My Secret Identity

"I can see your beard!"

"Of course! Everyone can see my beard!"

"No, your black beard!"

The small child on my lap is very excited. He has peeked behind the Christmas curtain and seen the backstage workings.

Or he is just being a brat. I can't decide which.

About a year ago, My Lovely Wife got us a Christmas gig as Santa & Mrs. Claus. It must be fate. I once played Santa Claus in a school choir performance years ago in junior high. The teacher wanted someone to play Santa while the choir sang, and literally everyone turned to look at me. I was a somewhat chubby kid, but my lovely wife says it's because I'm extra kind (In fact I just typed this part - Mrs.Claus). To quote Arthur, the young janitor in Miracle on 34th St., "The costume didn't have any padding, and I got my own padding." Mom and Granny were tickled by my performance, and it seemed to go well. My lines were non-existent I popped out from behind a chimney and put some toys in stockings. I had to laugh and shake my little belly, like a bowl full of jelly. Then laying a finger on the side of my nose, behind the chimney I rose. (Kudos to C. Clement Moore this is part of my new book "Confessions of a 7th grade Santa.)

The party from last year also seemed to go well, since they invited us back. My Lovely Wife says ( she's typing this right now) it's because we really love kids and love to give out and buy toys for them as much as the Clauses. Plus you can see both of us actually CARE when we are talking to them and taking pics with them. It's about the spirit of the man in the red suit ,more than just a party Santa.

I am the all-seeing Santa! I see all and know all! Yes, especially when you do that.

For the most part, being Santa is quite an easy job. I get paid quite well to sit. On a throne. And supplicants are brought before me. I can see why dictators and the royal family find this appealing. 

And most kids are overjoyed! They run at me and leap onto me and hug me. (Leaping can be problematic. My Lovely Wife played the Easter Bunny at a mall in New jersey long ago. She couldn't see a thing out of the eye holes, but she could hear a voice shout "I'm heavy!" Then she heard the tromping of running feet. Then she went bunny tail over tea kettle as the heavy child slammed into he and her chair. Then she was stuck on her back, more Easter Turtle than Easter Bunny, with all of the Easter balloons and decorations falling down around her.) Some of them are just so tickled to meet Santa! 

Lots of them need coaxing. Even though they have been talking to their parents for months about what they want for Christmas, the minute they seem me, they forget everything - even their names. Pretty much the way my wife would act if she ever met Hugh Jackman. 

My wife says"Take your shirt off Santa Wolverine-Gaaaaah...."

We chat with the kids and try to take a picture, then the big question. Have you been good this year? A lot of the kids who are terrified of Santa start to look really worried. Some of them have been Santa'd into submission with warnings that Santa's watching! It's a horrible way to use the jolly fat man, but My Lovely Wife said it was something that really worked on her sister - almost too well. Some kids are scared for a reason, because they are getting COAL. And my sister-in-law got some EVERY year because she was on the naughty list for a while. But we tell them if are nice till Christmas, it still counts. We want them all to have a very happy holiday and not to be scared of Santa. We want them to know that the holiday spirit is very real and exists in us, the embodiment of all things jolly and joyous, Santa and his Lovely Wife Mrs. C.

Next, the minions must ask for tribute, like in Game of Thrones. "Winter is Coming- the list is long." The tiny, clinging supplicants who climb on my lap must dictate their terms of enrichment. And the bounty most sought for in the land? TOYS! TOYS! TOYS!

This is where my lifelong obsession with toys comes in handy. Do you want a doll? (Yes.) What kind? (Either Barbie or American Girl. Buy stock in American Girl dolls. Practically every girl who sat on my lap wanted an American Girl doll.) A stuffed animal? Do you want video games? Xbox or Playstation? (Buy stock in Nintendo. Kids love the 3DS.) Happily, all the staples of my childhood were still popular: Tonka trucks, Hot Wheels, and Lego. (Before Lego got a Star Wars license, they made a generic Space Lego that was always my favorite.) 

Of course, not all the kids love Santa. Some are afraid of me. (There's a whole book about it.) And that's really more funny than sad. Why are you scared of Santa? He wants to give you presents! I'm nice! (Although it is ironic that protective parents tell their kids all year "Don't talk to strangers! Don't take candy from strangers!" And then they see me at a party and they cannot wait to throw their children at the strange, bearded man with a deep voice and funny clothes handing out candy canes.)

C'mon, kids! Santa's in the van! Really!

It's so cute to see a little boy plant his feet in the ground, lock his knees, and refuse to be dragged any closer to Santa. Honestly, it would hurt my feelings if it wasn't so darned cute. It's less cute when the child is placed kicking and screaming on my lap. Let's just say that most Santa costumes don't come with a protective cup.

Mrs. Claus and I always tell the parents to take the picture, screaming or not, since it's still a memory worth preserving. My very favorite picture from Christmas as a child is of me and my little brother sitting on Santa's lap at the mall. My brother looks to be maybe 18 months old, which puts me at around 5 years. In the photo, I am counting off my items on my fingers, all business, most likely asking for Star Wars stuff. (So much has changed since then!) My brother is screaming. He is screaming so loudly that it looks as though he is trying to unhinge his jaw like a boa constrictor trying to swallow a cow. To me, that photo is the Spirit of Christmas in miniature. 

There is a third group of kids, the slightly older ones who are a little too cool for the whole Santa business. You know the ones. They look for any slip of the beard. Any inconsistency, "You don't sound like the Santa I saw yesterday.""Are you really Santa?" I suppose it's karma, since I was exactly that kind of brat as a kid. And you just haven't lived until you try and debate the metaphysics of Santa Claus with a six year old. The elves are at the North Pole. They build the toys. Well, they are very good at making Kindles. Magic, that's how. Yes, Santa is everywhere. Just like Jesus. Just leave out chocolate chip cookies for me, all right? And carrots for the reindeer.

Which brings us back to the start of this post. At about hour 2.5 of a 3 hour party, my mustache started to wilt. Now, no one yanked it off, while screaming "LIAR!" I was sitting next to a space heater, and the combined effects of sweat and children siting on my beard caused it to droop. I tried to cover it as best I could while resetting my bobby pins, but one or two kids were telling me they saw my real mustache under the white one. Coal for you!

These are minor speed bumps. The kids are great, and it is amazing to be a part of someone's Christmas memories. There were also face painters at the party and one of the kids got a Santa beard and glasses painted. "I can help you do deliveries!" he said. That's a better gift than the the Blu-Ray player I asked Mrs. Santa for for Christmas.

It's fun to believe in Santa. Even when you're grown up and don't anymore, it's fun to remember the excitement you felt as a child. When you could believe in something good and magical.

(Like Santa Wolverine! - Mrs. Claus)

Merry Christmas!

Back in business

So, apologies for the hiatus. Work and life conspired to push blogging to the background. But, I'm back with many new things to vent about.

Stay tuned for updates, including a special holiday themed post later today.

Get Your Ass to Mars

One of the last true explorers passed away last week.

I'm late to the party on this, and just about everything there needs to be said about it has been said. But I will add my small piece.

Armstrong's family has asked that when you "see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink."

Not to contradict his family, but I would argue that the best possible way we could honor Mr. Armstrong would be to follow the advice of Mr. Schwarzeneggar.

Let's get our asses to Mars.

My Mom grew up in the space age. She grew up reading Robert Heinlein and dreaming about living on the moon. I grew up in an age where our grandest missions were to resupply the international space station and circle the earth a few times. NASA's been facing cutbacks for years, finally shutting down the Space Shuttle program, and I can't help but think that it's directly tied to our lack of ambition. If we're only going 242 miles up, how is that going to inspire anyone? New York to DC is 242 miles. Amtrak can get you there is 3 hours. (Fucking AMTRAK! C'mon NASA! Amtrak is kicking your ass!)

And I don't think that the public's appetite for space travel has waned. Look how excited we all got when the Mars Rover Curiosity landed this summer! Pictures were taken! Internet memes were spawned!

When we put our minds to it, we got a man on the moon in ten years. 43 years later, that's as far as any person has gone.

I am a liberal Democrat, and I think Newt Gingrich is a bloated toad, but he did say one thing I agreed with on the campaign trail.

Gingrich offered his vision of an ambitious new space program. "By the end of my second term," Gingrich said, "we will have the first permanent base on the moon and it will be American." The crowd erupted in applause.

And he was just getting started; by 2020, he said, there would be regular flights to Mars.

Of course, he was probably just pandering to the Republican voters on Florida's space coast in an attempt to woo those who had lost work once the Space Shuttle shut down.

What's that, you say? Oh, Mars would cost too much? How about we divert $50 billion out of our current defense budget? That only leaves $650 billion left to defend ourselves with. I'd much rather we fund a trip to Mars than another 10 year adventure in Afghanistan or Iraq (or a brand new one in Iran).

So let's get to it. Let's christen the USS Neil Armstrong and get going. I want a Mars landing by 2022. I want footprints on Mars, not tire treads. You want to talk about uniters and dividers? Then this country should unite and get someone on Mars.

And then start the lunar colony. There's still time for Mom to have her Moon Condo to retire to.

(Because she's not moving to Florida. She hates Florida.)

Do Not Want

I love baseball. (Despite the best efforts of the Mets.)

I love Clint Eastwood movies. (This love of his films continues in spite of him losing a debate to a chair last week.)

 Get off my lawn, you smart assed chair!

Any Adams is cute as a button. Even when she's trying to be all South Boston tough in The Fighter, she still adorable. She's been great in just about everything since Enchanted. (What? No, that Amelia Earhart thing never happened.)

So why do I have no interest in seeing this movie whatsoever?

Probably because it's not going to be about Clint or baseball or Amy Adams' adorable nose. It's going to be about baseball as a metaphor for life. It's going to use baseball as a wrapper around a treacle-filled family drama. It's going to use the Field of Dreams trope about how baseball will bring dads and kids together, And Amy Adams looks like she going to be spending the movie in a full on concerned pout.

Also, it's about the Atlanta Braves. God, I hate the Braves and their stupid tomahawk chop. (Really, you're going to sell me on the fact Clint discovered Tom Glavine? I wouldn't slow my car down if Tom Glavine crossed the street in front of me.)

Clint, you're 82. Sadly, you aren't going to be with us that much longer. Why take a chance that this could be your last movie? Why have the last image of you in the public's eye be this, the chair debate, and your wife's awful reality show?

C'mon, Clint! Get to work on Unforgiven 2: Still Unforgiven! Bill Muny's back and he's still cranky! Sure that would suck, but at least it would be entertaining. At least I could watch that on HBO and not be tempted to turn to Real Sex 324 on HBO6.

Like everything else in life, I could be wrong about this. It could be a masterful family drama.

But I'll never know. Because I'm not watching it.

PS: Braves suck.

Night Moves

Imagine your typical street fair. Ok? Now make it ten times as crowded. So crowded you can barely move forward.

Add about three times the number of stalls in a block. Now, instead of it going for five or six blocks, imagine it going for about a square mile.

Oh, and add a fierce powerful stink.

Now add a man with no left hand banging his head on the ground and people paying to get knives swung at them.

Welcome to the Shilin Night Market in Taipei!

Taipei is known for its night markets. They are everywhere, and you can get just about anything at them. And I mean anything. Hundreds of vendors sell clothes, toys, food, shoes, bags, music and other services.

Check it out! Shin Chan boxer shorts! $3 US in the market. If you know the cartoon, you can sing the Man Song with me. 

Like massages.

No, not full release. Unless the "release" is your arm from your shoulder because the knife massager got a little frisky.

Yes, knife massage. One of the booth offered "Alien Knife Massage." Their banner claimed (in English) that "Aliens were at the Shilin Night Market!"Apparently offering massages.

You sat in a massage chair, putting your face against the headrest. Someone would stand behind you and then whack the sharp edge of a knife against your back. I guess the aliens knew just how much force to use so it would loosen you muscles, but not cleave them off your back. And they were doing a good business, too!

Across the way there was another massage booth. In this one, they wrapped a towel around your head and then whacked at you with what looked like a bundle of kitchen matches. Okay.

Each market is known for something, and Shilin is known for the variety of food it sells. Unfortunately, to my western nose, it smelled quite awful. Honestly, it smelled like deep fried vomit. (My Lovely Wife told me that it was likely the stinky tofu I walked by. Truth in advertising.)

Look, I'm sorry to be the ugly American. I was born near Philadelphia, land of scrapple. I am not one to talk. But, wow, the smell was unappealing. And not recognizable. So many stalls had odd looking cuts of meat and I had no idea what they were,

Most of the signs in Taipei are in Chinese and English. Not in the market. Most of the food stalls were Chinese only. So, the odd looking chunks of meat remained a mystery. I took that as a sign. If they didn't want the foreign devil to know what he was eating, the foreign devil was not about to find out the hard way. (I walked through a dried good market the next day that had a barrel of big, dried, caterpillars. Thank you, no.)

Mmmm... Caterpillars...

So, I stuck with my tapioca pearl bubble tea. ($1 US!)

The place as a whole is quite ovewhelming. The noise is constant. The smell is everywhere. The people  crush against you. And you can see some disturbing things.

One night as I walked in there was a man banging his head on the ground, very rapidly and without stop. He had no left hand. I'm not sure if it had been amputated or if it was congenital. He had a bowl in front of him, so I guess he was abasing himself and begging. He didn't say anything, just beat his head on the pavement. It was sad and disturbing. And not something you'd see in Times Square. At least not on a Monday.

Nothing quite like the night market.

The Best Worst Meal

You've been gone a while! What do you have to say for yourself???

Well, following in my father's footsteps, I have discovered the wisdom of getting your employer to pay for you to go on vacation.

I recently returned from a trip to Taipei, Taiwan, where I was enjoying a week of sightseeing and volcanic hot springs representing my employer at a very important conference. Taipei had never been on my 1000 places to see list, but as long as someone else was paying I was going to find exciting things to do there. And there were many interesting things to see and do there, as I will tell you in a post to come.

Unfortunately, good food wasn't one of those things.

Now, since I have extolled the virtues of gravy shakes and bigoted chicken in the past, you might expect my standards to be somewhat low. And you'd be right. So ponder that for a minute. How bad would something have to be to make me say, "Damn, this is bad!"

Pretty bad, that's how bad.

We were staying at a glorified hostel in the north part of Taipei (which was actually very nice). Unfortunately, it was not near any restaurants. It was near the Shilin night market, which had many interesting sights and smells - most emanating from street carts of strange food - but precious little english translation. I was in no hurry to snack on something I could later find out was duck penis, so I gave it a pass.

After getting back from a late night at the conference, two of my co-workers decided to go to the fancy hotel across the street for dinner since nothing else was open.

The hotel looked stunning, both inside and out. It was a very grand style of hotel (quite literally a Grand Hotel), something straight out of the fifties, but gone slightly to seed.

The inside of the Grand Hotel. The artistic dutch angle is due to the artistic Mai Tai I was served.

The restaurants also looked beautiful. Unfortunately, they were all closed by 9:30 PM. The only one open was the lobby cafe, which looked fine. The menu was largely American Diner style, and - important! - there was alcohol. We have a winner!

We sat near the window of the hotel, which afforded a marvelous view of the valet parking.

The staff was friendly, but they seemed somewhat nervous about serving English speaking Americans. They seemed quite nervous about getting everything exactly right.

The menu had a lot of wine and alcohol. I ordered a Mai Tai, having loved them ever since finding a Waikiki Beach bar that offered them for 99 cents at happy hour. However, the drink I was served was not a Mai Tai. Oh it had rum. Not dark rum, but rum. And Hawaiian Punch. So, props for creativity, but no. Not a Mai Tai. Oh, I drank it. (Did I mention the rum?)

My friends ordered a bottle of wine. The staff made a big show out of bringing the bottle and uncorking it. Such a big show that I started to worry my friends might grab the bottle away from the server and uncork it with their teeth. She offered the cork to sniff, but the cork was rubber. This made the whole sniffing the cork part of the operation superfluous. (You sniff the cork to determine if the bottle has suffered cork rot. Rubber corks do not get cork rot.) It was as if they had seen a movie about wine, but never actually served it. They smelled the cork in the movie...we should do that too, right?

We ordered a plate of Asian Delicacies for an appetizer. (Hey, that's what they called them.) We discovered that this was a plate of heavily fried bite sized morsels. A couple spring rolls. Some indeterminate fish bites. Over all, not as good as what you'd get at PF Chang's.

My friend is a vegetarian. She ordered a Croque Monsieur, and somehow managed to convey to them that she wanted the ham left off. Out came a triple decker grilled cheese sandwich. Made from barely singed Wonder Bread, two slices of slightly warm American cheese, and a whole lot of chutzpah.

It also came with french fries. These weren't too bad. However, we had also ordered a plate of fries for the table so we had a mountain of fries. Which was good, since the Asian Delicacies were a little rough going down.

After the pound of fries, I finished off my "Mai Tai," so I tried to order a Jack Daniels and Coke.

I would like to again stress that the Taiwanese are very gracious and accommodating hosts. All of the street signs are in English as well as Chinese. Most menus and storefronts are Chinese & English. Most of the staff in the more tourist friendly destinations speak at least a few words of English. (Which is at least a few more that I can speak or even attempted to learn.) Still, if you understand Jack Daniels and you understand Coke, I don't see why mixing the two would be a problem. It apparently was. Asking for a Jack and Coke caused such a look of panic on our host's face that I was afraid he would stroke out. I changed my mind and instead asked for Jack Daniels on ice. (Asking for it "on the rocks," well that's just asking for trouble.)

So after a delectable meal of fried foods and warm bread, we were sitting and chatting when a new party arrived on the scene.

A three inch long cockroach.

And boy could it move!

One of my dining companions saw it from across the lobby, and by the time she finished saying "Oh my god look at that!" it had made it over to the side of our table.

Well, bills were paid in record time. The total for this wonderful experience was 3000 Taiwanese Dollars, or about $100 US for some french fries, a crappy grilled cheese, and a bottle of OK wine.

Expereiencing international hospitality...Priceless! 

Still, we had a great time during this meal. It provided no end of humor during the rest of our stay.

And it made the Big Mac I had in Taiwan that week all the more tasty. (Especially the fries! How come I have to go to Taiwan to get hot McDonald's fries?)

But I want it!

So there's this ad that's been on all summer. It starts off as an ad for something called the "Carm Sleeve."

But! In a twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan (At least, The Village era M. Night) it turns out that it's a plug for a website called BigSpot.com! "Doesn't this product suck? You can sign up for consumer surveys and tell them that at BigSpot.com!"

Ha ha ha! Stupid Carm Sleeve!

But, I love the Carm Sleeve!

I spend a lot of time driving, and by driving I mean crawling along in New York traffic. It's nice to get some sun while trying to get by the summer lane closures by rolling down the window.

Anyway, I can TOTALLY see the wisdom in a protective shield for your outside arm. I sport a farmer's tan all summer, and if you look at my left arm you'd think I had mediterranean heritage! My right arm, not so much. If someone were to make one, I'd get one for the car! (After all, My Lovely Wife once bought antlers and a red nose to put on the car at Christmas.)

So screw you, BigSpot.com! I know where you can stick that Carm Sleeve.