The Worst Holiday Ever

(r to l) Out with the Old, In with the New

Welcome to the Worst Holiday Ever!

New Year’s Eve.

It’s that special time of the year that perennially signals the re-realization that the last 365 days have zoomed by like 365 seconds and that not only have you once again failed to achieve your hopes, dreams, and aspirations, you can’t even find your comb.

And this we celebrate with noisemakers and party hats!

New Year’s Eve is a holiday by default. Christmas and Hanukkah have just ended but we’re not yet ready to stop all that fa-la-la-la-la-ing, dreideling, and wassailing, wassailing all over the town we've gotten used to. We want to pretend there is a “Wintry Season of Fun” that continues to keep rockin' on, but realize we need a marker to bring it to a close other than the first White Sale at Macy’s.

Thus, we have collectively commissioned New Year’s Eve as the Hired Hitman for the Holiday Season. After New Year’s Eve, the holidays are found floating in the East River and all tidings of comfort and joy must go at savings of 60% or more.

We celebrate this dubious occasion with three traditional holiday pastimes:

1) The Do I Sit Home Feeling Miserable or Check Out What’s-his-Face’s Likely to be Lousy Party? Guessing Game.

2) The Feign I’m Feeling Festive Now that I’ve Forayed Out into the 8 Degree Wind Chill and Turns Out I Don’t Know a Soul Here Except for That Bastard Weinstein! Charades, and

3) The There’s Got To Be, Just Got To Be, Something Remotely Edible Here Beyond Trail Mix Scavenger Hunt.

All of the above holiday traditions are enjoyed with alcoholic refreshment in the form of champagne which somehow was mis en bouteille in the very town where you live and has a “better if used before“ date and with lively and spirited conversation, which nobody seems to care to make with you!

New Year’s Eve also has the distinction of being the only holiday that dares to replace its patron saint. Dick Clark --- the heart and soul of New Year’s Eve from the time the first dinosaur decided it might look a bit spiffier for the occasion if it began putting on feathers --- has over the past few years seen his annual role shockingly diminished. Could anybody imagine Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Moses the Lawgiver, or any of the other great hallowed figures of the holidays being similarly sacked in favor of Ryan Seacrest?

“It’s that time everybody!” shouts our genial host, flicking on the TV and beginning to pass out champagne that comes from one of those cartons that looks like it ought to contain motor oil. From high above Times Square, the New Year’s Eve Ball begins to drop, along with my stomach. 

“10 --- 9 --- 8 …” jovially calls out everyone in the room.

Another year to be writing the wrong dates on checks until March. Another year of shattered resolutions, were I to ever make any.

“7 --- 6 --- 5 …” continues Carson Daly, Yutz No. 2 who bids fair to unseat the venerable Mr. Clark.

Another year of existence on the planet now forever in the rear view mirror. Another year ahead of bizarre social trends, goofy new words, and uber-tattooed celebrities, and still I can’t figure out the 'poke' feature on Facebook! 

“4 ---3 --- 2 …” chants Mr. Daly and all assembled...

"Don’t do it,” I cry out!   “Please don’t drop! 

Everyone in the room turns and stares.

"Go the hell back up! Climb, climb, climb back up, you son of a bitch!!!

But the damn ball never listens. Never has, never will.

“2 ---1 --- ..." you get the drift.

Much to the relief of my host, that bastard Weinstein, and everyone else at the party, I’m back in the 8 degree wind chill and on my way home. New Year’s Eve is over.

I should be relieved, but I’m not. In a few hours comes the holiday that many think is even worse than the Hired Hitman for the Holiday Season: New Year’s Day.

Happy White Sales, Everybody!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My Editor, My Son

A Portrait of the Editor as a (Much) Young (er) Man

They say every good writer needs an editor. I don’t know if that’s also true for the bad and indifferent ones but --- whichever kind of writer I am --- an editor surely I’ve got.

And he’s 15 years old and I used to diaper him!This wouldn’t bother me if Brandon Block would approach my humor writing with a deft and gentle red pen. But he rips into my work like Ben Bradlee editing the latest tell-all book by Kitty Kelley!

“Dad, lose that entire concept!” snapped Brandon last week, peering over my shoulder at the locked-up Microsoft Word document pulsating on my PC screen. “It sucks!”

“Why, Brandon?” I asked. “The Lone Ranger needs a new companion and instead of a native American, he hires a Jewish man. Funny!”

“Not funny, Dad!”

“But, Brandon, instead of shouting a hearty ‘Hi - Yo, Silver!’ he shouts a hearty ‘Hymen Silvers!’ Funny!”

“Dad, totally lame.”

"Why???" I protested.

“Because nobody knows who the Lone Ranger is! That character hasn’t been on TV in my lifetime!”

Well, like I said: All writers need an editor and I’m fortunate to have one with his finger well positioned on the cultural pulse. But my own personal Perry White is also driving me mesuganah!

My professional relationship with my hard-boiled editor began when Brandon started to show an interest in the humor writing I’d done on and off for over 20 years and in earnest for the last year. Normally secretive, I usually don’t share my work-in-process with anyone short of receipt of a Congressional subpoena.

But Brandon thought it was cool that his dad was writing funny, so I began showing my nascent humor pieces to him.

And he’s been slicing, dicing, and frying them up in a pan ever since!

"Frankly, Dad, this piece wouldn’t be funny to anyone if you were tickling them!"

“Dad, this reference to the woman you dated as 'Ernest Borgnine with lipstick' is your third ‘Ernest Borgnine’ reference in the last month! Try 'Jonah Hill in high heels.' More current, more funny!"

"What are you trying to write here, Dad, the operator’s manual for your new toaster?”

It isn’t that Brandon means to be harsh or insulting. He realizes it’s tough out there in The World of Trying to Get Stuff Published, and he just wants me to put my best foot forward.

I told him in that case I was going to need a third foot.

He told me that line wasn’t funny!

This afternoon,  Brandon and I were reviewing my latest piece on the History of Life on Earth, which posits that very little true progress has taken place in the span of time between the emergence of the first uni-cellular creature far beneath the primordial seas and the granting of a late night talk show to Carson Daly.

"Dad," said Brandon wearily, "that comma should be a semi-colon, you've used the phrase "lame butt" three times in one paragraph .... and Carson Daly?

" What about Carson Daly?" I asked.

"That's a totally wrong name.  You might think he's a yutz, but a lot of people like him. Now here's the right spot for Ernest Borgnine!"

I could take it no longer.

"Brandon,” I shouted. "Don't you ever like anything?"

“Sure, Dad. I liked Joel Stein’s last piece in Time very much.”

“Joel Stein!” I sputtered. “Why that overrated ….!!!  Did Joel Stein ever diaper you?   

“Chill,” said Brandon, “it’s a joke.  And by the way, Dad ...

You’ve just got to develop a sense of humor!”

~~~~~~~~~~