Listening to: “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing” – Sufjan Stevens, directly followed by “Fairytale of New York” – The Pogues

Happy Christmas, Interblogs! Hope you got a good haul and maybe even got lippy with someone under the mistletoe. But really, does anyone actually hang mistletoe? And does anyone actually kiss anyone under it? Christmas is a pile o’ myth, I tell you.

Mine was spent in the company of kids and dogs–not a bad crowd for the holidays. We did it at my sister’s place in Westchester this year instead of in ol’ Pittsford–and thank Jeebus for that. The ‘rents and I are staying in a swanky house down the street from my sister’s place, watching over the horde while the actual residents are away.

Westchester suburbs, yo, I tell you whut–this place is oozing with money. And children. Many, many, fashionably dressed children. Not a life I ever want for myself, but it’s alright to visit. Staying in a strangers’ house has brought out the voyeur in me; I love seeing how other people live. Apparently these people live immaculately, and are waaay into their kids. One of those Pottery Barn-catalog too-good-to-be-true kind of things. I wonder what shocking revelations and filthy perversions are lurking in the back of junk drawers, behind all the framed photos of grinning toddlers.

Maybe my cynicism about upper-class East Coast suburban life stems from the fact that I’m currently reading The Ice Storm by moody ol’ Rick Moody. Or maybe it stems from the fact that I was already cynical about upper-class East Coast suburban life to begin with. But The Ice Storm is particularly delicious blackness, with all its sad po-mo sex scenes and wan remarks about disconnection and The American Dream. An excerpt, from the moment before two preteens execute a defective G.I. Joe doll by hanging:

Together they stood over the prone body of G.I. Joe with Lifelike Hair, now supine on the folded comforter at the foot of Sandy’s bed. Somehow the idea of trying him again, of going back to the well one more time, felt pointless to Wendy. She recognized a moment here in which she saw the machinations of chance in the universe, and she didn’t want to ruin it. Sandy was adorable in this light. He couldn’t wait. He wanted to dispatch Joe, because he had some dignity wrapped up in the notion of inferior goods and dumb culture and stupid America. He was one of those kids who spent hours in front of the television shouting “That would never happen.” Sandy Williams expected to be cheated. He was ready for it. And it came to pass almost every time, and in this way the world seemed good and true.

Last night, sleeping fitfully in a child-sized bed, cocooned in suburban darkness (my bedroom in Allston is never completely dark–there’s always light from the street leaking through the venetians), I dreamed that a pack of giant-sized giraffes were attacking Central Square. I couldn’t decide whether to run for my life or be completely awed by it. They destroyed buildings, cars, and people very gently and herbevoriously, as if they were just trying to eat leaves off invisible tall trees but were unwittingly laying waste to everything. They didn’t know any better. Bruised and exhausted, I finally wound up at my parents’ house, where I found a lone giraffe asleep in the front yard, curled up like a dog.

I’m tired. Aren’t you? We’re having second Christmas tomorrow with the whole gang, so I’ve gotta build up my energy. My nephews are expecting me to play Wii with them, and I haven’t the foggiest how to work those fucking things. They are so gonna kick my ass.

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Listening to: “All I Want is You” – Barry Louis Polisar

I hate politics. I don’t like having to pay attention to them, because it’s 95% sleight-of-hand and bullshit. It’s a bad, boring variety show put on by a bunch of egomaniacs mad for power.

Or, in the words of the ireppressable Douglas Adams: “Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job.”

But with dear, aw-shucks Edwards out of the race, I’m not really sure who to vote for. Last primary around I was for Dean all the way. That guy is the tits. This time… I don’t know. I can’t seem to find a brief, unbiased account of where Hil and Barack each stand on the issues. This is the closest I could find. I mean, how can you compare and contrast properly when it’s all spin and rhetoric?

But who knows. What kind of universe is it anyway where the Pats can lose the Super Bowl? *Sigh*

Oh well, Tom Brady’s ass is still hotter than all the Giants’ asses put together.

I submitted my one-act play “Thanksgiving” to that playwriting conference in Alaska. I spent two days tweaking the hell out of it, since I wrote it two years ago. I’ll find out in March whether I get accepted. Fingers crossed, kids.

Last night I dreamt that they published “Thanksgiving” in this snazzy hardcover version without telling me. I didn’t know till I came to get it signed by the author and realized that I was supposed to be doing the signing. They had retooled it to be about Jesse James. I think they even called it “Jesse James,” even though it has nothing to do with Jesse James. I tried to tell them, but they said they made the changes for my own good and that I should be happy they took the time to fix it for me. Then they put on a production of it in the basement of a community center, with the entire cast in wheelchairs. It had nothing to do with the original story.

Gotta dig those anxiety dreams.

This post was really the opposite of cohesive.

Oooh, ooh. One more thing. Go see Juno. It is the best ever.