Beating the Heat

“Beat the heat” I’m instructed by advertisements throughout the summer.  With enormous iced teas.  With over priced beer. With a pool in my back yard.  With a new air conditioner.  With, unconvincingly, a new car.

But I can’t.  No matter what I do, or purchase, or remove from my body, I just can’t.

But as they say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.  Although, in this case, I’m not sure what that might entail. 

I’ve considered many options.  First, I turned up the heat in our place as high as it would go, which is 92 degrees.  That’s definitely joining ‘em, if anything is.  But that caused my wife, who is usually too cold, mind you, even in the middle of the Summer, to do what I thought was an impression of a Greek Fury, complete with wide-eyed shrieking and the tearing of my flesh with her fingernails.  I said bravo, for it really was very good.  But then I realized she was just angry.  And hot. At the same time, my 4 year old son kept up an impressive, insistent, and continuous whine of such intensity that locking him in his room did nothing to abate it.

I gave in, turned off the heat, and threw open all the windows.  Unfortunately, this gave little relief, as it was 98 degrees outside; and since our U Street manse is at street level, the reflected heat from the asphalt and concrete must have created an incredible heat island effect, given the way my wife lunged at me with that knife.  I was joining ‘em, alright.  It was getting HOT at my place.

So I took a different tack.  Putting on all the warm clothes I could lay my hands on, including sweaters, jackets, coats, scarves, hats (and yes, I am aware of my use of the plural, for that is how I dressed – in the plurality) etc., I quickly left to join ‘em outside.

My actions turned out to be problematic.  First, as one might naturally assume, I was viewed by my fellow Washingtonians as a lunatic.  And not without cause, of course, but the level of shunning was far and away beyond what I’ve experienced in the past. (I’m not unfamiliar with being shunned.)  One man went so far out of his way so as not to pass me on the side walk that he was hit by a bus.  I feel bad about that.  Second, how readily I was accepted by the homeless population of U Street came as a pleasant – no, that’s not the word –ghastly – yes, that hits the mark – surprise.  Ghastly because, my, do some of those guys know how to party, and a 40-dog / cough medicine / Boon’s hangover in 98 degree heat while dressed in everything you own is something one wishes never to repeat.  Finally, I lost consciousness under a dumpster.  Not next to dumpster, nor even inside of a dumpster, but under a dumpster.  How this came to pass I am still untangling in my mind.  At this point, I think you would agree, I hadn’t beaten them, but I had joined ‘em.

But just before I lost consciousness and succumbed to heat stroke, I had the revelation that  sometimes it is better to fight and loose than to join the oppressor.  I also thought a fire hydrant was my mother and that I was 2 inches tall and lived in the 14^thCentury and my name was Ferdinand. 

Life of the Party

I can be a real drag at a party.  A serious Debbie downer.  I feel bad about this.  But I’ve realized, it’s how I have fun.

Take last weekend, for instance.  I was at a classic DC shin-dig, the kind of party that takes place in an enormous, slightly worn row house, shared by 5 or 6 people, only one of whom you are friends with.  And you are never quite sure who the other 5 roommates are.  There are too many bicycles in the foyer and there’s a grill going out back, a little too close to the wooden porch.  There’s beer in every conceivable crevice of the fridge, between, behind, and on top of all the food of six individuals who can’t seem to get on the same schedule - the 3 gallons of milk, the 2 large and 3 small bottles of juice, a door full of half drunk bottles of white wine, and the stacks and stacks of tupperware and take-out containers, and one onion on a plate.  The party is crammed with people, expats and hipsters and lawyers and teachers, everyone smiling, everyone dancing to techno, always old-vaguely-euro-techno in the dining room where the thrift store table has been shoved against one wall.

You get the idea.  We’ve all been to those parties.  Mt. Pleasant.  Columbia Heights. Adams Morgan.

And, despite me being a downer, I genuinely enjoy these parties.  I was making my way to the back yard, drinking a Bud Light, when a person I vaguely know (perhaps he lives there?) stopped to offer me a shot of herb-based spirits from his homeland (somewhere between the Baltic and the Levant?), the kind that smells vaguely familiar, like a flower or a rarely used spice, but always tastes like gasoline. (Always cheap American beer, and always exotic liquor at these parties.  Why is that?)

“My friend!” he says.  “My friend!  Have a shot of [unpronounceable liquor name]!”  And by shot he means a swig from the bottle.  I oblige, and as I give the bottle back to him, I say “you know, this is all bullshit, all this getting along and happiness and shit.  We’re all going to get old, not be able to clean ourselves, and die alone in nursing homes drooling on ourselves and the last realization that will break through our debilitating dementia just before we expire is that our own children don’t really love us any more.”  

To which he shot back, a twinkle in his eye, “my friend, have another shot!”  So I did.  And then I said “A hundred years ago we would have been sworn enemies, or at least afraid of each other and never have shared a bottle of [unpronounceable liquor name].  And in another hundred years it will be the same.  This, this party, is just a blip, a aberration in the steady march of human history.  How can we enjoy ourselves knowing it is merely a fleeting moment of respite in the otherwise murderous story of humanity’s unrelenting butchery and  bloodletting?”

He didn’t hear the end of my statement since he had walked away, still smiling, toward the Euro-techno. Those Estonian-Lebanese-Croats!  So happy-go-lucky!

The rest of the evening passes in much the same way.  I disillusion a young woman just starting a teaching job by telling her she’ll be burned out in 3 years, 5 years max, and won’t make a difference anyway.  I tell someone who is relating a story about a recent back packing trip to Romania that one can never really know a culture except ones own, and only then just enough to despise it.  I tell a pair of extremely drunk women on the lumpy couch, one who is crying hysterically and the other who is laughing hysterically - you get it, pointing to the crying woman, and you don’t get it, pointing to the other.

So you see, I’m not the life of the party.  Whether it’s my Catholic upbringing or that I’m simply a neurotic, any time I’m starting to have fun, I’m reminded of that other shoe, the one that will inevitably drop and ruin everything.

I have no idea why people still invite me to parties.  I assume I am some sort of curiosity, a psychological elephant-man like character that makes a party complete.  Maybe I AM the life of the party.

Oddly enough, this brings great joy to my life, knowing that I add something to a gathering, so that when I got home that night, I thought, boy, that was fun!  What a great party!  What a great bunch of people!  I can’t wait to go to another party!  And I know they can’t wait for me to come, too!  The gallons of cheap American beer might have something to do with it.

Fringe Festival Folly

Sometimes I worry that I will inexplicably find myself performing at the fringe festival.  There I am up on stage, lights glaring in my eyes, sweat streaming down my face, hundreds of people out there watching.  I’m quite out of breath.  I surmise I’ve been dancing, which would explain the laughter welling up out of the darkness beyond the foot lights.  And perhaps the rotten tomatoes strewn about, unless I was juggling rotten tomatoes.  

Panting, wiping the perspiration from my eyes, I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do next. I also don’t know why I’m wearing tights and an embroidered teddy bear motif sweater, but I decide I have more urgent needs to attend to, for there is a man in a top hat just off stage urging me on.  To do what, I’m not sure.  I signal to him as much, but he just keeps whispering “go on!” and shooing me with his hands.

And then the music starts.  The stage fills with other similarly clad performers.  We form a kick line of sorts and begin dancing.  With all those motif sweaters, we look like a PTA meeting gone terribly wrong.  I struggle to keep up so as not to embarrass myself.  But I don’t know the steps, and even if I did, that probably wouldn’t help.  You see, I can’t dance.  At all.  Some people are terrified of public speaking, others of being eaten by a shark.  Me, I’m terrified of dancing, and especially dancing where other people can see me.  You know that song with the annoying refrain that talks about the ocean and being little and ends with something like “I hope you DA A A NCE! I hope you dance!”  That song to me is an evil, hateful song, like a curse spit on me by an old green faced witch.  But I digress.  A little.

I, of course, cannot keep up.  They are kicking and twirling and leaping and flipping over each other’s backs and sliding between each other’s legs, and there I am, rocking from one foot to the other, snapping my fingers, occasionally rocking my head to one side.  And I ponder, how did this happen?  How did I end up here?  It’s not a dream and I cannot wake up.  This is really happening!

Apparently, though, I’m the star of the show, because soon the music ends with a crescendo of jumps and twirls and tumbles and then all the other dancers are down on one knee all around me, arms outstretched towards me as if to say “voila!”  And I hear wild applause!  I walk off stage then, thinking, damn!  I’m the PTA president!

Spies at Work

It’s not just the NSA that’s spying on you.  Okay, on me.  

My coworkers are spying on me.  Probably you, too.  

Not my coworkers.  YOUR coworkers.  On you.

Let’s start again.  I know my coworkers are spying on me.  I know this because when I spy on them, they are always throwing me accusatory glances over their shoulders, as if to say “two can play at that game!” They are always walking up behind me when I’m using the computer for non-official matters, such as planning my next vacation, with, like, 63 Mobissimo screens all stacked up so that I can’t close them fast enough.  (Ed. note: “like” was misused just now, but that’s a topic for another post.)  Or checking the weather or reading the Washington Post (although not so much anymore now that they make me pay to read it on line) or googling my coworker’s names.  My coworkers like sneaking up on me like this. (Ed. note:  that’s better.) I think they want my job, since I have so much time to use the computer for non-official matters. But the spying gets old!

Like the time I was reading a hilarious article in the online version of The Economist.  (Note another appropriate use of “like,” just in case you thought I was a 17 year old girl.  And note the absurd reference to The Economist.)  It was about how Zach Galifianakis brought about the down fall of, or at least almost, the murderous Myanmar regime. Through the overwhelming power of laughter.  I’m pretty sure the article was a joke, or even completely fictitious, because, I mean, who ever heard of Myanmar?  And Zach is only funny when you’re high, right? I’m sure if there were such a place as Myanmar, they wouldn’t have anything to do with drugs. Ergo, we were all “punked” (can I still say that?  I’m not a 17 year old girl you know) by The Economist.

Anyway, a coworker who is extremely passive aggressive came up behind me just as I was shooting coffee out of my nose and said “what’s so funny?” and then started laughing at me!  I was in no mood for the question or the laughter, being in excruciating pain after shooting hot coffee out of my nose.  It was McDonalds coffee (I’m cheap, but I like my coffee HOT) and I’m considering legal action against both McDonalds AND The Economist.  I feel I have precedent on my side.  But not against Zach.  He’s not funny.  

I turned to my coworker, my mucous membranes streaming over my lips, tears in my eyes, rage in my heart, and said, “nothing.  Just, you know, these latest numbers,” referring, of course, to the NUMBERS everyone in my office is always concerned about.  They are rarely funny, but never mind.  I was in a pickle.

“But that looks like The Economist,” my coworker said.  He’s old, so I thought he couldn’t see that far.  But, much to my chagrin, he had on bifocals.  Damn you Benjamin Franklin!  “Did you see last month’s article,” he went on, “about Silvio Berlusconi’s collection of restaurant match books?  It doesn’t sound that funny, but the writing!” 

I insisted that I was reviewing the latest number.  But he persisted. “I directly accuse you of wasting time surfing the internet and reviewing reading material that is totally unrelated to your work,” he said in that annoying, passive aggressive way of his.  “What on earth are you driving at?” I responded.  “I will now denounce you to management.” he finished.  Well, since I don’t like these kinds of veiled threats, I simply turned back to my computer, took another sip of coffee, and shot it out my nose again.  What else could I do?

The point is that there are things you can do to avoid being denounced by coworkers as being lazy or a coffee-nose-shooting goof-off.  First, don’t have a job, which may necessitate certain other life style changes, but this strategy cuts the problem off at the metaphorical pass.  (I like that - announcing when I’m using a metaphor.)

If you must have a job, tie a piece of fishing line across the entrance of  your cube at ankle height.  Anyone trying to sneak up on you will trip and fall into the back of your chair.  You can then scream obscenities at this person for hitting you, perhaps even accuse him or her of work place violence.  It’s better if this person is carrying a cup of coffee at the time and burns you.

The most insidious of work-place spies is the quiet lurker.  He’s there, hand atop your cube wall, silently watching you.  You don’t notice him for some time as you continue to shop for fishing line, and then, suddenly, a cold shiver runs up your spine and you see him out of the corner of your eye, just standing there, a smirk on his face. You’re so startled that you shoot coffee out of your nose, even though you weren’t drinking coffee, which is quite a feat!  How long has he been there? Perhaps he does that many times a day, quietly staring at you and then slipping away unnoticed.  Perhaps this is the only time you’ve caught him.  Disturbing, isn’t it?  No length of fishing line will help you now.  Unless you garret him.  I’m not advocating murder, but maybe soon.

“Jesus Mike!  You scared the shit out of me!” you say.

The other thing about Mike the Lurker that makes him extra creepy is that he mumbles, forcing you to say “what? WHAT? WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU SAY?”

And then you’re the one screaming obscenities across the work place.  Granted not for the first time, but one of these times will be the last time.  I think Mike wants your job and will stop at nothing to get you fired.

But maybe that’s a good thing. Then you’ll be following my first bit of advice and only have to worry about the NSA.  And since they are a large, wasteful, inefficient federal bureaucracy, metaphorically speaking, I’m not too worried.

The DC Food Desert

The recent article by Mark Furstenberg in the Post about the food culture of DC opened my eyes to the food desert I live in.  I didn’t realize it before.  Not only is DC a food desert, it is an over priced food desert!

Just the other day I was enjoying, actually enjoying, a chorizo taco at Taqueria Nacional.  Never again!  Had I realized how bad the food is in DC, I wouldn’t have dared to enjoy it.  When I think about it, the employees at Localat Cafe some how tricked me into believing that the mussels I had there were delicious, as well.  This misconception stuck with me right until I read Furstenberg’s article.  Now I know better.  

I’m sure you’ve had similar experiences.  Chalk them up to your inferior palate, now that Furstenberg has pointed out how bad the food is in DC, and how bad your palate is.  The pizza at 2 Amy’s, for instance - you can never take your kids there again.  (When they beg to go, just do as I did: tell them it burned down; they’re young, they’ll get over it.)  Or the pig tails at The Pig, but you had a sneaking suspicion that something called pig tails (served at a place called The Pig) couldn’t possibly be as good as they actually tasted.  Mr. Furstenberg simply confirmed it.  Of course, now you know that you were simply wrong when you went to Etete, that everything wasn’t incredible, even when you had no idea what you were eating.  Remember that?  Boy, some places will go to any length to make you believe you’re eating good food in this city, even so far as using fresh ingredients and knowing how to cook it.

The other service Furstenberg performs for Washingtonians is show us how over priced our restaurants are.  You can’t get good cheap food in this city.  I did not know this.  Obviously, I’m being taken advantage of.  For instance, I thought I was stealing the food at Los Hermanos, it was so good and so cheap.  As it turns out, those crafty Dominicans were over charging me!  I should be able to eat that well for two dollars and get a free drink, I believe Furstenberg is implying.  Same goes for Mi Cuba Cafe, where they call breakfast Desayuno - that should have been my first clue that it was overpriced; foreign words on the menu!  But how could I tell that it was overpriced when I was getting Huevos al Gusto con Jamon o Bacon o Queso Frito, Tostadas cubanas, Cafe con Leche y Jugo de Frutas (freshly squeezed) for $6.95?  I suppose I shouldn’t have paid a penny over $2.95! Live and learn.  And then there is Fast Gourmet.  How on earth this place ever duped me I’ll never know!  It’s in a gas station for God’s sake!  It must have been the fact that the food tastes really good and didn’t cost very much.  The bastards.

I’m also, in a way, relieved to know that all those stores at the Florida Avenue Market like A. Litteri, Mexican Fruits on 4th Street NE,  Caribbean Crescent on 5th Street NE, and the nearby Union Market, plus the butcher, baker, and cheese monger at Eastern Market are all terrible.  I mistakenly thought for years that the food I was buying at these places was fresh, affordable, and delicious.  I’m glad to know that I was fooling myself.  I can go back to shopping at 7 Eleven and not feel like my soul is slowly dying.

I know there are places I missed, neighborhood places like Mangialardo and Sons and Vace or newer places like Taylor Gourmet or Medium Rare that I always enjoyed but now know are simply vile.  

I guess I might as well take all my meals at Ben’s, instead of just most of them.  At least it’s iconic and mixes nostalgia with it’s not-good-ness.

Two Day Washington DC City Break!

Washington is an exciting city in which to be a tourist, and an even more exciting city in which to be on the take!  While recreational drug use, overconsumption of alcohol, and madams named after expensive hotels are available to tourists and corrupt politicos alike, it is so much more exciting to partake of these pleasures using fraudulently obligated tax money after having tossed wads of what is known in the trade as “payolla” out of stretch Hummers at random leaders of the local constabulary.  Why, not being corrupt in Washington is like not having an affair in Orange County or not placing a single Carhartt glove on a beer bottle moving past you on a conveyer of thousands of other beer bottles in Milwaukee. You can do it, but why bother?

Admittedly, for the casual visitor, peddling enough influence and quickly sinking to new depths of depravity are a challenge, especially on a Two Day City Break.  For those without the means or will to do so, here is a quick two day itinerary that guarantees you’ll get the most out of your trip.

Day one.  Plan on having the famous half-smoke breakfast at Ben’s Chili Bowl.  To get there, simply ask one of the ID-sporting middle aged office workers near your downtown hotel for directions - any of the doughy, bleary-eyed, back pack wearing people will do.  But don’t be surprised if they turn on that famous DC charm and either completely ignore you or actually push you out of the way.  Those that actually level with you will admit that they’ve never been to Ben's Chili Bowl since it’s in a bad neighborhood and all.  But remain undaunted and keep asking until the rush-hour supply of commuters has slackened and then grab breakfast at that Starbucks right in front of you.  (No, not that one on the left.)  (No, not that one across the street, either.)  (That one, right there, RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.) This will make you feel sophisticated, like that guy with the Blackberry on his belt and the golf shirt monogramed with his company’s name.  And the enormous back pack.  (Note: under no circumstances ask for directions to Ben’s Chili Bowl from someone in some in livery, such as a Starbucks Apron, a janitorial shirt, or a parking enforcement uniform - while all of these people have actually been to Ben’s, as you’ve just learned, it’s in a bad neighborhood.  Better to tell everyone at home that you tried to go.)

After breakfast, proceed as quickly as you can to the Air and Space Museum.  It’s a straight walk down 7th Street, but you will get lost.  Get your bearings by stopping on a street corner while looking at the free map you picked up in the hotel lobby with the impossibly large cartoon drawings of the museums and monuments and wonder why you can’t see the Air and Space Museum from there - it’s so big!  You’ll have to ask for directions again, but no one will know where it is.    Plan on stumbling upon it by dumb luck.  But do hurry!  There is so much to see at the Air and Space, you could easily spend an hour.  Once you’ve arrived, take a much deserved break in the IMAX theater, perhaps even a nap.  And for lunch, I recommend the fine pizza, chicken fingers, or even hamburgers you can purchase at one of the many franchises located at the food court that is actually inside the Air and Space Museum!  You’ll make the most of your time by eating at the museum and not have to fight the crowds of muggers, drug king pins, and politician that you’ve heard roam the streets of Washington randomly killing people.

Afternoon: Attempt to walk across the bleak, sun-baked expanse of dirt that is the National Mall to the American History Museum which seems to magically move farther away with each step you take, until you collapse in the burnt-off grass.  Sleep here until the start of rush hour.  Be sure to wear plenty of sun screen as your bare legs, between you socks and shorts, will burn to a crisp in the hot DC sun.

Evening: Disrupt the flow of rush hour commuters in a vain attempt to negotiate Metrorail by standing in front of turnstiles, stopping at the bottom of escalators and generally making a nuisance of yourself, in hopes that one of the trains will magically whisk you back to your hotel.  This is a great way of interacting with the real Washingtonians who live in far flung exurbs and wonder constantly how, exactly, their lives turned out like this.  Leave the metro station by a different exit (although you think it's the same one) which puts you in what looks like a completely different neighborhood, or country, maybe, and then walk quickly with your head down not making eye contact until you can find a taxi to take you back to your hotel.  Order room service and watch your favorite television shows.  Plan on going to the pool but fall asleep.

Day Two:  Have breakfast at the Starbucks that is in your hotel, which is next to the pool that you should really take advantage of. Then take the open top bus tour.  All day.  Never get off.  You’re too tired anyway from the cumulative hour or so of walking you did yesterday.  It’ll be a nice break.  From your high vantage point, you can see all the sights, and while you won’t understand the driver’s garbled narrative, at least you can say you’ve been there! Go back to your hotel early and check out, be aghast, truly aghast, at how much they charged you for parking, sit in traffic for a few hours and then eat dinner at someplace like Woodbridge or Breezewood or the Maryland Welcome Center, where ever your travels may take you.  Bask in the relief at being away from the bustle of that corrupt city.

This itinerary may not be for everyone.  Such excitement can only be stood in small doses. While such a short visit will make it almost impossible to delve into true corruption, it will reinforce all your preconceived notions about cities in general and DC in particular.  And that, after all, is why we travel in the first place, isn’t it?

Best time to Visit:  Between the hours of 11:00 am and 3:00 pm on Thursday, October 3.  

Top Sites to See:  1. The Hotel Pool 2. The Starbucks in the Hotel Lobby 3. The Air and Space Museum 4. The Open Top Tour Bus (it’s a convertible bus!) 5. The Starbucks across the street.

The Horrors of the Season

It’s that time of year again, with all the fa-la-la-ing and ho-ho-ho-ing and boughs of holly streaming across the airwaves and gently tintinabulating in every store and coffee shop!  The time to be jolly, the time for hearts to be warmed by a nostalgic carol about days of yore and blazing fires and puddings.  It’s also the time of year that I’ve traditionally destroyed my wife’s Christmas spirit by pointing out the horrors of seasonal music.

Don’t get me wrong, I like Christmas music – I better like it, because I sing it constantly, a barely audible act of ventriloquism that makes people on the metro platform at U Street glance around, annoyed, and then slowly move away from me.  What a great tradition!

But Christmas music teaches some very bad lessons.  Now that I have a three year old son, this fact is amplified, and my Christmas spirit destruction tradition has taken on a whole new impetus – that of the teachable moment.

Take, for instance, the age old “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” This song simply reinforces behaviors we’ve been trying to positively reinforce OUT of our son for the past three years!  Think about it: no please, no thank you, no “nice words”, just “bring me some figgy pudding and bring it right now!”  The only saving grace in all of this is that I believe my son would be sorely disappointed in figgy pudding, and it serves him right!  But it gets worse; the song ups the ante, going from demanding to threatening repercussions for non compliance – “we won’t go until we get some”.  Who wrote this song?  How unpleasant must have old-timey Christmases have been?  So I tell our son, don’t let me catch you demanding figgy pudding this Christmas season because you just might get what you ask for!

There are a host of mildly upsetting or at least thoughtless Christmas song lyrics, such as “and if we’ve no place to go, let it snow let it snow let is snow” (what if you do have some place to go, like the hospital?  Or work? How selfish!) and Good King Wenceslaus’s demand “bring me flesh and bring me wine” (oh where to begin – again, a total lack of “nice words” but of course he IS a King; so we are celebrating a non-elected autocrat who demands the choicest morsels for himself while his subjects get by on groat porridge or stewed acorns; and then of course there’s the vegan argument.  Maybe that’s anachronistic – the song’s lyrics are not “Good King Wenceslaus looked out, on the Feast of Stephen; As the snow lay round about, he knew he wasn’t vegan.” But still!).  Then there is Frosty’s magic hat that just happened to be blowing around some kid’s back yard.  First I tell my son that magic is all humbug, and then I warn him about lice, fleas, and any number of communicable diseases that one may contract if one dabbles in picking up old, discarded clothing that one just happens to find lying about.  He stares at me, but some day he’ll appreciate the pain I’m taking to educate him.

And then there’s “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.” This song teaches you to be a sycophant: you must gain the favor of an authority figure in order to be loved.  All the reindeer then loved him only after Santa asked him to guide his sleigh.  This is a recipe for toddyism, an harbinger of future dictatorship, a decent into totalitarianism.  I fear for my country, and I let my three year old know it.  His only response is “Santa brings presents on his sleigh.”  Despite that, I think I’m getting through.

Which brings up the most heinous of all carols – “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”  Really, this is a terrifying song.  If someone were to tell you that an old, fat, bearded guy in a weird get-up was constantly watching you kid, even when he’s asleep, spying on him (How?  Through a window?  By slowly following him in his car as your kid walks down the street, a few feet behind? Creepy…) and taking notes, you’d call the police.  But it’s okay to convince our kids that Santa does these things?  I told my son that if he ever sees anyone like that following him around, to tell me at once.  But he shouldn’t worry too much, because Santa Claus doesn’t really exist.  I know I got through to him because he cried inconsolably.  And that’s all I ask.