(Disturbingly, my obsessive quest to find/hear this damn song resulted in hearing “Dominic the Donkey” three times. This is what is known as an unintended consequence. I may need to rethink my approach to hearing “Christmas in Hollis” on the radio.)

Your holiday season may now begin. Please exercise all due caution when engaging in the decking of any halls that may be yours to deck.

1a) While spaghetti and meatballs seems like a far cry from traditional Pilgrims ‘n’ Indians fare, our Thanksgiving dinner fulfilled many of the requisite functions of the meal and the day: more food than anyone could or should possibly consume; abundant leftovers, and; more to the point, leftovers that could be made into sandwiches. Sure, there’s nothing that compares to leftover turkey, stuffing and gravy reheated, laid out on a couple of slices of good, thick, crusty bread, dressed with cranberry relish, and made into a messy, unwieldy, delicious sandwich experience, but there are times when a good meatball grinder is good for what ails you, you know?

1b) Successful as the meal was, The Kid has already requested that we have the traditional meal again next year, which is fine.

2) For me, the Holiday Season ™ doesn’t officially begin until we put up our tree, which we won’t do for another couple of weeks yet. At the same time, I recognize that my personal timeframe lags well behind the societal norm, or at least the market driven, media fueled post-Thanksgiving chaos that we’ve trained to think of as the societal norm. Among all the other things that means (Sales! Crowds! Dubious Bargains! An Almost Total Loss of Perspective! Mass Hysteria!) comes the first salvo in the month-long assault of holiday music. I have very simple requirements in this area: I don’t feel like I’ve had my full Festive Holiday Experience ™ for the year until I hear certain songs on the radio: “Christmas in Hollis” by Run D.M.C.; “Step into Christmas” by Elton John (I hate myself just a little bit for this one); and, of course, “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses. So I drove over the mountain and down the highway to the in-laws this weekend scanning radio stations the whole way. No Waitresses. No Hollis. Half an Elton John. But really, no Waitresses. On the other hand, I heard Peggy @#$%ing Lee “Rockin’ Around the God-*^$@ed Christmas Tree” about a half dozen times. This does not bode well for my enjoyment of this festive season of Joy and Cheer ™

It was @#$%ing awesome to behold.

For me, the ultimate expression of that moment did not come on the field at Busch Stadium under the carmine light of a moon in eclipse. I saw it in the New York Times the next morning, in a photograph of Red Sox ace pitcher Curt Schilling embracing Sox veteran Johnny Pesky. The look on Mr. Pesky’s face in that photograph distilled for me what it means to be a Red Sox fan: joy and disbelief in equal measure, hope rewarded and doubt vanquished, yesterday’s mistakes redeemed by today’s actions, all in a place where people, despite their outward differences, share a common, sacred and unbreakable bond.

On an unseasonably warm November night in 2008, I watched, breathless (and, truth to tell, a bit queasy), as the networks tallied up votes, and projected states for one or the other of the leading presidential candidates. I sat, increasingly tense, as the outcome seemed increasingly certain. I felt hope, but it was tempered by the bitter lessons of the past. I was hesitant to believe given the realization that taking things like this for granted in the past resulted in chaos, disappointment, and eight years of leadership that I believe has done profound damage to our nation, its people and our standing in the world, leadership whose mistakes our next president will have to work tirelessly to rectify while also working to achieve their own agenda.

Even when CNN made its announcement shortly after 11:00 p.m. Eastern Time, I could not bring myself to celebrate. Like the Apostle Thomas Didymus, merely hearing the news from a third party was not enough for me. My faith required proof. My doubt affected the members of my family with whom I watched the results. My mother declared she could not believe, could not celebrate, until I did.

Still, as the networks showed signs of celebration in Chicago, in Atlanta, in Harlem and Times Square, and in Washington, D.C. (in front of the White House no less!) it became difficult to hold on to skepticism. As the time came for Senator McCain to take the stage and give his concession speech, we woke up The Kid so that she could witness history in the making.

Then, finally, my resolve began to crack. The first fissure came when I read the words “President-Elect Obama on the television screen.” The next came when I sat down on the couch, put my arm around The Kid — my daughter — and realized that the fact I wanted her to see this moment justified my belief. Finally, the image of Reverend Jesse Jackson standing in Grant Park with tears running down his face shattered any illusion I had that celebration was premature. The look on Reverend Jackson’s face in that moment distilled for me what it means to be an American: joy and disbelief in equal measure, hope rewarded and doubt vanquished, yesterday’s mistakes redeemed by today’s actions, all in a place where people, despite their outward differences, share a common, sacred and unbreakable bond, and must shoulder the same obligations of — as President-Elect Obama noted in his victory speed — service and sacrifice.

Like the 2004 Red Sox, President-Elect Obama’s victory also capped off a long, dramatic season of struggle and teamwork. It was the realization of hope deeply felt but rarely indulged in recognition of so many past disappointments. It came as the result of putting all the right pieces together, and executing a plan for victory day after day, of making mistakes, learning from them, and improving based on what was learned.

I’m exhausted this morning, and all I did was bear witness to history. I can’t begin to imagine the bone-tired fatigue that everyone who worked harder, fought stronger, and struggled more mightily for so long must be feeling today, beginning with President-Elect Obama — and does that phrase not have a lovely ring to it? He delivered on the promise of hope; now he must lead us, inspire us, and charge us all to turn hope into action.

I can’t wait to see what the next four years bring.

In essence, I’ve turned into this guy:

What ever I touch
Turns to snow in my clutch
I’m too much!

…with, perhaps, a touch less meteorological joie de vivre and a touch more frosty bitterness, or possibly bitter frostiness. So maybe it’s more accurate to say I’m like this guy:

Regardless, I’m damn cold most of the time. Considering the alternative (sweaty and hypertensive) it’s probably best if I learn to adapt to this new internal thermostat setting, and accept that until that happens, layering is my friend.

Scene 1:
A kitchen and dining room, somewhere in America

Bart Modern: [reads the day's school lunch menu offering aloud.] Bringing or buying?

The Kid: Not buying.

B. Mod.: Salami sandwich?

TK: No.

B. Mod.: Then what?

TK: Peanut butter.

B. Mod.: Jelly?

TK: No.

B. Mod.: Roll or bread?

TK: Tortilla.

B. Mod.: Really?

TK: Yeah.

B. Mod.: No, I mean really? You just want, like, peanut butter on a cold tortilla?

TK: Yeah.

B. Mod.: Okay.

Scene 2:
The same place, five minutes later

B. Mod.: [Opens refrigerator, removes jar or peanut butter and package of tortillas.] Hey, could I maybe warm up the tortilla a little, and make this like a wrap? Maybe put some sliced apples on it?

TK: Peeled apples?

B. Mod.: Okay.

TK: Then yeah. You should put a little bit of lemon juice on the apples.

B. Mod.: To keep them from going brown?

TK: Yeah.

B. Mod.: Okay. [Crosses to cabinet, removes skillet, places on stove, assembles wrap.]

TK: Hey, are you putting honey on it?

B. Mod.: Yeah, I thought a little bit would be good.

TK: Cool.

The End

Not really a recipe, but here’s what ended up in The Kid’s lunch bag yesterday morning:

1 burrito size flour tortilla
1 serving peanut butter (which according to the label is 2T, but come on, who are we kidding here?)
5-6 thin half moon slices of apple, peeled
1/4t lemon juice
Drizzle of honey

Warm the tortilla in a skillet over medium heat to soften. Toss the apple slices with the lemon juice. Spread peanut butter over about 1/3 of the tortilla, starting about 1/6 from the edge of the tortilla. Arrange the apple slices, slightly overlapping, over the peanut butter, and drizzle with honey. Fold into a flat packet like a thin burrito. Return to the skillet briefly to seal the edges and lightly toast the surface. Allow to cool, wrap in plastic wrap, and send off to school with the child in question.

That’s why I live in New England.

An almost perfect moment? Opinions differ. I maintain it’s as close to perfect as one is likely to get in this life. The Kid argues that the moment fell short of perfection because the cider donut machine at the orchard shop was out of commission on this particular afternoon. For me, in my quest to avoid temptation, the lack of hot sugary cider donuts was an asset rather than a liability (I have no problem wrestling with angels, but the grappling does tend to ruin otherwise blissful moments), proving once again that Paradise is a highly subjective condition.

Maps and Legends: Reading and Writing Along the Borderlands, by Michael Chabon: Mr. Chabon can write the living @#$% out of whatever he turns his talent toward. This is even true when the subject matter (Sherlock Holmes as fan fiction, a battlefield account of a flame war about the Yiddish language) is esoteric, dense, or so deeply personal as to leave the reader with few comfortable points of entry.

Not That You Asked: Rants, Exploits, and Obsessions, by Steve Almond: Whether talking about his role as the Red Sox Antichrist, his battle with the right wing noise machine, or his experience having a VH-1 camera crew film an ultimately deferred 15 minutes of fame — to say nothing of the parts about sex and parenthood — Mr. Almond’s strength lies in balancing outrage and discomfort, usually in the service of uncomfortable self-revelation.

[Note: I'm not 100% certain I'm 100% certain what that means.]

When You Are Engulfed in Flames, by David Sedaris: Much as I enjoy Mr. Sedaris’s work, especially when I hear it performed on This American Life or other programs, I find his collections to be an exercise in diminishing returns. Naked is an amazing, hilarious book, but I find I’ve enjoyed every subsequent collection slightly less. It’s not that his writing is of any lesser quality, but rather that with each new piece, the balance between humor and sadness seems to tip in favor of sadness. Perhaps hearing the pieces in this collection as performed works would change this opinion, but on paper these stories kind of depressed me.

Apparently, journalism is hard.

Media Play Catch-Up To Lightning Pace Of News
by David Folkenflik

In normal times, you’d see front-page headlines on the appointment of a special prosecutor to consider charges against former U.S. Attorney General Alberto Gonzales.

In normal times, you’d see unrelenting media scrutiny of John McCain campaign manager Rick Davis’ work for mortgage companies caught up in the market meltdown. And there would be even more ferocious attention paid to each new gaffe served up by both major parties’ vice presidential candidates.

But these are not normal times.

Indeed they are not. These are abnormal times. In normal times, a distinguished news organization like NPR wouldn’t devote 3 minutes 48 seconds of air time to a puff piece that seeks to explain their shortcomings. They @#$%ing well would have used that time to report on the very things they seek to excuse themselves for not covering. Instead, in these abnormal times, NPR has elected to join the infotainment scrum and produce navel-gazing metacommentary like this as an alternative to the hard work of researching and reporting stories about political corruption, economic chaos, or any number of other stories that go unreported in favor of this nonsense.

“I don’t think anyone — including the people in charge — can make sense of what’s happening in the country right now,” says new-media guru Jeff Jarvis. He’s a consultant for several media companies, including The Washington Post, and a columnist for The Guardian. Jarvis says the media are simply overwhelmed by the news.

“It’s just too big and too complicated, and it requires both too much background and fundamental understanding about economics,” Jarvis says. “Also, we’re not sure whether we’re being told the whole story still, so we need people to look into things the way journalists do.”

If news outlets need people with background and fundamental understanding about economics (or any other issue) in order to fulfill their basic functions, they should @#$%ing well figure out how to get those people on staff, or forge relationships with experts in these areas who can provide the necessary context and commentary. Throwing up your hands in frustration and saying “Gee, you know, we’d love to do our job, but gosh wouldn’t you know we just can’t” is neither helpful nor honorable.

The breakneck pace of developments means a lot of news worth knowing receives the briefest burst of attention before being dropped for something hotter.

Think about it, says Alexis Glick, the vice president for business news at the new Fox Business Network and one of the anchors for its show, Opening Bell: The nation’s largest insurer is bailed out by the government; the largest savings and loan fails; the nation’s fourth-largest bank is sold for a dollar a share in a deal brokered by federal officials.

“If you talked about one of those things occurring in a year, that would be shocking,” Glick tells NPR. “Those things occurred in a two-week period. [That's] completely unprecedented.”

Perhaps the specifics are unprecedented, but the role of the media to report — and even explain — crises is nothing new. The reporters who had to cover the Great Depression certainly had limited context and background for their stories. The battlefield reporters of World War II had to make sense of chaos on a daily basis. While the stakes are comparatively much lower, sports reporters turn full fields of players into coherent narratives on a daily basis. It’s difficult. It’s often complex. It’s the point of the profession.

Glick says she feels compelled to read 200 pages of research each day when she arrives at work at 4:30 a.m. — and then has to keep track throughout the day.

What? A professional feels “compelled” to be informed about the realm of her alleged professional expertise? Out-@#$%ing-rageous! How can anyone be expected to actually do their job? That’s just crazy talk!

Many journalists say they are scrambling just to keep the headlines coming — and are chasing after the explanations, too. For now, the news appears to be outracing both.

Again, how fortunate that NPR is there with non-story story like this to help the news extend its already considerable lead over the media’s reporting capabilities. I’m so glad they took time away from all the important stories they could have been covering to deal with the vital business of insulting their listeners’ intelligence.

“If that’s true, Senator McCain, then what does the current state of our economy say about our government, and the leadership of George Bush and your party for most of the past eight years?”