Today the 14 year-old said that he is tired of Christmas. I looked at him askance.

HIM: Well not really tired of Christmas.

ME: Hmmm?

HIM: It’s the Christmas music. That’s what I am tired of.

Yet, he just downloaded a new Christmas classic, “All I want for Christmas is to Get it Crunk,” by dem dirty boyz.

“Courvoisier on Christmas Eve, and smoking christmas trees on christmas day…And Santa I been very good this year, so can you make dem two felonies on my record disappear?” This is overlayed on a beat machine behind “The Nutcracker Suite.”

ME: You really tired of Christmas? Let’s just kick it with the Dirty Boyz and have a crunk New Year.

Okay, today the REAL final report came from the artist formerly known as the 9-11 Commission and now called the 9/11 Public Discourse Project. Don’t worry about the new name, though. They are closing up shop at the end of the month.

So, bottom line, after four years, and a billion gazillion dollars we are no safer than we were before September 11. While that might be a bit of an exaggeration–frankly awareness is much better and communications among and within agencies, governments and the private sector had no where to go but up, Governor Blanco notwithstanding–the report card would make me beat my kid.

Former Governor Kean (R-N.J.) was, how you say, pissed. So were the rest of the former commissioners. It was a huge indictment of the efforts to make this country safer. Now the question is “what’s next?” Hope we find out before we send out the next national 911.

It’s easy for me to be thankful. I have a lot to be thankful for. A sleepy dog is at my feet, great music surrounds me, my kids are doing their kid things in the other room–yet would run in and give up a kiss if beckoned. And my spouse is a super-hero.

We’ll be out of town for Thanksgiving for the first time since my kids arrived. The 11 year old asked, “How many people will be there?” I said, “Four.” He said, “Four families?” I said, “Nope, the four of us.” Something else to be thankful for.

[And to my loyal reader, I will be back after the Thanksgiving holiday–DocThink]

When our relatives are at home, we have to think of all their good points or it would be impossible to endure them. ~George Bernard Shaw

We don’t pick our families. I think, though, as we grow up and have our own subfamilies (spouses, partners, kids, dogs) we build a semi-permeable membrane around ourselves. There has to be some exchange of famili-ness with the uber-family, hence the semi-permeability. But we live within the membrane walls.

Sometimes, we bump against another’s membrane wall. Not so much with our parents. I can walk in the house, open the fridge to shop around for grub. When my kids get big, I hope they look through my cupboards, too.

But with the sibs’ families, we each create our own versions of adulthood. When we talk about each other, though, it is through the lens of childhood. Mom’s favorite is still the favored one, and the wild one–even after they become respectable–is referenced by those old days.

These are not inherently dysfunctional relationships. Maybe just some parts, maybe none. I wonder, though, if I am seeing this, am I just building within the walls of my own cell, or that I am I making my cell’s walls more porous?

Driving up Constitution Avenue this evening, I saw the white panel vans and satellite dishes staked out in front of the Court. Waiting on news from Special Prosecutor Fitzgerald. To indict or not to indict, that is the question.

The superstitious–who aren’t babbling about some made up curse of the Goat, Bambino, or Frying Pan (I made the last one up myself)–are also talking about the curse of the second term. You know, when the administration gets caught up in a big ole’ scandal and implodes. Leaving the American public waiting 2 or 3 years for executive branch leadership?

Listing out recent second term scandals we have the Reagan Iran-Contra scandal. You remember the one when we traded arms to our ENEMIES for hostages, which we would never do since we don’t negotiate with terrorists, right? Then there was the Clinton, tawdry oral sex and the stained blue dress in the Oval Office scandal, in which he didn’t have sex with that woman. And now the Bush-43 scandal, the one with top guys pulling the wool over the eyes of the world to get us to war with Iraq. You know, starting a war is a prestigious line of work with a long and glorious tradition!

Wait! Hold everything.

We have two foreign policy and terror scandals. People died. And in between is the sex scandal in which nobody dies. One of these things is not like the others.

I admit I am a wimp. I hate scary movies. I even have issues with Abbott & Costello Meets Frakenstein.

Clearly movies full of suspense and mayhem–especially if the freak murderer can’t be killed–are popluar. Not for me, but it makes me wonder what others get out of this genre.

It seems trite to say that the thrill is catharsis. Like people leave the theatre and say, “God, I feel so much better that I didn’t get slashed into little bits by some psycho freak with a bunch of scars from when someone tried to kill him by various means including stabbing, burning, exploding, and ancient rites. I only know like one rite.”

I think that some people do like to be scared. They leave the theatre and say. “That was so cool.” Me, I leave the theatre and stop every third or fourth step to turn around and make sure I’m not being followed. Sometimes I even see something. I prefer NOT to be scared. For me, it’s too scary.

Last night’s question by the 14-year old really provides food for thought.

Him: “If you were best man at a wedding, would it kind of ruin a toast–one that was really beautiful and thoughtful–if you said at the very end, ‘Hey Jim, XYZ’?”

Me: “Well, yes.”