Betamax

Christmas break is great for many reasons, not the least of which is that you can set very low goals for yourself to achieve each day. Today, I decided to replace my watch band, for example. That's it. That was my goal for the day. And I am proud to say that I nailed it. However, this accomplishment came at a price.

Procuring said watch band necessitated a trip to the local drug store, which I fully realized just today is an entirely anachronistic institution of modern life. Such free-standing drug and sundry huts, I predict, will cease to exist in the near future, for they stock only items of interest to people who hoard defunct home entertainment technologies and hanker for nostalgic candy items from the mid 20th century. Does this describe any tweens that you know?

I may have been in Rite Aid, or perhaps Bartell's. It was hard to know for sure. Muttering elderly shoppers slowly shuffled down the aisles, filling their walker baskets with bryllcreem and rain bonnets as I looked around for the watchband department. Ornery old hens in Christmas sweaters battled over bins of fire sale wrapping paper and bows; I made sure to steer clear of the Christmas aisle lest I get jabbed with a cane. Towers of curious remnant foodstuffs bookended the aisles: dusty bags of mint chips, Karo syrup bottles, and pimento jars.

The watch bands were located in the Department of Defunct Technologies, truly a section to behold. Stop by your local Walgreen's next time you are feeling anthropological, and wish to witness artifacts of ancient peoples on display. The cassette tape section was curiously well-stocked, featuring such recent selections as Kenny G: G Force and the lite metal compilation America Rox: Thunder N Spice. An ample stock of Betamax tapes, a cultish video format that has been out of favor for twenty-one years, were prominently displayed. Although I didn't look too closely at the camera department, I do not doubt that Disc film was probably for sale.

Eager to escape this time-warped temple of pills and antiquated consumer flotsam, I grabbed my watch band and scurried to the check stand. In front of me, a shady-looking dude in his mid-20's clanked his bounty down on the pricing scanner: 8 extra-tall aluminum cans of Extra Super Hold Aqua Net. The clerk and I exchanged looks.

Next time, I'm getting my watch band at Target.

Yule Log

There is this super cool thing on TV today that you can only find at this magical time of year, sort of like egg nog or fruitcakes, except actually I guess more like digital photographs of egg nog or fruitcakes. This cool televised offering is called Yule Log. Basically, the concept is this. A burning log. On your TV. Also, instrumental Christmas ditties like some of that junk from the Nutcracker, you know, the sneaky little song when the rat tip-toes across the stage?

Yule Log has many advantages over standard, reality-based logs. For one, Yule Log burns for hours without human intervention, provided your power grid is not down for Christmas. No kindling required. Also, Yule Log does not require that you load any felled tree matter into your sport utility vehicle. It does, however, require that you spelunk menus in Comcast On Demand. Also, it does not emit any heat. This last point is indeed a drawback, but in that regard differs little from most other things you'll find on TV.

My favorite thing about Yule Log (Comcast High Def edition) is that at the end of two hours of meandering flames, the credits roll. There are assistant producers for Yule Log. People for whom Yule Log is a line item on a resume. Now this may seem a little weird, but allow me to point out that at least in my own case, this accomplishment far outstrips any of my own workplace achievements, in terms of spreading Christmas cheer.

Yule Log really takes me back to the days of crackling bonfires in the town square, except even better because it is in high definition and is not a fire hazard. Perhaps those taken with fireplace versimilitude would remark that the high, lapping flames toward the end of the Yule Log running time (Comcast edition) are digitially enhanced, in that they burn with more prowess than the depicted ashen log coals would suggest possible. And to those doubters I would say, just because you aren't sure that Santa could fly all around the globe in a single evening with a reindeer-powered snow sled in theory, doesn't mean that it doesn't in fact happen every friggin year. It was Linus Van Pelt who said of disbelievers, "One little slip like that could cause the Great Pumpkin to pass you by."

Merry Christmas.

Scenes from a blackout

You may have heard that a million or so of us Northwestern types have experienced recent lapses in our power grid.

This is our story.

THURSDAY

5:00 p.m.

Driving home from work. Talk radio guys yammering about some apparent storm. "Make sure you have batteries." Bla bla bla. Tell me another one.

8:30 p.m.

Hmm. Massive Douglas fir in front yard waving like a drunk Yankees fan. Forty pound outdoor grill bodyslammed off backyard deck into the mud. Uh, where are those batteries again?

10:30 p.m.

Power fails. Guess I'll sleep it off.

FRIDAY

7:30 a.m.

It's cold. Um, the power is still off, people. What gives? Eat stale, 7-month-old granola bar for breakfast to avoid opening the fridge. Wrap infant up in three layers of clothes, so she can't move her arms. Creep around freezing house with dirty hair. Power should come on at any second.

10:00 a.m.

Highly organized neighbors with chain saws in hand fall upon massive downed tree like bugs on a carcass, and turn it into firewood before we figure out how to light our gas stove. They're probably militia dudes.

2:00 p.m.

Reality sets in: stale cupboard dregs will not yield lunch. Inch through backed-up intersections with no working traffic lights toward local Safeway. Inside, dim post-apocalyptic generator lights burn like cave fires. Mildly panicked people stuff carts with Doritos and matches. We buy some stuff in cans.

4:30 p.m.

Make fortuitous discovery that hot water heater still functions after spending all day with dirty hair.

6:30 p.m.

Infant-related incident requiring full-scale bathtub hose-down, preferably in high-light conditions. Make do with flashlights.

9:00 p.m.

KIRO talk show hosts on battery-operated radio say that Puget Sound Energy workers are out there doing "God's work" tonight. Husband and I roll eyes, but it is too dark to tell.

SATURDAY:

8:00 a.m.

This is the part in the story where the power is supposed to come back on, except that it doesn't.

12:00 p.m.

Apparently, the power company responsible for Seattle proper is actually fixing people's power, unlike the company serving the random million of us living in neighboring towns. We cross the bridge into The Big City. Urban busybodies stop dutifully at their working streetlights, totally unaware that Mad Max conditions are forming in the dark and lawless suburbs across the lake. Seattle friend gives us fortuitous gift of gummy lightening bugs. At least we'll have light tonight.

2:30 p.m.

With heavy hearts, we cross back over to the apocalypse. From the freeway, a grim haze of burning Presto Log effluvia rises over great swaths of darkened, cookie cutter housing developments. We keep our eyes peeled for burning cars and gunplay.

4:00 p.m.

Night falls. Only 16 hours until we can see our hands in front of our faces again. KIRO talk radio hosts tell of fistfights in long gas station lines.

6:00 p.m.

Dinner: Cans of soup from generator Safeway, chased with lightening bugs and warm champagne. It's 56 degrees indoors, that is, in the room containing the fireplace.

11:00 p.m.

Family sleeps in shifts by the fireplace, to keep from burning down the house. KIRO talk show hosts field calls from freezing old widows in dilapidated mobile home parks. Infant cries out feebly in the inky darkness, as she is swaddled half to death, like the Sta-Puft man.

SUNDAY:

8:00 A.M.

There will be no power, ever again. KIRO talk radio hosts repeatedly admonish us to Not Be Like That Guy Who Brought a Generator into His Living Room and Died.

10:00 a.m.

We decide to shed the vestiges of our old life on the grid and move boldly into the 18th century. We throw away 37 lbs of barely-used condiments and full containers of orange juice from our entirely defrosted refrigerator freezer unit, working quickly in the precious daylight hours, as our forbearers did on the prairie.

1:00 p.m.

We head out to supply our new post-power reality with more D batteries and camping supplies from a gutted local Target. Our cell phones bleat their final dying signals from long-past battery charges, and fall silent.

4:00 p.m.

Neighbors begin to decamp for Canada, stuffing their SUV's with Hefty sacks of warm clothing. Stammering energy representatives tell KIRO talk show hosts that "some of you in the, uh, outer areas might need to make alternative arrangements in the next week to ten days." Husband begins frantic flashlight search for missing land line telephone stored away somewhere in recent cleaning frenzy before the last dying embers of twilight flicker out.

5:00 p.m.

Blink! The power is restored to our part of town. Within 90 seconds, we learn that some basketball dudes spit on each other over the weekend, and that everyone who posts crap to the Internet has been collectively declared Time's "person of the year."

Welcome back, sweet power grid.

Christmas card troubleshooter

There comes a time in every person's life when they wonder whether it's no longer socially acceptable to claim to be "too busy" to send out Christmas cards. The truth of modern society, my friends, is that the busiest among us tend to send out the greatest volume and most elaborate of cards, so start looking for another excuse, if this is yours.

It is possible that you can continue to claim one of the existing, rare exceptions to playing the Christmas card game without secretly irritating everyone you know. See the list below to determine whether you qualify. If not, however, I am saddened to inform you that it's time to sharpen up the Christmas card quill.

1. Are you devoutly, outwardly religious, but neither a Christian nor an atheist?

This is a good one to play, if you can. No one wants to offend an adherent to an underrepresented religion in these politically sensitive times. Sadly, this exemption can't be faked. No one is going to buy that you are suddenly Hindu after years of indifference to Brahman. Atheists cannot claim an exemption to Christmas, which is both strangely a Christian and a secular occasion.

Note: being hip and irreverent is not a religion, and cannot excuse you from acknowledging friends and family at the holidays.

2. Are you under 30?

Generally speaking, excuses for not sending Christmas cards after the age of 30 tend grow a little threadbare to the ears of established friends and relations. Women are generally expected to send out Christmas cards as soon as they stop couch surfing in their early 20's and find a semi-stable residence from which to send and receive mail. Look, I don't make the rules, ladies. If you neglect to send out cards past this point, people are going to think you need to get your shit together.

If you're a dude, you might think you're exempted from ever having to send out cards, no matter what your age. This is possibly true; see exemption 3. If you can't claim exemption 3, please proceed to the nearest Hallmark.

3. Are you a male in a cohabitational relationship with a female?

If you're a dude, you may be able to indefinitely postpone card-sending responsibility, provided that you are in a cohabitational relationship with a woman that has lasted long enough for people to refer to you as ___ and (your name). In this instance, social mores will most certainly expect the woman to send out cards on your behalf. You can also ride your partner's coattails regarding gift buying and social arrangements with nary an eyebrow raised by anyone. Play this hand for all it is worth, for it is one of the primary benefits of being male.

Allow me to re-state: just being male does not exempt you from sending cards. Single dudes have only one exemption to consider from this point on: the loser exemption.

4. Although you are over 30, do you still accept "loans" from your parents, and use a milk crate as a TV stand? (a.k.a., the loser exemption)

There are always people who will scamper like rodents from adulthood and its mandatory Christmas paperwork, although the rule of yule will ultimately prevail. If you find yourself thinking that people don't expect cards from you because you are "still finding yourself" at age 41, know that you are fooling no one, Father Christmas least of all, and that You and Your Losery Ways are in fact topic #1 at the family Christmas gathering that you were too flaky or possibly stoned to attend. Just think, you could buy your way out of this quagmire for a roll of stamps. Might want to think about it, son.

Well folks, that's that. If you can't claim one of the above four exemptions, tiny dog will be watching her mailbox for your Yuletide greetings.

Unblogging

Unblogging is kind of this new cool thing that all the bloggers are into now, where they go offline in swan-song fashion to start livin' life, 'cause the internet is for losers and stuff. It's happened to two of my favorite blogs within the space of two days.

Well, tiny dog is here to announce that this site is in no way cool enough to keep up with the latest blogging trend, and therefore will keep on posting about stupid things like Coke Blak, parsnips, and rubber infants.

Count on it.

Not presentable

Well, it's Christmas time again, and therefore it is my duty to pimp out Albert, the Fake Christmas Tree, that classic tiny dog tale of fakery and redemption. I would say more but someone is going to get very mad at me in a minute for dorking around on the laptop and not decorating gingerbread men.

It's 30 minutes later. The gingerbread men somehow ended up tasting like vegan dog biscuits, and were declared "not presentable" due to an application of red frosting that ended up making them look like they were dipped in ketchup.

Semirelatedly, if you find yourself without a Christmas present for someone at the last minute, feel free to visit this site, fire up the printer at work, and make a paper model of the World Trade Center or Angkor Wat. I sure wish someone would attempt one of these and send me a picture, but I know tiny dog readers are not the type to spend leisure time on weird paper craft projects. So go on, disappoint me.

Here are some more. These are kind of cool.

Blak cat

It seems like most bloggers out there these days have a cutesy dog they bailed out of the pound who's always out doing wacky backflips in the snow or balancing remote controls on his head. They load up Flickr with 1,000 pictures of the pandering pooch, and everyone goes right along with it, like the sheep that they are.

What about the cats, people? Can your dog show an opinion about Coke Blak: Midcalorie Coffee Flavored Fusion Beverage that is as nuanced as Mo's? Or would your canine camera hog merely lick the bottle in gratitude to be whoring its cuteness on your blog?

I thought so.