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Something unlikely happened at my house yesterday. After the cookie-filled close of Christmas dinner proper, the women cleaned up and the men sat in the living room and watched football. That’s right — an actual football game on the TV in my home. From this experience, I took away one thing and one thing only: on holidays, men watch football not out of any love of the sport, but rather a desire to not have to engage in conversation for a time.

As you may have noticed, both this post and the two prior reveal me to be completely small-talked out.

As has been the tradition for many a long year, I received no games for Christmas. I did recieve a Madcats Xbox controller and a two-pack of wireless PS2 controllers, which were much appreciated. I spent the bulk of the Best Buy gift cert my brother got me on RotK like the trusting idiot I am.

Still working my way through Tiger Woods. Eagling all the par fives in the game turned out to be quite the challenge, but the recent discovery of the “mulligans on” setting made it a LOT easier.

Also, after receiving a fierce whooping from a first-time player the other night, I have discovered that the cranking up the Luck stat makes the impossible plausible. You heard it here first.

In the post-coffee, pre-extended-family-arrival lull, is it inappropriate to pull out the Xbox? Between prepping din-din, brushing off the car, and watching A Christmas Story repeatedly, the fam is relatively occupied. I fear, though, that they are not occupied enough not to take serious umbrage to me continuing my battle against the Covenant. I can hear the whispers now: “I can’t believe Alex is playing videogames. Why isn’t he sitting in here with us, waiting in bored silence for something to happen?”

In the post-coffee, pre-extended-family-arrival lull, is it inappropriate to pull out the Xbox? Between prepping din-din, brushing off the car, and watching A Christmas Story repeatedly, the fam is relatively occupied. I fear, though, that they are not occupied enough not to take serious umbrage to me continuing my battle against the Covenant. I can hear the whispers now: “I can’t believe Alex is playing videogames. Why isn’t he sitting in here with us, waiting in bored silence for something to happen?”

I have found peace, and it is at Target. Despite unruly throngs of holiday desperation, the automotive section at holds strong as a bastion against the cruel Hell that is shopping. There, men find solace from wives and children (their own and others’), wandering in with the vaguest of intents, staring in gentle contemplation at shelves of windshield wiper fluid, content with this brief respite from noise and obligation.

Sometimes life is like a sitcom. Like today’s episode, in which our well-meaning but often befuddled protagonist awakes to a 50F cold house, determines that the heat isn’t working, calls the pretty young landlady who comes in as the pretty younger wife tries to distract her from the pile of (albeit clean) dishes in the sink, calls in to work saying he’ll be late, goes out to the 3F unbearably cold car, drives to work wondering why his allegedly insulated boots aren’t keeping his toes any warmer than if he wore ice-blocks in their stead, gets to his 70F warm cube, starts to feel sick from the wild temperature swings, vows to stay indoors for the entire day, pours himself a cup of coffee, sets to working, then makes a face at the camera when the fire alarm goes off.

It’s coming.

The gauntlet of the mall has been run several times over, and with success. Guestlists have been cemented within reasonable margins. Nog abounds. My home is primed for Christmas, but what does one do with the few days between now and then? Being ready early creates a quiet, smoldering stress, the feeling that you should be doing something. Do we have the right tablecloth? Should we pick up those swizzle-sticks? Since during this season all are expected to be rushing around getting ready, the entire engine of the US is set towards that one goal. There’s nothing else to do. So, I will sit quietly in my home, letting the dulling glow of the tree distract me.

I’m no fisherman, but I caught a decent-sized fish once, and put the picture up in my cube. I recommend doing this. Take something from your personal life and post it for the visitors to see. Why, you ask? Here’s an example.

Today, someone came to my office. This poor guy has being trying to get some info out of me via phone for a few weeks, but I’ve been too busy to find the answer he’s looking for. So, in he comes. I turn to my PC, making extempore ingratiating sounds and “pulling him up” to make a good show of it. When I turn back to tell him I haven’t done anything for him, he interrupts me to ask about the fish. Is that a tiger muskie? What lake is that? Have you ever fished Lake Youveneverheardof? Et cetera. He left satisfied that I was indeed busy and not just blowing him off, dreaming of grandiose fish.

3 strikes and you’re out. Everybody knows this. You get three tries, and if you screw it up all three times, you’re in trouble. But does the rest of the world follow the same rule, since they don’t play baseball? Do British people get six tries at everything, because you get six overs in cricket? Do the Scots measure everything in par? “It took you five times to get this right, Wilson. It’s a 3-par. Take a hike”.