Raccoons at the Door

It ain't the Fantastic Mr. Fox, but it's a wild animal(s) for a neighbor.

Please note, on the other side of that door are two very loud and anxious dogs (owners of the food bowls, pictured). Raccoons. Do. Not. Care.

And scene:

Remember kids, if a raccoon knocks on your door and it isn't wearing clothing it is most likely REAL and therefore DANGEROUS. If it is wearing pants you can let it in. Enjoy your absinthe.

The Traditional Thanksgiving Post. Again.

We woke up early to watch the parade. It started at 7am, which seemed to me a fairly unreasonable time to get out of bed, especially for Al Roker. New York City was buzzing with people doing something as simple as watching a parade and as brave as leaving their homes. It was two months after the terrorists attacked and we sat in our living room drinking butter-rum coffee and feeling as safe as ever and guilty about it. It was the first Thanksgiving morning since we lost so much, and it was bittersweet. We had much to be thankful for.

The parade announcers, including Mr. Roker, were dressed smartly in their free Macy's wardrobe, and the song numbers were lip-synced to near perfection. It was how Thanksgiving was supposed to start; family, coffee, the parade, and then football, turkey, and six bottles of wine. We had much to be thankful for.

About midway through the parade Katie Couric said something that I will never forget. They were cutting to commercial and she was telling us which balloons were making their way up the street, and she said, quite casually, to stay tuned for Jesusauros Rex. Yes, Jesusauros Rex.

"What did she say?" we asked each other even though we all knew the answer. There was a balloon coming, somewhere between the high school band from Alabama and the 27th boy-band float of the morning, that encompassed everything that we wanted, that we needed. That America needed. It was a monster, a dinosaur of the Rex variety, the kind that devoured its enemies. And America has enemies.

Yet, it was Jesus. Jesus is kind and understanding. He turns cheeks. He forgives. He makes a mean Merlot. Jesusauros Rex was everything we were feeling. Everything we wanted. Revenge and understanding. War and peace. Rage and reflection. Not to mention the endless bottles of wine. We looked at each other and waited his arrival like it was the Second Coming.

He never came. There is no such thing as a Jesusauros Rex. There is, however, a Cheesasauros Rex, a giant dinosaur that encompasses something else America needs- pasta and cheese powder in a nice blue box. Kraft had a balloon and it wasn't a giant smiling cigarette. We had much to be thankful for.

So Cheesasauros Rex came and went, followed by the two oldest men alive, Tony Bennett and Santa Claus. It was really a nice parade. Al Roker was great. Katie Couric was cute and perky. Yes Katie, there is a Cheesasauros Rex.

The funny thing is that when the parade was over I couldn't shake the message it had sent, even if I had imagined it. Love and mercy. Revenge and redemption. These were things that I needed too, and so, as I always do in times of trouble, I turned to the Beatles. After all, they were spiritual and blasphemous, revolutionaries and pacifists. They were eggmen, fragile (fra-gee-lay) and hard-boiled.

I am the walrus. Koo Koo Kachoo.

But football was on, so I forgot it all. Again. As if it hadn't happened, and I had never known the kind of pain that I had. The pain that was but a pinprick to the pain they had felt. Still. They lost their wives, husbands, children and friends, and they kept their cool.

Those people gave new meaning to the word hero, and the old guard, like our professional athletes for example, could do nothing but say thank you, salute, and dry their tears. Sure, the Lions can't remember the last season they had that wasn't filled with pain, but it doesn't matter. It is a game, football, like so many other things we elevate onto pedestals it may not deserve, but it's okay. It keeps us sane and entertained. Football is a great game. An American game.

The Beatles, however, are not American, yet they are as much a part of our culture as any force in entertainment could possibly be. And then some. They are Beatlemania. They were bigger than Jesus for God's sake! John Lennon said that, not me, but he had a point. They were selling out much bigger stadiums than God.

On September 11, 2001, Paul McCartney sat in an airplane on a runway in New York City and watched the world burn down. He saw through a first-class tinted window what we saw on our TV sets. He saw hate.

But for us it was Thanksgiving. We had each other. There was wine in my glass, football on the TV, and in the next room my wife and my sister sang A Hard Day's Night on the karaoke machine. We had much to be thankful for. And it was bittersweet.

It came and it went, tethered heavily upon our heartstrings, floating like a giant balloon. Yes, Katie, there is a Jesusauros Rex, and he loves you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.


Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours,
Whit

Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Then Win It

Seriously? Drawing? Star Wars? The video with the noise and the force and the I. WANT. THAT. Well, you got it, kid. Also, you're all clear.

It's Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars and Atticus is beside himself. Zane would also enjoy it if his brother let him anywhere near it. This is something that will never happen. Ever.






Here's a rundown of what's inside (via Klutz) - ... filled with tips, techniques, practice space, and translucent overlays to make you a master of drawing. Start with stick figures, move onto basic shapes, and finish up with the details. Use the included double-tipped metallic-colored pencils and black marker to make 20 Clone Wars characters come to life.

Here's the part where you come in. I'm giving away five (5) of these bad boys. Just in time for whatever you do in December! Also, birthdays!

The contest is open to anyone in the United States with a mailbox. Everyone knows that only the dark side uses P.O. Boxes or lives outside of America. These rules are set by the PR company that is supplying the prize. If you live in a galaxy far, far away you can always have the prize sent to an American friend and work out the shipping from there. I know, it's not easy, but do you think blowing up the Death Star, twice, was easy? There is no try. Do. And all that.

To enter: Leave a comment with your favorite Star Wars story. It can be something from the movies, books, comics, rides or your life. Keep it short, people. On December 1st I will announce the winners, which will be picked at random.

May the force be with you. Always.

__________________________

Behind the curtain of the great and powerful Whit:

Compensation: No
Products Received: 1copy of "Draw Star Wars: The Clone Wars" for review. Prize copies will be sent from PR contact.

A Band of Brothers

A lack of sleep and a bottle of something teamed up to make my morning a series of echoes and drumbeats. The drummers stood bedside and they beat their drums slowly.

"Can we play the Wii?" they asked.

"Will you make breakfast?" they hounded.

"I have to go potty," they threatened.

They were up too early, because it was Saturday. If it were a school day I would be the one standing over them as they lay warm and oblivious. But it wasn't a school day. It was the weekend and they were up early and I had been up late.

I got up. I wiped a butt. I made some breakfast. I drank some coffee. I took some aspirin.

The boys traded drumsticks for forks and beats for bites. I stood in the open doorway and felt the cold air on my face. The fog rolled off the hills and the rain splashed against my bare feet.

Behind me teams were being picked, the two of them dividing and competing and planning ways to best their opponent.

"I'm on your team," one brother said to the other.

I stood at the door as they charged the day and I pitied any foe that made its way past me.

There's a Sad Sort of Clanging From the Clock in the Hall

And he found them not where they were supposed to be and doing the things they shouldn't. He had left them alone among the molehills and found them perched upon the mountains.

They were laughing and full of fun and getting away with being young. They were silent and drained of joy and by all means busted.

He was tired. There were long days behind him and long nights ahead. His back, it burned with exhausted muscle and it erupted with spasms of stress and it resorted to a door frame to keep it remotely upward.

Ropes wind and they twirl and they roll nicely off the spool and one minute you're tying knots and making swings from trees and old tires and the next your hands are empty and your metaphor is at its end.

Then they are sorry and they cry and they've said it all before, for instance, last night when he stood propped against the same tired door frame grown weak and weary beneath the burden of his weight. And the waiting still grows heavy.

Words were said louder than they needed to be. Threats were made that were never meant. Little feet scurried to where they should have been and behind them they left a trail of guilt like so many bread crumbs. Sweet, innocent, beautiful guilt, and they cried loudly as he closed the door in hopes that doing so will save them all.

The hallway is long and lonely and it only need be examined a dozen or so times before it is ingrained firmly upon his brain. Every footstep has purpose. Every crack is considered. Life is bends that do not break and behind the door there is only the sound of their heavy slumber.

Their bread crumbs are soft and smooth and shaped like plush piles of imagination. He picks them up one by one, carefully, quietly, and he carries them into the room and places them where they are supposed to be, in the arms of his affections. And his whispers are for forgiveness

No Tricks, Just Treats

I would be remiss if I didn't share our Halloween memories with you. And I do not care to be remiss. No, not at all.





The last one was a neighbor that had Muppet music blaring from his home. There was another neighbor, an attractive young mom, whose costume could best be described as SpongeBoob NoPants, but I was so appalled that I forgot to take a picture and then when I went back and banged on her door at 3am the cops said I had to go home. The nerve of some people.

And now for a few favorites from Halloweens past:






Here's hoping that you and yours had a good time and that your teeth don't rot out. Also, Merry Christmas. Apparently.