What matters most.

J: I'm debating having a thing for the Wilson Farms dude.
A: Fat swearing manager guy?
J: Nuh. Glasses-wearing, deepvoiced guy. Clarkishly sweet. In a smells-like-Java kind of way.
A: You cannot have a crush on every man that reminds you of Clark Kent.
J: Why not? Clark's very crushable.
A: I think, by definition, he's actually very not.

A skinny Santa is bringing something to me.

More Hallmark for your holiday. Can't shake the Cutesies. While simultaneously holding fast to the notion of a Worker Drone Culture--drab, bleakeyed, scarred by the lash.

On the construction of holiday elves:

Basic recipe:
One part 1950's fashion (holdover from Hermey)
Two parts incredible attentuation (long fingers, skinny pants--for small workspaces and chimney-plumbing purposes)
Healthy dash of Dick Van Dyke

Flavor according to taste--
-High class toymakers--prim, tidy, classic reds and greens
-Shackled elf--nervous and lined from life under perpetual deadline
-Jack Frost--smirking, weather-damaged skin, cracked and bleeding fingers

Won't let the nervous bury me.

Not the kind of glen for stumbling on ungirt. Even in the daylight.
Especially in the daylight.

It's the bright places of terror that are the worst. Those populated by the pale, lidless things without shame or sense of dark propriety. Of dawn crimes performed with incurious fingers and mouths. Of words muttered around noon-bleached bones. Of suffering beyond screaming in a green world of singing birds. All observed by an approving sun.

Most wonderful time.

Time once again to own up to that nearest and dearest passion.

Mush.

We are tree-purchasing masters. In the hard-handed, frosty bearded, thin lipped sense of the word. It's really the season's Great Race and there's no place for frivolity. We yoke the Yule and run him ragged. With results. This year came in a decade winner at thirty-seven minutes. That's including drivetime, selection, payment, setup, and a mild fracas concerning exits and entranceways at Home Depot.

There's no real art to it. More of a grab 'n go. No measuring or trunk trimming. No unwrapping for the twenty digit count. Just whatever's taller than us and small enough to shove inside the trunk of a midsized Nissan--twine takes time. Then the sprint to the house. An unceremonious dressing-down with the kitchen scissors. A shake, a spin, and a shove to the stand with a nasty injunction not to fall like 2004's defiant Douglass.

And back to our preferred screens. Leaving the holiday spirit panting and anemic and pinned somewhere between the bookcase and the wall.

Songcraft.

Tired of hearing those same two Portishead songs on the Rhap's Downtempo radio? Check this out. It's a weird taste sensation, but worth it.

(An A.B.L. find.)