half-mustache brochure; too many halves for one space. It's something too awful to contemplate, even for an alleged wet blanket like me. How does your machine overcome a problem like that? Or perhaps Harvey travels ten thousand years into the future, but what was once a field in Springfield is now a hill, and he is engulfed deep inside of it. Or it is now a lake, filled with hungry piranhas, and nobody thought to make his special suit nibble-proof. What if Harvey goes way back in time and ends up with his head inside a mastodon who just happened to be wandering by, minding his own business?

    I can probably come up with ten thousand scenarios that would spell doom to our Harvey, or at least mild embarrassment. And yet we rarely see such disastrous consequences depicted in movies, books and television shows. Mostly, their unforeseen consequences involve awkward romances or belligerent apes or fierce dinosaurs, never the logistical, physical nightmares such as I've illustrated above. If human beings want to travel back and forth through time, I think there are just too many obstacles in the way. I just don't see us overcoming those. Sorry.  I hate to be a wet blanket.

What's New?

Being boring and lazy has its disadvantages when it comes to conversation.  At least that is what I have heard.  I was told this by an acquaintance. We will refer to him as Ned. 

"Ned, whatever do you mean by that remark?"  I asked, with genuine curiosity.  He replied, as any polite person would do when asked a question, that he was talking about the chance meeting he had with an old friend.  Before I could ask him to elaborate, he elaborated.  He told me that whenever a long-absent friend fills him in about his life and times since last they met, and then asks Ned about his life, Ned's response is usually rather underwhelming, which tends to elicit a look of either pity or disgust on the face of the friend. 

I asked him for an example of what he meant.  He then reached into his coat pocket and produced a sheet of paper.  "Read this," he said.  "It's a transcript, taken from memory, of my last such meeting."  I have reproduced it here, on this blog, from memory, as he would not allow me to keep the document.

Friend:  Hey there, Ned.  I haven't seen you in ages.  How are you doing, fella?
Ned:  Hey there, _____.  Not too much. Nice tie you've got there.
Friend:  Oh, yeah.  Thanks.  I made it myself with a 3-D printer.
Ned:  You did?
Friend:  Oh yeah.  I've got a whole bunch of these in my trunk.  They're copies of a real tie I have at home. 
Ned:  That's great.  So what have you been up to, _____?
Friend:  I just got a new job.  I'm an international race car driver adventurer secret agent journalist.
Ned:  Really?  That's great.  Didn't you used to be a nuclear physicist Bigfoot hunter deep-sea diver?
Friend:  Yeah, but it was starting to get a little old.  Plus, the pay wasn't all that great.  Money was getting a little tight.  I had to sell one of my private jets to help make ends meet.
Ned:  Your new job pays better, then?
Friend:  You bet!  I feel lucky to get it, you know?
Ned:  How does one get a job like that?
Friend:  Connections.  A good friend of mine from my movie days told me about the job being open.  I thought I'd offer to let them hire me for it, and of course they did.  The rest is history, as they say.
Ned:  Wow, that's great. 

Friend:  It sure is. What's new with you, Ned?

Ned:  Oh, not much.  I'm still working the third shift at the tongue depressor factory. 

Friend:  Oh, great.  You've been there a while now, Ned.  You must like it.

Ned:  Sometimes.  Like, during lunch, or whenever the throbbing in my head dies down after a shift is over.

Friend:  Okay... Anything going on outside of work?  Any big doings?

Ned:  Well, let's see... I bought a new toaster a few months ago... And, um, I took a short trip to Saginaw, Michigan.  I spent the whole day there practically.  Funeral. 

Friend:  Interesting. (He starts looking at his Rolex)

Ned:  I made a dentist's appointment for next Tuesday... so there's that.  I'm getting a cleaning.

Friend:  A cleaning.  Nice. (He starts to slowly back away.)

Ned:  Yep.  Oh, I just finished a book.  It's about otters.  I forget the title. Not too bad. 

Friend:  Yeah... That's really great... Oh, hey, look... I've gotta run, Ned. My girlfriend is waiting for me to pick her up at the modeling agency. So I gotta go. Nice seeing you again.

     Poor Ned. I didn't hear any more of his story, as I was pressed for time.  I'm sure I'll see him again some time.

The Bucket List

As I slide headlong down the greased incline leading to the grave, it occurs to me that there are still a few things I have not done yet that I would like to do.  The fashionable thing to do nowadays is to compile  these things into a list and put them in a bucket like they did in the movie "the Bucket List" starring Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson. In that movie, which I have not yet seen, the two protagonists, T-Bone and Prickly Pete, played respectively by Freeman and Nicholson, are facing impending death by some type of disease or two and go off to accomplish various things they always wanted to do, like sky diving and cow tipping and such.  From what I understand, hilarious consequences follow each adventure our heroes undertake, culminating in the Grim Reaper grabbing these guys by the collar and dragging them to hell. Now I don't know whether anything I've just written about the movie is true or not, but it has inspired me to compile a list of some of things I'd like to do before this Reaper character kicks down my door and chops my head off with his blade thingy.  It's not that I am expecting to go to my own funeral any time soon, but it would be nice to do a few things that I'll be able to look back on with satisfaction as my head rolls across my living room floor. 

Here, then is a partial list of things I'd like to do before I kick the whatchamacallit:

• Get the gum out of my couch cushions
• Find a restaurant that serves good fried chicken (haven't come close yet, despair of ever finding one)
• Exercise
• Get a green light at the intersection of Cove and Lake Avenues (it has to happen some time.  It has to)
• Go a full month without having some part of my car malfunction
• Put away every bit of the last batch of laundry before I start the next batch
• Pay my bills on time
• See a Cleveland sports team win a championship (yeah, right)
• Vote for somebody who actually wins an election
• Play a single song on any musical instrument all the way through
• Go to the Stratford Shakespeare Festival in Canada.  (it's not that far away)
• Learn to eat with utensils
• Paint my garage
• Find all my missing socks
• Memorize my cell phone number
• Match just one number on a lottery ticket
• Play tennis with Bigfoot (we could sit down court side afterwards and drink lemonades)
• Ski down Mt. Rushmore
• Run with the cows in Pamplona (less exhilarating than with bulls, but much less dangerous.  Plus, there is a milk break at the halfway point)
• Go to the Guiness brewery in Dublin
• Remember the lyrics to a song, any song
• Sing the song in tune
• Learn to make a good cup of coffee
• Find a cure for stupidity (but not my own)
• Do a dance in a stage musical without looking like I want to kill myself
• Find a beautiful rich woman with an impaired short-term memory
• Rearrange the weeds in my yard
• Go "russian roulette" bungee jumping (where they sever the bungee of one random jumper every day)

This list, of course, is not exhaustive, even if it is exhausting.  If I think of anything else to throw in the bucket, you will be the first to know.

Quality Writing Would Tire Me Out

I think this is going to be a big year for Fishbrick.  Already, with this post,  I have doubled my output over last year.  Certainly, the quality of my blog posts is probably decreasing as my brain continues to dry up and turn into dust (that's what happens to your brain when you start to approach middle age).  But never mind about the quality of this blog.  Quality has never been an issue here at Fishbrick.  Obviously.  If I were concerned with quality writing, I would hire someone to write for me.  But I say write, write, write - never mind the product you turn out.  Just write.  Keep polishing your craft.  The more you write, the better you become.  A committed, dedicated writer writes constantly, even if he has nothing to say.  I'm a perfect example of that.  I have nothing to say, and I am constantly blogging, constantly crafting words, moving my fingers on my keyboard, watching the prose take shape across my screen.  Why, I've written three different things on this blog in just over one year.  And the fact is, I'm getting really tired right now.  All this polishing and crafting and stuff takes a lot out of me.  I may need to take a little break and come back when my brain is rested (dust and all).  So, I'll see you all in 2019.

Meanwhile, here are some more internet-based links:

Damn Interesting (sorry about the mildly profane title)
Reality Carnival (hours of fun)
A very large rock (video)
Poem Hunter (for those who are tired of prose)
Pretty impressive artwork (hyper-realistic drawings)

A Discourse on Improper Attire

     It's good to back at Fishbrick.  It has been quite a while since I posted anything, but my lawyers advised against my blogging anything until my lawsuit against the Little Sisters of the Poor was cleared up.  Now that that's out of the way, I would like to comment on an alarming fashion trend.
     The past few years I have noticed an increasing number of people going about in public dressed in pajama pants.  Often these people wear bedroom slippers to complete the ensemble.  I have given some thought to what may be motivating these folks to go to such extremes to dress down for public consumption and I think it must be one of two things: either extreme laziness or callous disrespect for their fellow man, a deeply entrenched misanthropy, if you will. 
    If it is laziness, then it is the kind of laziness that even I, a lazy man, cannot come close to fathoming.  It is the kind of laziness that throws garbage out its kitchen window, or even fails to make the effort to open the window at all and keeps the garbage in a pile on the floor.  It's the kind of laziness that eats meals in bed, that can't be bothered to flush the toilet, that only showers in extreme emergencies, that can't be bothered to pick up a dropped sandwich, that would never dream of walking down an escalator, but must stand like a lump until it reaches the bottom.  And I will bet you, the reader (if there is a reader out there) that it is the kind of laziness that, after using the facilities in public or private (and not flushing) would never make the effort to wash its indolent hands.  To this kind of laziness, even putting on a pair of sweatpants and slipping on some unlaced boots would be an endeavor of herculean effort, downright unthinkable.
     The other possible motivation for public display of pajama pants, as I said, is disrespect toward one's fellow man.  I imagine an inner monologue inside this slovenly misanthrope as going something like this:  "Oh, how I despise mankind!  I must do everything I can to make my neighbor's life unpleasant, for no man but I deserve to experience beauty.  Surely ugliness and disorder must be the lot of the creatures who surround me in my daily activities.  They are all loathsome dogs, and such dogs deserve nothing but the very worst from me.  From this day forward, I vow to make all men, women and children feel the disdain I have for them by making them gaze upon my horrid pajama pants and bedroom slippers.  They shall feel consternation and rage, discomfort and even fear as they feast their lowly eyes upon my raiment.  Only when I am home will I change into the luxurious designer-labeled clothing I have purchased for my private use.  My shoes will I shine, my hair  will I comb, my fingernails will I buff.  And nobody but I will ever feast eyes upon my loveliness as none but I am deserving of such a privilege.  For the world, pajama pants!  For me, sartorial splendor!"  
     Yes, that's probably what these people are thinking. 

Coming soon:  an epic poem about people who wear short pants in the dead of winter.

Warning Signs

Life is fraught with danger.  Sickness, calamity, accidents and death are constantly on the hunt for new victims.  The best way to stave them off is to be attentive, watchful, alert and aware.  We must be sensitive to the warning signs of impending doom, and thereby take action to thwart its doominess.  Following are a few warning signs.  If any or all of these apply to you, you can either roll over and accept your demise, or take immediate steps to convene a committee to draw up guidelines in order to formulate a bold plan of action to undermine the hostile intentions of cruel fate.  Knowledge is power, and as the old saying goes: forewarned is forearmed.  So maybe you should tattoo this list to your forearm.

Warning signs:

• Bullets being fired in your direction.
• Being hurled through the air.
• Being told that you just drank poison.
• Scratchy throat.
• Getting embalmed.
• Meeting deceased relatives in a beautiful place of peace and light.
• Shortness of breath.
• Rigor mortis.
• Vomiting.
• Seeing a mushroom cloud up close.
• Hearing the heartbeat of a large shark.
• Leg cramps.
• The smell of gas in the house.
• The sensation of being trampled by African elephants.
• Smoke alarm going off in your house.
• The sound of your driver snoring.
• The sound of your stewardess shrieking in terror.
• "Welcome to Guatemala City"
• Seeing the handle of a knife protruding from your chest.
• Your ski buddy yelling "Avalanche!"
• Slurred speech.
• "Welcome to Chicago"
• Frequent nosebleeds.
• Your pal Jim Bob stumbling in the door with a box of fireworks.
• A telephone pole inside your car.
• Dizziness.
• Being covered with flies.
• Hearing your surgeon say "oops" in the operating room.
• Watching the upper floors of a tall building speeding past you.
• The sensation of dirt being shoveled onto your coffin.

Another Desperate Redesign

In order to keep up with the competition, I have updated the look of Fishbrick, utilizing Blogger's popular brownish template.  I changed the colors and fonts of the texts, too.  You may also have noticed that the graphic of the fish and the brick have been removed and replaced with nothing.  A recently completed study by the Institute of Blog Design (IBD) found that pictures of  fish combined with bricks elicited negative reactions from the public, ranging from vague feelings of ennui and listlessness, to boils on the skin.  I always rather liked the drawing, generously furnished by Lenny (famed for his Jawbone Radio blog, his popular Twitter feed, and his jalapeno rum squares), but I am not one to cavil with the results of an esteemed fictional institute like the IBD.

Another innovation in what I like to call the New Fishbrick is a decreased usage of the letter z, which will tend to expedite, or streamline, the reading process.  Also, notice that the blog is actually a full inch wider than it used to be, a change recommended by IBD experts in their semiannual list of random recommendations.  So far, the feedback on these major changes has been largely ambivalent, owing to the general lack of interest by the public in uninteresting blogs.

But I am not deterred by the public's continuing ignorance of Fishbrick, and I am sure that the changes I've made are for the better, whether they be known widely or not.  And though the changes have not yet had the desired effect of attracting new readers, there is no reason to think that blog enthusiasts will not ultimately flock to this website, even if they flock very slowly.  With that possible outcome in mind, I will continue to produce productive product of the highest quality.  For high quality, even when it is ignored by good and rational people, is nothing at which to sneeze.

Following are a list of urls that might be worth visiting.

Shorpy
The Oddment Emporium
Dark Roasted Blend
Flip Face
Interesting Video