It’s that time of the year again, when the big-bellied man up North holds center stage. He’s rounding up his minions, firing up his sled, and getting ready to dole out holiday gifts with gusto. What will he bring us this year–maybe a Kindle, a brand new pair of socks, or perhaps a plutonium-fueled nuclear fission bomb?
Of course, I’m talking about Kim Jong-Il, the jolly yet combustible man-who-always-wears-sunglasses-and-would-be-a-great-Oakley-spokesman-if-he-weren’t-a-ruthless-Communist-dictator. It all started right after Thanksgiving with a random November attack on a disputed South Korean island. Then, with his son/successor/Mini-Me by his side, KJI proceeded to make numerous threats to blow South Korea to smithereens… yes, season’s greetings from your favorite psychopathic, WMD-waving dictator. Who doesn’t love the threat of world-ending nuclear war? What will he bring us next year–an anthrax-exploding Christmas card signed lustily by the Chinese and Russians?
North Korea has always served as a great American buzzkill, trying to ruin our holiday season by being crazy. So, to get you back in the Christmas spirit (and to take your mind off uranium isotopes that could melt your brains), please celebrate the holiday season with joy, laughter, and of course, more of Kim Jong-Il:
It all started in the fourth grade. Everyone in my elementary school was required to take “Band” as a class, which meant that for two days a week, we would gather in the auditorium and blow into rented instruments for an hour. The band director, Mrs. E, was a very nice, regal woman with ’80s hair and a penchant for wearing short-sleeved tops. She was also a fantastic conductor who would vigorously direct our rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star as if she were Leonard Bernstein.
Jiggly underarms on their own were not that uncommon in my town. But this case was different. What made it all so fascinating to me was that Mrs. E was not a large woman. In fact, she was rather petite. And so her fleshy flappers became an invitation into scientific inquiry, into exploring the unknown. How did they come to be this way? Was it just an anomaly? Or was it some kind of physical manifestation of irony, or a big F-you to biology, or an acknowledgment of an extraterrestrial presence? Seriously, what the hell happened here?
On other days, I feel like an honest-to-goodness nutcase. I’m a meager also-ran, something that never quite lived up to the hype, like fungus, or acid rain, or JaMarcus Russell. I can’t write. I can’t tell jokes. I can’t slowly corrupt the hearts and minds of the general public. Someday, somewhere, I’ll end up shuttered in a small studio apartment, typing away as my cats nibble on my toes because I haven’t fed them in two weeks.
Of course, it’s exhilarating to live a crazy, volatile, follow-your-ridiculous-dreams kind of life. For now, I’m OK with the fact that my bipolar writerly life sometimes involves me eating ice cream in bed, watching House Hunters on repeat, and feeling like a failure. But I’m banking on having more good days than bad ones. And if that’s the case and all goes well, I’ll probably turn into a self-absorbed, self-involved, narcissistic prick with a marble statue. I’m sorry. Please don’t pee on my statue.
For example, everyone loves bears. Polar bears, panda bears, black bears, you name it. Bears have become so cuddly and lovable that if I were ever to encounter a bear, I’d half expect it to come bearing Coca-Cola and a good forest fire story. Same thing with penguins. While I generally hate all other birds, I love penguins: mainly because they’re fat and furry and they’re featured in almost every single animated movie out there (we even saw penguins in Madagascar… really?).
Honestly, our love for blimp-like animals doesn’t make sense. I could sit at the zoo for hours, watching hungry, hungry hippos chew on grass. Yet, if I were to see some obese human being sitting with a pile of ribs, I’d probably have a gag reflex. If I were to meet a furry, plump, waddling man, I would not wish to see him on the movie screen. And if a group of dancing, naked, fat guys tried to sell me Charmin toilet paper, I would almost prefer just to air dry. (Almost.)
Our human superficiality is counter-intuitive, especially when seen from a Darwinian lens. Why would we, as human beings, favor small people and big animals? It’s clearly easier for a giant bear to eat you when you’re a tiny person, versus when you’re the size of a tugboat.
It was a great problem to have, yet I agonized over the decision: to follow the typical corporate path (finance > some cushy job > a life of picket fences and clam bakes) or to pursue some ridiculous, crazy, unclear, undetermined, unknown dream. I wanted to have it all, but I was quickly realizing that I had to choose.
