Okay, so, the big day has come and gone. The candy sugar buzz and turkey tryptophan have probably worn off, and we’re all just sitting around, dreading the renewed onset of reality.

I don’t think I’m obnoxious about it but inwardly, I’m a cynic, holiday-wise. I thought about writing a big long post getting more specific about that. And maybe some day I will. But I’ll get less depressed if I just make fun of Christmas decorations.

First off, an update, as my next-door neighbor has offered yet another “interesting” seasonal interpretation outside her door for the last two weeks:

I don’t really know how the stolen laundry hamper features in–maybe it’s all really deep. Maybe the whole thing’s a really post-modern nativity scene, man, and the laundry hamper represents a manger. And it’s empty, see, like we all are. ::drinks espresso, adjusts beret::

Look more closely–you can’t really see all the carefully cultivated dust, but you can see the inexplicably pink-tipped leaves. My cute little gay boy neighbors call it the Pepto Bismol tree.

And then there’s the cutesy office crap one finds–at all times of year, really, but none more than now. Nobody does inexplicable, cavity-inducing decorations like secretaries. To support this theory, I offer Exhibit A:

Hark! It is the anniversary of the birth of our savior! It’s only logical that I will adorn my cubicle with a strangely humanoid deer-creature wearing a sweater and kicky boots!

I will give him an oddly benign expression and an ankle bracelet. He will straddle a picture of mine to keep this important talisman in close proximity yet block his crotch from my view. Thus all will know my joy that He is born!

Hmm, what else can I do to express my gratitude that God has sent me his only Son? I know!

I’ll enjoy the sight of Santa’s disemboweled lower half, filled with paper clips! Oh, how his mutilated yet strangely-still-clothed corpse will fill me with glee–AND give me needed office supplies!

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Okay, so those are things I hate, But then there’s the cheesiness I love. Like that house in Hancock Park with all the David statues…

…about which I will blog properly later–this picture doesn’t do it NEAR justice. But see, when I started to take pictures of it the other day my camera’s batteries gave out, so I’ll have to go back. I’m pretty much sure it’s been blogged to death, but there’s something so FANTASTIC about this guy’s unapologetic bad taste, that it just makes me too happy not to add my $.02.

And then there’s the best holiday thing that’s ever happened, ever, captured by my friend the Kennedy Kabasares at the Grove the other day:

As Kennedy says: “It’s a TINY FAKE CHRISTMAS TREE TIED TO THE ROOF OF A V0LKSWAGEN B33TL3!” OMG, so, so worthy of the Snoopy dance.

So yeah, to some, I find my Christmas joy in strange places. But I think the same thing of most other people. So we’re even.

This year, on the advice of a fellow cartoon writer who clearly knows how to network better than I do (although to be honest, a ham sandwich would know how to network better than I do), I attended the annual Christmas party for the Animation Guild (Local 839 IATSE!), to which I belong, even though most years I don’t usually get enough time working for “union” companies to get any of the benefits.

I decided to take my friend’s advice and go as an experiment. I had no idea what kind of time I would have or if I’d know anybody there—the Guild contains a whole lot more artists than writers. But I’ve been making a conscious effort to get to know more people in my own industry, to be a “presence,” as I was once advised. “They don’t even check membership at the door,” said my friend John. “Pretty much anybody can go.” So hey, any party with a low potential for getting thrown out seemed like a safe bet. (And he was right, they didn’t check anything, so if any of you want to come with and crash next year, you’re invited. Hosted bar, that’s all I’m sayin…)

The day of the event, I got gussied up. You can tell I was serious because me and my boobs were attending.

(more…)

Time for a picspam post. A late picspam post to boot. I am nothing if not classy.

I was driving behind this the other day. Note the “customization” circled in yellow.

This is what I call one of those “I’m awfully sorry about your penis” vehicles. You see, the more overt effort a man goes to - by way of his vehicle - to show how blisteringly hetero and manly he is, the more I assume his genitalia is SORELY lacking if not missing altogether. In some cases, particularly Hummers, I begin to assume the penis may be actually inverted. Not to the point that it’s a vagina, because that would create a normal person. No, a completely embarassing what-the-hell-kind-of-monster-are-you inverto-penis. This man is probably at about the enuch stage, him and his jacked-up hootermobile. Either that or he’s on his way to Rage in West Hollywood.

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Then we have the Strangely Amusing Neighbor Incidents that happened right around Thanksgiving.

I was vaguely aware that our neighbors at the end of the hall had moved, but as I never talked to them much anyway, it wasn’t primary on my mind. I didn’t even consider who might be arriving in their stead until I was walking the roommate’s doglette (there’s not enough of it to be considered a whole dog), just leaving the apartment when this tiny little bleached blonde woman in screaming neon pink pajama bottoms emerged from their ex-door.

“AAA! How CUTE!” she squealed, regarding the doglette. (Although I do keep hoping, that reaction very seldom happens in response to me.) Her voice was strangely deep, maybe a little cigarette-affected, and she spoke just a little too loud for the room. She fawned over the doglette and then said something that sounded like “We’re watching Mary May’s dog…” although I’m not at all sure what name she used, but it didn’t matter because when I didn’t respond in immediate recognition she followed up with “Mary May the porn star?”

Uh, not familiar with her.

Again, didn’t matter, because she soon went back to describing Mary May’s Pekinese and how he YAPS! The Pekinese dutifully provided proof of his yappiness through the door. I began to wonder if I was even needed for this conversation.

I said my goodbyes and moved on down the hall, thinking my own private thoughts. Houston, we have a character…

Then a couple of days later, on Thanksgiving, I went out to walk the doglette again. As soon as I opened the door it sounded like someone was vacuuming in the hall, but no one was.

I looked toward the new neighbors’ door. I sort of couldn’t help it.

LOOMING at the end of the (admittedly scenic) hall is one of those MASSIVE yard decorations that’s powered by an internal ELECTRIC FAN and LIT FROM WITHIN and belongs, as mentioned, in someone’s YARD.
Preferably someone’s BIG YARD.

But no, it’s here, in my just-above-a-crack-den hallway, head barely clearing the CEILING, generator howling like a banshee and accompanied not only Mary May-the-porn-star’s Pekinese yapping but also Doglette who is apparently determined to scare it away with the sheer force of the most soprano yips ever produced in canine-dom.

I get the doglette past this monstrosity to get business done. When we come back, Doglette is completely over it, couldn’t care less. We investigate. It’s just bizarre.

I get a picture of it including Doglette for scale (although I’ll leave it to you to decide how much scale a 5-lb. dog provides. Maybe I just included him to show exactly how much weirdness I was having to put up with that day: an 8 foot inflatable pilgrim jumping out at me as I’m babysitting a tiny topiary-shaped poodle. )

To their credit, it was gone before the end of the day. Or does that make them crazy for taking the trouble to put it up if they were just going to take it down? I don’t know. Let’s ask Mary May, the porn star.

Gregory Peck’s star stolen from the Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Thieves equipped with a concrete saw cut through terrazzo and concrete to hoist out the pink, five-pointed star that frames a movie camera emblem and the late actor’s bronzed name, authorities in Hollywood said Tuesday.

“It happened just before Sunday’s Hollywood Christmas Parade. We have no idea where it is,” said Johnny Grant, who serves as Hollywood’s honorary mayor and oversees the chamber’s sidewalk salute to celebrity.

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