And I'd be remiss not to mention that after running into Grant and Scott, who were carrying an emptied Heineken box full of Rockstar Energy Drink, red cups, two ping-pong balls, and--for some reason--orange juice, I have now seen two "grown" college men play energy drink pong in an emptied library tower past closing time. And now we are sitting in the dark, backed up against a wall and testing our computers to make sure they will turn off at a moment's notice if someone should open the door to this room to make sure it's empited.
I guess it's college, and I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
It's Finals Week
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Because I can't get enough Mary Poppins...
Here's a theory.
Remember the scene in Mary Poppins when she teaches Michael and Jane that "In every job that must be done, there's an element fun. Find the fun, and snap! The job's a game!"?
I'm pretty sure that scene ruined not just me, but my future as well.
Let's get real. There is no work being done in this scene. Mary, Michael and Jane run around the nursery, half-playing with toys and half-snapping their fingers, causing the toys to jump back into place, cupboards to shut in orderly fashion, and clothes to fly into the air, folding themselves mid-launch, and plop into dressers. I'd happily do that "job" every day.
Now, I know we're supposed to look through this scene and see the true message, but I can't. My brain remains childlishly literal: They weren't having fun while cleaning! They were just having fun!!!
That said, I seem to expect that things will simply drop into place for me. That a job will come by my door, that I will become some discovered actress/writer/illustrator/blogger/trapeze artist and things will be set. Unfortunately, life doesn't work that way. I'm singing showtunes and snapping my fingers when I really need to be tidying the nursery.
Monday, March 5, 2007
Inconsistencies
Perhaps I'm crude, but I couldn't help but comment the other night as I watched the last hour of DM on Julie's computer that it seemed strange to see all those strobe lights and lasers for a dance marathon to benefit people living with epilepsy.
I remember vividly my freshman year when our efforts to raise money for autism research were personified as a mother and her autistic son took the stage to thank us for all of our hard work. How was the thanking handled this year?
I know, I'm horrible. But aside from the fact that this was a legitimate question, I took note that this was yet another in a string of incidents marked by irony and inconsistencies.
In an art store, it turns out, you get all types. Not just the crazy sculptors or the anal architects...
Last weekend, I helped a blind woman to the paint aisle to pick out black paint for her. As I asked her which "black" she wanted--Mars Black, Ivory Black, etc.--I wondered what her artwork looked like, if it was somehow prophetic, or if maybe people's praise precipitated from their discomfort with looking at the artwork of a blind woman. I later found out she is not just a painter--she is a teacher.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Senior Year
"I look back and can't remember most of my undergraduate career," Brett said over Dixie Kitchen brunch yesterday. "I mean, I know I took twelve classes, but I couldn't really tell you much about them."
After I finished my cheese grits and eggs benedict, I went home, filled up a suitcase with used textbooks and drove to Norris. I got $98.75 for roughly two dozen books that culminated most of my own twelve classes that I cannot remember either. Now I don't even have the books to prove I took them.
Though I won't admit it any other time except now, I spontaneously cry sometimes just by looking at Facebook or my room. I'll pick up my high school scrapbook and the people in the pictures look back at me from a different dimension. Some are now strangers. Some have passed on to the next life. Some, were it not for facebook, I could not tell you where they are or what they love.
And, I think, is this what becomes of the now? Four years down the road, will I look through pictures and say, I wish I still had the love we had in that relationship. I wish I knew what she was doing. I wish I had known him better.
There's so much pressure to get it right--this senior year thing. And who can?
Later that night, I met some of my favorite people for margaritas and burgers, shared some laughs, got drunk and played games, sang until my throat hurt, and had a sleepover. I may not get everything perfect, and I may keep making some of the same mistakes that I keep trying to fix, but for the meantime, I'm doing the best I can.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Nostalgia
I miss New York.
I'll be sitting at my computer (like on a day like today) and suddenly start thinking about walking down 7th Avenue in Park Slope and the sound and smell of crisp leaves crackling and crushing under feet and strollers. Or I'll think about what various dirty words the street vendors at the Court Street stop in Brooklyn would toss in my direction as I rushed off to class. Or I'll suddenly think of the view of the dirty canal from the F line as it slips around Red Hook. Or I can taste the chocolate shakes from the Shake Shack and hear the music in Madison Square. When the sun blinds me in Chicago, I think about the glinting light bouncing off the flying towers of New York. I can't help it.
I haven't gotten into the city (here, in Chicago) nearly as much as I'd promised I would. I really have no good excuse either other than how much I hate the El after riding the MTA subway. I am, however, going into the city on Saturday for an animation festival at the Music Box. Had it not been -30 degrees below last weekend, I was going to go bar-hopping. There's still time and plenty of city.
For now, I apply and search for jobs and torture myself by wondering where I'll be in a year. Which is why I must stop thinking and wondering and drowning in what-if's. For now, there is now.
I live in Evanston. And that's fine.
(it'd be nicer if I had my iPod...)
Saturday, January 27, 2007
A New Kind of Experiment, that may lead to lots of humiliation
I once read about drunk blogging... the process of drinking and blogging at the same time. Tonight, at the risk of all things good in my life, I will accomplish this feat while a Streetbeat Party happens right outside my bedroom.
Now understand--during most Streetbeat Parties, I sit in my room and drink the Streebeat DJs' booze and surf the Internet. Tonight should be about the same, but with this whole blog thing thrown in. I will now go steal some of their vodka to add to my Hpnotiq to make my first cocktail of the evening at 10:30 P.M.
11:23 P.M.: As far as Streetbeat parties go, this one is kicking. Not only are there no theater majors here this time, but more than three DJ's showed up. However, par for the course, they are all dudes. Most of them are dudes I don't know. I literally can hear grunting outside of my room. Here are a few of the dudes:
Dude 1, whom we shall call "Juan," is that dude who girls just love but don't date because they're pretty sure they'll somehow fall short of him because so far he seems perfect. John and I have tried to hook Juan up in the past but with no success. Juan is a total catch--good looking, smart, multitalented, enthusiastic about life and the things he does with his own, all that jazz. Juan is still available.
Dude 2, whom we shall call "Old Guy What's He Doing Here?" or OGWHDH?, arrived a healthy forty-five minutes late. OGWHDH, although old, is hip. He brought Beefeaters. For discussion: What's better? Beefeaters or Bombay? Talk amongst yourselves.
Dude 3, whom we shall call "Headphones Guy," wears headphones in the cold like they are earmuffs. For him, it's a fashion statement, but for everybody else, it's just a big mistake. Headphones arrived at the party ready to go.
Dudes 4 and 5, whom we shall call "Freshmen," arrived before anybody else did.
11:34: (wondering how much bass these apartments can handle before they shatter into pieces) Matt's part over at Church and Ridge has already been broken up, evidently. People attempted to enter the WNUR Streetbeat's free party, and were immediately turned away. Electronica DJ's are harsh.
11:46: My favorite thing about college parties is the mindless chatter. I just met a freshman girl (Note: Count is now: Girls: 2, Boys: 34, or something like that) who told me how she is choosing between Classics and Economics as a major. God love her. This conversation subsequently turned into an awkward conversation about majors and futures with four or fives individuals. We made several conclusions based on generalizations and then laughed at everybody who wasn't one of our majors to make ourselves comfortable, (SESP's!!!). I also was rewarded with champagne for walking into the room. This is another very uniquely COLLEGE experence. Nowhere else will you arrive into a place and will people shower you with booze. "Hooray! You're here! Now we'll take Peppermint Patty Shots!" Only if you're between the ages of 18 and 22.
11:50, one more thought before I go: I asked that girl how she was "liking it." What a bitchy thing to say! Oops. I'll go make up for it.
11:57
12:12 I met a bunch of people in my kitchen. I don't know who they are. One girl asked me how I got the real martini glass with the slice of lime. I told her, "Suck it." Actually, I said, "i live here."
A Haiku:
If you live with me
You can drink all that I have
Otherwise shut up.
12:46: Ran out of booze, Mike goes to Jesss's in order to grab tequila...to salvage the situaion with tequila and raspberry vodka... Mike comes in room, asks where John is, we dont' know . Go find him. In ktichen. Telling off Dude Number 6.
1:01: Mike got an audition at Yale. Jess didn't. It's ok though. ((input by Jess)) We're all here now.
1:10: I tried to get Dude #7 out of here. It didn't work. He just asked me how New York was. Jess said I was drunk.
1:11 Guy came in said "Hey what's up". Caitlin said "heeeeeey". Guy said "uh" and left. ((input by jess))
1:14 Wine glass broken by Pete in kitchen... That makes 2/4 for Julie. All of all for Caitlin?
1:26 Mike is showing off about some place in Italy (Burano...the smaller Murano, whre they make glass --input by Jess) where I (Caitlin)31 don't know.
1:41/; I'm going ro be naked all th theiml
1:46: I'm here again and this time I spilled and it was my fault. This time it was Jon's fault and I spilled it.
1:48: Oh, shit!
1:51: shit swet bedrooma~ Son'r hwre hwe hCW ROO MUXH PD RHr~ roo lRW~
2:04: Jess and Mike are on my bed, tring to make pictures. I don't like this. I also walked on on Brett trying to pick up some half-pretty girl who is not really prettyl.
2:37 : Oops.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Uptown in Chicago
I miss New York. Chicago is small and I bought in to the idea that a city is only a city if you get lost every time you go in it. I guess I better start getting lost in Chicago again and remind myself that it's not just Belmont, Southport and Uptown. Speaking of which...
John and I celebrated our first anniversary together on Sunday evening. Much to my surprise, he had arranged for us to sneak illegally into the abandoned Uptown Theater and spend a couple hours exploring it. If you're unaware of John's documentary on the subject (which would mean you have never spoken to him before), then you wouldn't know that the theater is the largest movie palace in the United States, a last decaying remnant of the decadence that was the 1920's.
Though the theater is falling to pieces in some places (a chunk of plaster here, a warped wood-panelled wall there), it maintains an overwhelming beauty that literally takes your breath away. It's hard to believe that architecture in the United States every took on such European, indulgent attention to detail. Where chandeliers no longer illuminate the towering ceilings, the handwork of hundreds of artists hides veiled in cavernous shadows, forgotten.
The most striking thing about being in a place like the Uptown--a place abandoned, forgotten--where thousands of people walk by each day, unaware of what sits inside, is how it simultaneously
is ravaged by, and untouched by, time. It decays, yes, but somehow it feels as if you might shut your eyes, reopen them, and find yourself in another time--maybe wearing your best outfit and waiting in the ticket line for a seat to the latest talkie; children running between the brass posts and velvet ropes, soon to be stowed away in the theater's nursery; the mechanics and the electricians downstairs, toiling in the heat by Titanic-sized boilers and fans, unwittingly taking in Legionnaire's air and a stinted life; the women in their Mezzanine boxes, chattering and fanning themselves; the projectionist's assistant struggling up flights upon flights of stairs to deliver the burdening film reel and when he reaches the top, he can stare from the box--ten stories above the rest of the audience, the rest of the world--and watch.
But then you open your eyes and you remember that it's 2007. The theater is abandoned, crumbling under the weight of years of neglect, and life goes on. Who knows what will happen with this amazing place, but I'm glad that I've been inside and seen it with my own eyes. Oh, and Bob, the building manager, said he'd happily sneak anyone else in who wants to go. :)
John and I celebrated our first anniversary together on Sunday evening. Much to my surprise, he had arranged for us to sneak illegally into the abandoned Uptown Theater and spend a couple hours exploring it. If you're unaware of John's documentary on the subject (which would mean you have never spoken to him before), then you wouldn't know that the theater is the largest movie palace in the United States, a last decaying remnant of the decadence that was the 1920's.
Though the theater is falling to pieces in some places (a chunk of plaster here, a warped wood-panelled wall there), it maintains an overwhelming beauty that literally takes your breath away. It's hard to believe that architecture in the United States every took on such European, indulgent attention to detail. Where chandeliers no longer illuminate the towering ceilings, the handwork of hundreds of artists hides veiled in cavernous shadows, forgotten.
The most striking thing about being in a place like the Uptown--a place abandoned, forgotten--where thousands of people walk by each day, unaware of what sits inside, is how it simultaneously
is ravaged by, and untouched by, time. It decays, yes, but somehow it feels as if you might shut your eyes, reopen them, and find yourself in another time--maybe wearing your best outfit and waiting in the ticket line for a seat to the latest talkie; children running between the brass posts and velvet ropes, soon to be stowed away in the theater's nursery; the mechanics and the electricians downstairs, toiling in the heat by Titanic-sized boilers and fans, unwittingly taking in Legionnaire's air and a stinted life; the women in their Mezzanine boxes, chattering and fanning themselves; the projectionist's assistant struggling up flights upon flights of stairs to deliver the burdening film reel and when he reaches the top, he can stare from the box--ten stories above the rest of the audience, the rest of the world--and watch.But then you open your eyes and you remember that it's 2007. The theater is abandoned, crumbling under the weight of years of neglect, and life goes on. Who knows what will happen with this amazing place, but I'm glad that I've been inside and seen it with my own eyes. Oh, and Bob, the building manager, said he'd happily sneak anyone else in who wants to go. :)
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
Enter Sandman
Do you ever have dreams where you suddenly find yourself in your third grade classroom and realize you forgot to complete an assignment for Mrs. Perkins back in 1992 and now you have to repeat the entire educational process?
And it's the science fair again, and there's Ronnie again with his fancy bird feeder that is so obviously made by his parents, and what does it have to do with science fairs, and what did it have to do with science fairs back in 1992??
You're panicking and your knees don't fit under the kid-sized desks anymore and you don't have your pencil case and God-only-knows where your Trapper Keeper is, and oh no, where did Mom put the lunch money--didn't you just have a paying job? You guess not. You guess, in fact, you're going to have to come up with something quick to match Ronnie's bird feeder and hope the other kids like you and maybe get Student of the Week or a gold star by your name on the bulletin board. You guess you'll just have to stick with it.
Except this time, it's not a dream.
Welcome back to Northwestern, Caitlin.
You didn't graduate yet--remember? You're a senior now. You've only been interning these last six months. You live in a dirty Evanston college apartment, not in a Brooklyn brownstone. Also, you haven't bought any books yet.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Another Homecoming
Arriving back in Lebanon yet again is less exciting and more deja vu each time I am on break. This time, the dullness of my hometown is compounded by the total awesomeness (and lack of a close-by replacement) of New York.
I'm afraid that I'm destined to be THAT girl who's like: "Oh my God! Well you think THAT sandwich is good?? AT SIXTH AND TWELFTH IN MANHATTAN I ONCE HAD THIS SANDWICH THAT RIVALED GOD." yackyackyackyack.... It's like when I came back from studying abroad in the south of France and everything was about the Mediterranean and apricots, except this time it's all about the East River and pizza. And oh-mi-god-lemme-tellya-bout-the-pizza-!!-pepperoni-like-you-wouldn't-believe-sister-!!.
And let's face it: I really hated New York for the first month or so I was there. HATED IT.
The crowds. The smells. The subway stabbings. The drug dealing elderly women on my stoop. The cooped-up feeling of a boyfriend-shared, one-bedroom apartment. The yelling on your corner at 2 am. The elbowing for room on Sixth Avenue. The Staten Island accent. Did I mention the crowds?
I once spent the entirety of forty blocks underground on an express train that was crawling more slowly than the local tracks with my nose pressed into one man's armpit and my ass pressed into another man's palm.
I hated New York.
But like every other sucker who moves to the city, I fell for it.
After the sun goes down and the sidewalks radiate heat from the day, a breeze blows in from the Atlantic and it's hard not to love it. By dusk, the city rushes quietly home--by bus, by car--and the din of clinking flatware against white porcelain plates plays like distant hands on ivory keys in Carnegie. Walking along 82nd, the squeaking friction between a wine glass and the terry cloth drying it is louder than your footsteps while the old man holding both these items stares at you through his thick glasses from his fourth floor apartment and you think that it's nice he doesn't live any higher than the fourth floor if he absolutely must live in a ritzy apartment on the Upper West Side and that you have maybe seen him on the subway with a camel-colored briefcase and you know there's only the one wine glass and that he has dined alone.
When the weather cools down, the leaves change color--setting the city afire in oranges and golds. And you love that even after months of becoming a jaded New Yorker, the sight of the Chrysler Building's triangulated, impossible tip first buzzing and then bursting into light like an inverted firecracker against a dark canvas sky still takes your breath away.
There's a lot wrong with New York, but the real problem is that there's too many things right with it. You can't always love it, but you can't leave it either. If you do, you can hear the chk-chk, chk-chk of the subway, the clacking of stilettos against pavement, the honking of taxis and the fizzing, crackling electricity of the city as it turns on its lights. It's too much to bear and you know you'll be back.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
A Christmas Struggle
When I was barely leaving toddler-dom, I asked my mom every night for over a year to read me 'Twas the Night Before Christmas before bed. I loved that book.
The copy I had seemed old to me, which made it special. Its cover was hard and big--I couldn't cover it with both my hands spread on its surface. Like most kids, the idea of this man who lived forever and just made presents all year consumed me. It made sense that he existed. Who wouldn't love just giving gifts for a living and having an army of elves and cavalary of reindeer at your disposal?
But how was Santa the one who got the gig? Had nobody been giving gifts before then? Did Santa start Christmas? No, the baby Jesus did. I had that book, too. Even at this young of an age, the basic commercial and spiritual clash of Christmas was baffling me.
'That's tacky,' my mom said when the apartment across the street from our house put up a 'Happy X-Mas' light-up sign. I asked why and she explained that the 'X' took all the nice things out of Christmas--that it made Christmas all about buying stuff and not about being with family and friends. 'Why bother putting up the sign if it doesn't even spell the whole word out? It's missing the real message.'
So I would return to my studies, poring over the famous Christmas Eve text, looking for clues. After my mom shut the door, I'd pick the book back up from its spot on my bookshelf and, unable to read the majority of the words, I would stare at the pictures. There had to be something I was missing, and once I found it, the whole Santa-Jesus-Christmas thing would become clear to me. Instead, the pictures--out of the context of the story itself--became more confusing.
Most confusing was the last picture in the book. Santa had finished his big night--the gifts delivered, the cookies eaten, the milk drank. But here on the last page, without any words to explain, was Santa--lying out in the sun, stretched onto a beach chair with sunscreen slathered thick and white on his nose. He was holding a drink with a little umbrella in it like the ones that I could get at TGIFriday's with my soda if I asked the waiter nicely. He was on vacation.
The copy I had seemed old to me, which made it special. Its cover was hard and big--I couldn't cover it with both my hands spread on its surface. Like most kids, the idea of this man who lived forever and just made presents all year consumed me. It made sense that he existed. Who wouldn't love just giving gifts for a living and having an army of elves and cavalary of reindeer at your disposal?
But how was Santa the one who got the gig? Had nobody been giving gifts before then? Did Santa start Christmas? No, the baby Jesus did. I had that book, too. Even at this young of an age, the basic commercial and spiritual clash of Christmas was baffling me.
'That's tacky,' my mom said when the apartment across the street from our house put up a 'Happy X-Mas' light-up sign. I asked why and she explained that the 'X' took all the nice things out of Christmas--that it made Christmas all about buying stuff and not about being with family and friends. 'Why bother putting up the sign if it doesn't even spell the whole word out? It's missing the real message.'
So I would return to my studies, poring over the famous Christmas Eve text, looking for clues. After my mom shut the door, I'd pick the book back up from its spot on my bookshelf and, unable to read the majority of the words, I would stare at the pictures. There had to be something I was missing, and once I found it, the whole Santa-Jesus-Christmas thing would become clear to me. Instead, the pictures--out of the context of the story itself--became more confusing.
Most confusing was the last picture in the book. Santa had finished his big night--the gifts delivered, the cookies eaten, the milk drank. But here on the last page, without any words to explain, was Santa--lying out in the sun, stretched onto a beach chair with sunscreen slathered thick and white on his nose. He was holding a drink with a little umbrella in it like the ones that I could get at TGIFriday's with my soda if I asked the waiter nicely. He was on vacation.
A slew of questions arose: Did he stop at home or did he leave the reindeer on their own to get back to the Pole? Where's his suit and does he always wear yellow swim trunks when not in his suit? Where's Mrs. Claus? Does she get a vacation, or do she and the elves slave over the next year's toys beginning on December 26th without any help from Santa? When does his vacation end, does it last a week or until December 23rd of the next year?
After a year, I got tired of trying to figure it out. I had learned to read almost all of the words in the book, I had stared at the pictures for hours on end, and nothing was becoming more clear. Santa, I guessed, would remain a mystery.
Perhaps driving this Christmas quest was my personal relationship with Jesus. I don't, however, mean 'personal relationship' in the way that a Catholic grandmother might mean it.
I really mean 'relationship,' to the point where at age four, I had a crush on the Biblical figure and wanted him to be my boyfriend. (Note: Jesus not always this air-blown.) Of all my imaginary playmates ("Charlaines" my five-dollar pink bear bought at KB Toys, Barbie, Grover from Sesame Street, and Elmo too--until I found out he was a 'he' and not a 'she' and I felt terribly cheated), Jesus was my favorite. He was the most real and the nicest.My friendship with Jesus came crashing down around me my last year in preschool. On a sticky August afternoon, Jesus and I were playing outside under my favorite tree in my backyard. My dad had made the swing--a totally, utterly rough tree swing with rope that would give even the toughest sailors callouses and a flat, hard, butt-numbing board for a seat. I loved it. So on this afternoon, I--willing to be a good friend and share--was pushing Jesus on the swing since it was His turn. Then, something happened. It might have been because I hadn't been spending much time lately looking at the illustrations in my Mom's childhood Bible, or maybe because I had waited so long before I did share the swing with Him, or maybe I was just pushing too hard... But suddenly, unexpected, Jesus flew back much farther than expected and I was hit in the face.
I fell onto my back, knocking my head on the ground. Worst of all was my chin--scraped by either His foot or the butt-numbing swing itself. I ran inside, crying and confused. While I sat in her lap, my mom put Neosporin, gauze and medical tape on my chin and I explained to her what had happened. Through my tears, I made a vow. I was done playing with Jesus.
It wasn't that I didn't believe in Jesus, I concluded, I just wasn't friends with Him anymore. I went back to studying my 'Twas the Night text. Sadly, Santa still wasn't providing explanations or answers as he smiled over his tropical drink. Even more devastating was when, clued in by context about a month after my break-up with Jesus, I found out that Santa was not real.
The details of this horrible revelation I do not remember. According to my mom, I asked for the truth in the car while on an errand drive with her. I asked timidly and in a way that my Mom took to mean that I had figured it all out, and even if she couldn't pull over on Ohio Route 42 to talk about it, she should be honest with me then and there. After she said that I was right, Santa didn't exist, she tried to explain that the spirit of Santa Claus was a real thing while I cried over my second loss. I've done a pretty great job totally repressing this memory. I do remember, however, that afterward I put the 'Twas book on the shelf indefinitely, deciding I was too old for Santa, and feeling more confused than ever about what Christmas really meant.
Things have changed in the last eighteen years. I no longer resent Santa for not being real and I'm not grudging on Jesus for that scrape he gave me on the swing. I don't keep a copy of 'Twas the Night Before Christmas nor of The Holy Bible bedside. I don't believe in Santa, and I'm pretty sure Jesus was an okay guy, but not the son of God or anything.
Some children in France are taught that Santa
was actually St. Nicholas, patron saint of children, sailors and pawnbrokers (go figure). On a cold night, three lost children are taken into a warm cottage by a butcher who feeds them heavily and then puts them in bed. Once they fall asleep, he then chops them into bits and pieces, tossing their sliced and now salted remains into a barrel for later. Seven years pass and St. Nicholas happens along the cottage after hearing the sliced and salted remains of the children cry for help, pieces the kids back together and informs the butcher he can repent for his sins and, well, God will set him free. In other versions of the story, he grabs the butcher by the heels and shoves him in the barrel for all eternity (forever and ever, amen), putting a new spin on French children's images of Hell.
I'm not sure at which point Nicholas went from being Saint to being Santa and moved from France to the North Pole, but I'm okay with this story. Granted, it's bloody and dated (from the 1500s actually), but in it, Santa and God coexist and fight together in an epic battle of good versus evil. So I may not be sure how commercially and/or spiritually I want to spend my Christmas this year--the ratio of my time spent mall shopping and knelt praying now escapes me--but either way, they both beat the third alternative--spending seven years salty and in pieces at the bottom of a barrel. And I suppose that's a good reason to celebrate.
I'm not sure at which point Nicholas went from being Saint to being Santa and moved from France to the North Pole, but I'm okay with this story. Granted, it's bloody and dated (from the 1500s actually), but in it, Santa and God coexist and fight together in an epic battle of good versus evil. So I may not be sure how commercially and/or spiritually I want to spend my Christmas this year--the ratio of my time spent mall shopping and knelt praying now escapes me--but either way, they both beat the third alternative--spending seven years salty and in pieces at the bottom of a barrel. And I suppose that's a good reason to celebrate.
Happy Holidays!
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