It's That Time Of Year, When The World Falls In Love (with my sweet, sweet Christmas mixtape)

I have always been a big fan of Christmas and, correspondingly, Christmas music. There's not really a whole lot to explain here, just that every couple of years I make a new Christmas mixtape for folks I know.

With the exception of a couple of seminal modern classics, I tried to include tracks that you're not likely to hear on the radio or any other mixes you might receive. As improbable a feat as this would be to achieve, I still had to give it the ol' college try because there's precious little that breaks my heart more than when people talk about how sick they are of Christmas music and hearing the same songs over and over. So just don't let me hear you saying that about this particular project, because it will hurt my little feelings.

Download the mix here.

Merry Christmas, err'body.

I shouldn't have said anything about the baby—ask me if I give a care.

While I was at home this weekend, I picked up a copy of this month's People magazine off of my Mom's coffee table. People is just about the only celebrity news rag I can really read, and that's only because it has a crossword puzzle in it. Granted, it is a celebrity news-themed crossword puzzle, but it's super easy so it makes me feel smart as crap. Anyway, when I opened it I saw this picture inside:

Apparently Katie Holmes ran a marathon last weekend, or sometime (didn't really read that much) and people thought it was awesome (in high heels for a movie premiere two hours later OMG!!!11). I also thought it was awesome, only for a different (and better) set of reasons.

1) Take a look at Tom Cruise in this picture. Hilarious. With that sissified turtleneck/pea coat combo and his sideburns-high-above-the-ears bowl haircut, he looks like some dandy from one of those "Filmed in glorious Technicolor!" 50's musicals. Like pretty soon, he and that creepy baby of theirs are going to be doing a sort of call-and-response tapdance routine that ends with him on one knee, with her sitting primly on the other.

2) High heels two hours later? Yes, that's a feat. But do you think that dead-eyed midget even gave her a choice? Unlikely.

3) Finally, when I read about her training to run the marathon in two short months, I couldn't help but be reminded of that movie Sleeping With The Enemy. The only difference is, instead of Julia Roberts training in secret at the YMCA pool, Katie's flight will be all the sweeter because everyone should have seen it coming. Because it's going to be a daring daylight escape, and suddenly the signs will all come rushing back in a dizzying montage like the end of an M. Night Shyamalan movie—and guess who's gonna say they saw it coming the whole time? Me, people. Me.

Like a thief in a suit of armor in the night ...

This is awesome.

Give me a freaking break, I'm easing back into this.

Red to the Blonde to the Head to the Go On And Git

That is to say, new blog over at Red Blondehead. Check it.

Yesterday I Was An Accidental Racist, Today I Am A Potential Diplomat and Celebrity

The latter, however, is not a result of the former. Don't be confused. Racism is not cool—accidental or otherwise—and is only rewarded ... well, a lot. But it's still not cool. Unless you're just joking, because if we're being honest, we can quell almost any degree of cognitive dissonance if the material is funny enough.

Anywhose, I did this accidental racist thing yesterday. I was talking to a co-worker, and I made a sarcastic comment about how this one particular person would surely be tapped to "work on our next big project." Instead, what came out was "our bext nig project." At that moment, you probably could have done some real Jiffy Popping on my face if you'd been so inclined. And I would have welcomed it because it would have hidden my face, and correspondingly, my shame.

Possibly as a result, I think I had a visitor last night. And I mean a visitor. Like the way they mean it on The X-Files, y'all. Because somebody Zorro'ed my behind in my sleep. Literally, people.


This mess was scratched/etched into my hindparts when I woke up this morning. How do you like them apple(bottom)s? Another explanation, of course, is that I am Harry Potter. That's the one I like.

As attrition for my cultural ignorance and intolerance yesterday, today I decided to make it up to the world. So today I applied to be an Olympic torchbearer for the 2008 Beijing games. Believe it. Could anything be more multicultural? I submit that it could not. And no, I'm not telling you how I did it either. I don't need any more competition than I've already got. So don't even ask.

Do yourself a favor. Go here and laugh yourself right on into the best mood ever.

Or you can just look everywhere but in my eyes in the break room

"How are you?" A strong contender for the most disingenuous question in the whole wide universe—albeit largely innocuously so. We don't mean it when we ask it, for the most part, as much as we're just casually vying for affability. "Hey, man. How are you?" "Oh, heck, that dude/lady is sure nice for asking."

The worst is when you run into one of those sad suckers who's like, "Oh, you know, not so good. Blah, blah, blah . . ." Ugh. Thanks for the buzzkill, there, Million Dollar Baby.

But have you ever noticed when people stop asking? Besides being totally awkward and strange when a casual acquaintance says, "Hey,"—and that's all they say—it's also extremely unsettling, because you know there's a reason they're not asking. And that it can't possibly be good. Like at work, because no one wants to hear the answer, "Scared sh*tless."

It's spooky how everyone just kind of knew to quit asking, without having to talk about it. Kind of an unspoken agreement. Funny how the threat of unemployment will have that effect.

This is why I'm hot.

'Nother new blog over at Red Blondehead. Check it.