The Human Conditioner

Christmas, they say, is a time for sharing. They don't specify what. In a purely technical sense, I guess it could be argued that the implied notion is economic. Make like Scrooge and divest your holdings, even out the distribution of wealth, or at least make token offerings as those wise men of old are said to have done. In the more sophisticated marketing climate of today's world, the crass reshuffling of the economic deck is disguised with a thick layer of sentiment that suggests we should all be sharing magical moments of connection and love, aided by the twinkling lights, sugar rush and the brute force of the piped-in holiday soundtrack.

And, just in case we haven't figured out how to be merry enough on our own, there are the Christmas movies. There used to be just a couple. The classics - Miracle on 34th Street, It's a Wonderful Life, and Charlie Brown's Christmas. Then came more. A Christmas Story, Scrooged, The Santa Clause. By now it's an entire genre, with more being added each year. I would argue that Die Hard is a Christmas classic. Not one for grandma, perhaps. But certainly full of the kind of crazy lonely obsessive behavior that can overcome even the most mild-mannered among us when the holiday vice squeezes a little too hard.

But, among all those lists of holiday favorites, I never see mentioned my personal favorite, which I would like to share with anyone who is looking for something a bit off the beaten Christmas path. It's an odd little comedy called Mixed Nuts. It was directed by Nora Ephron and stars Steve Martin as the harried director of a suicide prevention hotline on Christmas eve. The cast includes the late gifted comedienne Madeline Kahn, Juliette Lewis, Adam Sandler and more, including a surprise appearance by Liev Schreiber, whose scenes with Martin are worth the price of the film.

It's a kind of screwy plot. But what makes it a great Christmas movie is that, while it touches lightly on familiar holiday tropes ranging from the insane pursuit of the perfect tree to the dangers of flying fruitcakes, it also builds to a kind of emotional epiphany centered on the real human core of the holiday - the need to feel some kind of connection, to have even a momentary glimpse of the meaning of all the insanity in the human condition. And that transcendent moment comes with a birth, just the way it did at the first Christmas.

The birth of child, at any time of year, breaks the spell of indifference and self-absorption that blinds humans much of the time. Every baby is nothing short of miraculous. What's crazy is how quickly we forget, and go back to our hardened ways. By mid-January, not much of that Yule time mellow is left. Which is a shame, but there it is. It's the human condition. We can't really function in a state of joyous bliss. We have to get up and go to work, do the laundry, fix the broken world.

So, I guess it's nice that we get to have a few weeks in December when a lot of people are at least making an effort to be the kind of humans they'd like to think they were. More flattering, more generous, more forgiving, more patient. In this sense, Christmas does bring out the best in some people. It's the human conditioner. It kind of rinses out the bitterness and brittleness, and leaves us more flexible, with a spring in our step, and for a few brief shiny hours, the world seems a better place, and we feel ourselves to be better people. And miraculously, we are.

Kitten Gnomics

Why does a kitten chase its tail?

To get to the other side.

This makes as much sense as any other answer, I've decided. Of course, it may be because I'm still dizzy from watching our new 8-week-old kitten doing 30 rpm as she seeks in vain to catch that furry snake that has been following her for days.

As adversaries, they are well matched. The wily snake manages to stay tantalizingly close, yet always slips out of Gabby's claws. But Gabby is nothing if not persistent. So, they while away the hours, locked in combat, rolling and tumbling across the floor until they both call time out and take a nap. The snake, of course, cheats during these breaks. While Gabby dreams of cheese puffs and butterflies, or whatever it is kittens dream about, the snake is rarely still. It uses this time to work on its moves, coiling and snapping like a restless whip. No wonder Gabby can't keep up with it.

To her credit, Gabby also works out, practicing her moves on anything snake-like. She trains tirelessly with the jump rope. Unfortunately, she also seems to draw no distinction between cords of flesh and cords of electricity and thus the tangled webs of electric wire under every desk exert a hypnotic attraction on her peanut-sized brain. And, not content to simply dive into the mess and get herself hopelessly ensnared, she insists on chewing on the wires. This could be a problem.

So far, our relentless vigilance and crafty tactics have kept her from frying the computer wires, or herself. We hope it's a phase she'll outgrow. Yet, the whole tail-chasing phenomenon doesn't seem to be limited to kittens. Plenty of humans I've known, self included, waste many an hour in the brainless pursuit of goals that, really, might be better left on the theoretical shelf. I vividly recall as a child once desiring a turquoise blue four-foot-tall plush bear. The rationale for this desire escapes me now. I seem to recall that I actually saved up my little all and purchased the thing. Where it is now I couldn't tell you. Probably moldering at the bottom of some landfill. The passion which led me to acquire it died as mysteriously as it began.

No doubt, all kittens must one day experience a similar rude awakening when, at long last, having fought the good fight and prevailed, they realize suddenly that a mouthful of fur isn't really all that much of a treat.

I suppose we all learn this in some way or another as we go through life. We chase our mad desires across six lanes of deadly traffic and, if we're lucky, emerge on the other side dazed and confused, wondering whatever were we thinking. And yet, perhaps we aren't so different from our tail-chasing kittens. After all, it's better to have loved and crossed, than never to have loved at all.

Dumb and Hummer

So, we just got back from a stimulating trip to Vancouver, where they have more glorious views than you can shake a stick at, though why you would want to shake a stick at anything except your dog is beyond me. But I digress.

We did see a lot of breathtaking mountains, a lot of sushi restaurants, and a surprising number of German tourists fresh off the cruise ships that make a pit stop in the shiny downtown part of the city. It was fun. But, of course, if you seek big mountains, fresh sushi and German tourists, you can find them in abundant supply in this country too.

But, in Canada they also have some things you can't easily find in this country. And it's not just because they're so small. Smart cars are everywhere in Vancouver. They even have convertibles.

The Smart car looks like a Hot Wheels car for grown ups. It wouldn't work for soccer moms who have to schlep the team to practice. Nor would it be practical for people who wish to ferry Great Danes across country, or similar ambitious enterprises. However, for those of us who simply need to get to and from the grocery store, or the library, or make the occasional jaunt to the big city, the Smart car seems like the perfect answer. It's so small you can park it almost anywhere. It's chic and stylish and will set you apart from the SUV crowd. Plus, it gets almost 60 miles to the gallon.

Yet, for reasons beyond my simple mind, you can't buy a Smart car in this country. No. You can buy a Hummer. The anti-smart car. I see a lot of Hummers on the roads around here. I don't know which came first, the road rage or the Hummers, but at this point they both seem a reflection of the insanity on our highways.

I'm not saying everyone should trade in their Hummers. If they can afford the gas, and need to drive an armored car to feel secure, well, we just have to get out of their way and hope they don't decide they need to attach machine guns to the roof to achieve their goals.

But, as for me, I'll be looking to trade in my minivan for a Smart car. A West Coast environmental technology group known as ZAP (Zero Air Pollution) just this month arranged a deal to import Smart cars for American consumers. They may not be the next big thing, but maybe when gas gets to five bucks a gallon, American drivers will decide it pays to get Smart.

Bright Lights, Dim Wits

Okay. I confess. I never watched Survivor. Not even once.

I also never watched Joe Millionaire, The Apprentice, The Great Race or The Swan. Are we seeing a pattern here? Yes. Not a big fan of "reality" shows. I did, though, find myself snared when a friend chose to participate in one. Each week I would tune in, and watch in a kind of mesmerized horror as she was put through a sequence of humiliating ordeals and trials. Although she is a person who is kind to animals and children, gives back to the community, doesn't spit in public, etc. etc., by the end of the show my friend had achieved the dubious distinction of being labeled the so-called villain of the piece.

You couldn't pay me to go through something like that. But, clearly, in our richly diverse and endlessly inventive culture, there are legions of people who want nothing more than to be allowed a chance to sit on the dunk tank seat in front of all America.

This in itself is probably not that surprising. After all, as we all know, Andy Warhol predicted the whole 15-minutes-of-fame phenomenon decades ago. He's famous for it. However, in the curious evolution of the reality show we have now reached a disturbing new level of vacuity. Last night I sat though the first episode of "Battle of the Network Reality Show Stars." Arguably not the most creative title ever, but then, reality shows don't demand creativity from the producers. It's the feisty, fearless competitors who are tested.

However, in the original "Battle of the Network Stars" on which the new reality show is loosely based, most of the contestants had some prior claim to fame which earned them the privilege of competing for the camera's attention. In this new version of the "battle" we have people whose entry credentials consist of the fact that each of them has managed to play this made-for-TV game successfully in the past. We're in the funhouse now.

Of course, you can see where, from the networks' viewpoint, this is a win-win. They've already got these commoditized characters ready and willing to ad-lib until they run out of expletives, or repeat same indefinitely. The networks don't have to hire writers, and editors can manipulate raw footage to ensure that some sort of narrative arc develops. And this is where "reality" really gets unreal on these shows. Because, it's apparent as you watch these ordinary people, that, thrown into this nationally televised incubator of emotions, each one of them, perhaps unconsciously, chooses a role.

Some want to be heroes. Some choose to be whining victims. Others elect to be cunning schemers, hiding up in the trees until all the alpha apes have bludgeoned each other senseless. Although, honestly, it seems a fair number of them enter the thing without a lot of sense to begin with. Take the guy last night who promised, on camera, that he was going to pee in the dunk tank if he fell in. Sure, this was just some ordinary bozo swaggering for the crowd. But, haven't we seen this guy at the local pool? I, for one, will never feel the same about going to a water park.

A distressing number of the female contestants seem to consider breast baring a competitive sport. Who am I to judge? I found myself thinking my friend might have been smart to invest in some quality implants before she went on the show. Ah well. Maybe with the money she gets from this show.

One would like to think this whole reality show trend will run its course, but I am not overly optimistic. Those bright lights seem to bring out the worst in a lot of people. And, the result is gruesomely compelling, like a bad accident on the freeway. You can't help slowing down to take a look. And you drive on, slowing down just a little perhaps for a few minutes, in your relief that it didn't happen to you.

Bedding Crashers

No sooner does the garden party get underway than they show up, gorgeous creatures, first in line for the drinks, stealing the spotlight effortlessly. In no time at all they're lurching drunkenly around the garden, gaily thrusting themselves against every beauty in the place.

I didn't invite them. But, I'm always glad to see them arrive. Somehow, they make the party a party.

I'm not referring to Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, although I wouldn't mind seeing them materialize in my garden beds either I suppose. But, really, what could we possibly have to talk about?

The butterflies who flock to my garden at this time of year, on the other hand, require no witty repartee or plunging décolletage to hold their interest. All they seem to care about is the phlox, the zinnias, and the butterfly bush.

I try to sit back and enjoy the show, savoring the way they flutter and mince about the blooms like bright young things at a fashionable cocktail party. But, for some perverse reason, I can only watch them for so long before my meter starts running and I hear the numbers ticking in my head.

I'm counting them again. One, two, four, six, seven, no, eight. The butterflies don't care about my obsession with statistics. They don't feel the need to hold still or remain in one place long enough for me to get a fix on the actual butterfly census. And I don't know why I should care. But, there it is. One, three, six, seven. I can't seem to stop myself from trying to quantify the ethereal beauty of the moment, as if somehow that number, whatever it is, will lock the beauty into place and I can relax, knowing I've got it and it won't vanish.

But, of course it does. The guests grow weary, the buffet runs out of shrimp cocktail, the bartenders start clearing the tables. And the butterflies disappear, not to be seen again for another year.

So, I'm trying to enjoy the moment. Not obsess about how fragile and fleeting everything is. It's fun while it lasts.

And maybe this year, by the time the last butterfly weaves over the horizon, the DVD of Wedding Crashers will be out and I can find diversion at the push of a button.

Not the same, of course. But we make do with what we have.