The Mystery of Christmas

Mystery. Not Joy. Not Hope. Not Family. Not Presents. Not Santa. Mystery, more than any word, describes Christmas. Ask 10 people what Christmas means to them and you may get 10 different answers. And most people you ask will roll their eyes to a particular side of their head and scurry back into their brain to find something to say, almost like, "I know it's profound, so give me a second". What is that? Why do we care so much about Christmas though most of us don't even really know why we care about it? Kind of a mystery.

And not only mysterious, but often downright spooky. Angels scaring the bejesus out of shepherds. Giant animate nutcrackers pirouetting to discomforting chimes. Grinches perched on a cold dark mountain devising cold dark schemes. Ancient apparitions jingle-jangling down tenebrous hallways to startle poor old geezers in the middle of the night. Home invasions, both of the legal (Santa) and illegal (Wet Bandits) variety. Mysterious indeed.

When Johnny Mathis pinned and eternally branded Christmas as "the most wonderful time of the year", he wasn't kidding. Christmas is indeed "full of wonder". Our wonders are derived from mysteries, things that may or may not be real and events that may or may not have transpired. Things that we would like to believe but leave us in serious doubt.

When young, belief and wonder were easily acceptable. When I was a boy, Santa or Rudolph or a baby Jesus were as real as the Sun and the Moon. No disputes here. And wondering about things unfathomable in fact brought great joy, hope, and laughter. While often frightening, I embraced these Christmas mysteries and allowed them to grip me with wonder and amazement.

But I am a boy no more. I am so not a boy, I have my own baby boy now. His wonder is so deep and rich it pervades every ounce of his thinking. He can stare and ruminate on a ceiling fan and crack a smile. I'm a bit envious of that. Most of my wonders, particularly the Christmas mysteries, have passed away. I know Santa (gasp!) is fictitious. His reindeer are also a farce. Nutcrackers can't come to life and ghosts most certainly do not wear loud clanky chains.

But one Christmas mystery remains alive in my heart. One mystery cannot be disproven or simply dismissed as a childhood fantasy. One mystery stands alone and beckons us to examine it with awe and wonder. It's the mysterious case of the Incarnation. God became man. In the form of a baby. Through a virgin. Hard to believe. Unless of course you follow the man's life, and see how He healed the sick, raised the dead, and caused the weather to obey Him. Oh, and He too, believed He was God. That's why he was killed, only 33 years after being that precious boy born in a barn.

So this Christmas, what shall we do with this mystery? We may either swipe it aside and categorize it as another wonderful myth (that happens to make us feel good) or we can contemplate the mystery for what it is; the one time in human history when people asked, "Where are you God?" and a humble yet authoritative rabbi answered, "I am here".

Zinedine Zidane- The Next Most Interesting Man in the World

So for some time, I've been campaigning for Zinedine Zidane to be the next "Most Interesting Man in the World". For those of you who have been hibernating under a rock for the last year, this is the ad campaign currently run by Dos Equis. Now we all know that the current "Most Interesting Man in the World" is in fact, an actor. Meanwhile, Zidane is a real dude who blows the collective minds of all who attempt to comprehend him.

He is a World Cup winning footballer. He is French, but his parents are African. He is kind of bald but not really. He has perfect cheekbones, a permanent five o'clock shadow (magical), and he is better than you or me at everything. Zinedine Zidane is...the next "Most Interesting Man in the World". Here are a few things that have been said of the great "Zizou"...

When he plays football, the goal invites him in for a nightcap.

He once ordered wine, and the waiter brought him Jesus and water.

He breeds tigers because he can.

When you ask him for a photo, your camera has already taken the picture.

Once in a poker game he revealed a pair of kings; one card and himself.

His cologne sniffs him.

He won the Nobel Prize for donating an organ; and it wasn't even an important one.

He's so good looking he makes out with himself in his sleep.

He's so romantic he doesn't even need candles.

He has the right to bear arms but he'd prefer to kick your ass.

He's been known to hold outrageous parties with only himself in attendance.

French police once arrested him for the privilege of obtaining his mug shot.

He invented the soccer ball. Don't argue. He did.

His name is a poem. Look at it.

Zinedine Zidane is...the next "Most Interesting Man in the World".

Blog at the Improv

Well, what do you do when you have nothing to blog about, but you need to write something to keep readership going? Well, you wing it, which is what I plan on doing the next few minutes.

Today was pretty good. I was in my pajamas until approximately 5:30 pm. It was cold, rainy, and I have a baby to take care of. No way was I gettin' outside. I did go running. Do you think about stuff when you run? Gosh knows I do, I have to. Trying to soak it all in and experience the joy of running is not possible for me.

Have you ever stopped someone mid-sneeze? You are a jerk. A sneeze is a wonderful thing. It allows you to get rid of dust, boogers, and God knows whatever else is up your nose, sometimes up to speeds of 100 mph! But no, you decide to say "bless you" right before I sneeze. Then I miss the sneeze and I'm all stuffed up. Next time say "curse you", because that's what you've done. You've ruined my life until I find a Kleenex box. Was it worth it?

Albert Haynesworth is Haynesworthless. I don't like making fun of fat people but for him, it's Haynesworth it. Uh-oh. Here comes some on-the-spot fat jokes...

Albert Haynesworth is so fat he ate his refrigerator. Yikes. Let's try again.

Albert Haynesworth is so fat, he ate his refrigerator for dinner. Umm. Still bad. Ok, deep breath, just like fatty Haynesworth.

Albert Haynesworth is so fat, refrigerators store items in him.

I'm not sure that makes sense but I'm pretty sure that is the funniest.

Bing Crosby is kind of a racist in White Christmas. He calls a Mexican guy in the movie "Cisco". That's so racist racists don't even say that anymore. But it's Bing, so we laugh and smile. What happened to the days where being a racist was endearing?

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth. Being a frugal, sometimes hopeless cheap-skate, I hope my kid says that to me some day.

Why do the ugly, non-human like people in the Harry Potter flicks still have British accents? Shouldn't they have their own unique accent that means nothing to us? Are they spending time conjuring up potions in a cave or enjoying frothy libations in a London pub?

Spelunking is a fun word.

Okay, I'm runnin' on empty.