You can download it as a meme or as a GIF. You can buy it on a baby’s onesie or on a t-shirt (front and/or back). You can have it on a mug, a tumbler, or a shot glass. I expect it will be all over Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
“It” is simply the text for “December 31st, 2023” but the format makes all the difference, showing yet again that presentation matters.
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May all your gifts–given and received–generate this reaction.
https://twitter.com/DanWuori/status/1733489276183019944
We were up and driving before sunrise, which looked more ambitious than we deserved: It was nigh-on to the winter equinox. As we hurtled across the New Mexico desert on a lightly travelled part of Interstate 40, the sun rose behind the hills behind us. The rear-mirror view isn’t always lovely, but sometimes the car reflection actually enhances what I would see if I turned around for the direct view.
Whether you’re looking back or looking ahead this Christmas, may you be happy with what you see.
Please listen carefully.
Our options may have changed.
I sigh. Even my regular interlocutors don’t make it easy: Changing their options means that I can’t use the number I learned last time to short-circuit this menu recitation.
It’s not like I’m calling for any information readily available online or via email for this or any other business:
No, when I pick up the phone it’s because I NEED TO TALK TO A PERSON for some reason:
But for what must be good reasons, “talk-to-a-person” is always the last option given in every voice-menu system.
“It is said that when St. Francis staged in his own simple fashion a Nativity Play of Bethlehem, with kings and angels in the stiff and gay medieval garments and the golden wigs that stood for haloes, a miracle was wrought full of the Franciscan glory. The Holy Child was a wooden doll or bambino, and it was said that he embraced it and that the image came to life in his arms.”
– G.K. Chesterton (“The Testament of St. Francis,” St. Francis of Assisi, 1924; quoted in daily Advent reflections from the Society of Gilbert Keith Chesterton)
In a world that can always use a miracle, here’s one for Christians and equally for others:
What we embrace
comes alive in our arms
and in the world.
It’s the most wonderful time of the year. How do I know that? Well, there’s that old song. You know the one. No? OK, here’s the first verse:
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
With kids jingle-belling
And everyone telling you, “Be of good cheer” . . .
It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
I’m trying to think of the last time that I saw kids jingle-belling. Indeed, I’m trying to think if I’ve ever seen kids jingle-belling, even at a school Christmas concert. Come to think of it, I’m not sure anyone has ever told me to be of good cheer, either. But perhaps this is quibbling. (I mean, what are the odds?) Surely there are other examples in the song that would resonate for me? Well, let’s see.
I was this many years old when I first saw “squidge” in the wild.
Squidge through the muddy fields, as my family and I did this last St Patrick’s day, climb over a wall or two and you find yourself faced with a small site hemmed in by drystone walls. – The Abbey of Misrule, Paul Kingsnorth
I looked it up.
squidge (skwij)
“So, like, the guy tells me that he wants me to re-caulk his tub. It looks pretty good to me, so I ask him why. Get this: He says that every time the shower runs, water pours into the basement – two floors down. So I tell him, ‘That’s not the caulking.’ I have to cut into the drywall in a bunch of places before I find the leak. Turns out, to get at it, the tub has to come out completely. Which is a two-person job.”
I might have messed up some of the details: I wasn’t listening carefully. My excuse? It wasn’t my leak: The plumber fixing a minor problem in *my* house was just making conversation about another job site–and, maybe, making me feel better about my own. I still got enough to get the gist: A not-uncommon point of failure (a leaky pipe) was going to be a bugger to fix because of how we install plumbing and the associated appliances.
Are you telling me . . .
This conversation from 40 years ago is burned into my memory. I still remember the incredulity of the tone. Let’s go back in time together.
Are you telling me . . .
Yeah, never a good start. Especially when it’s repeated. From his point of view, he’s giving me fair warning: a chance to recant. An opportunity to climb down from an untenable position. Clearly, in his mind, what I just said was ridiculous.
Are you telling me
that you can create crust
by cutting bread differently?
Posted: 2025 Jul 19
