I know everyone is down on Republican Sen. Sam Brownback, mainly because he dropped out of the race in October and is no longer a candidate, but I still think he could surprise some people.

Also, keep an eye out for a Tancredo Surge.

My Cleveland Browns can still make the AFC playoffs if:

- The Tennessee Titans lose to the Indianapolis Colts on Sunday

The Browns will not make the playoffs if:

- The Browns beat the San Francisco 49ers and the Titans win or tie on Sunday

The Browns will most definitely make the playoffs if:

- Titans coach Jeff Fisher’s beard attains full consciousness and overtakes him in a battle supreme for control of the coach’s body

The Browns will not make the playoffs if:

- Quarterback Derek Anderson is shrunken to the size of a dust mite by some type of dark wizard

The Browns can still make the playoffs if:

- Titans cornerback Pacman Jones shoots the entire Titans linebacking corps at a strip club

The Browns will not make the playoffs if:

- Browns coach Romeo Crennel is dropped into the pit of Sarlacc in Tatooine’s Dune Sea

The Browns will assuredly make the playoffs if:

- The Browns receive points for how fucking bad-ass Jim Brown looks in his Angry Black Guy Hat

(Above: Angriest blackest hat ever)

The Browns will not make the playoffs if:

- The Indianapolis Colts rest Peyton Manning and start seldom-used backup quarterback Helen Hunt

(Above: What she lacks in quarterbacking skills she makes up for in appearing in sitcoms that are not watchable)

Someday I’ll sit down and figure out what the common tie is behind all of these stories. In the meantime, here are a bunch of links to stories that I find completely fascinating.

Rats who enjoy a glass of merlot every night have better memories

Maybe there’s a reason kids don’t move out of mom and dad’s basement until they’re 38

Some people go to Manhattan to die

Teens who smoke weed function better than tobacco smokers and those who don’t smoke at all

There’s nothing wrong with being a troublemaking 5-year-old

Be nice to your IT people so they don’t shoot you when they finally go postal

The government wants to control the weather - you know this will end well

Three-year olds are influenced by things

There is something out there called the Family Research Council and it is insane

I lose 72 hours a year in traffic

Studio City, Calif. _ Yesterday morning I slipped on my galoshes, donned my blue pea coat and wrapped up good and tight in my grandpa’s old red scarf for a long walk to the old Studio City fishing pond. I suppose I take living in Southern California for granted the way most folks take breathing or eating apple cobbler in a country market for granted. But during my walk yesterday something special happened, something wonderful. I rekindled my love of the Southern California Christmas.

Before I left the house, my wife met me at the front door. I don’t care what anyone says. Nothing beats a door for entering or exiting a house. Every time I leave the house my wife likes to joke and say, “Looks like someone’s using a door again.” Then we laugh and laugh. One of these days I’m going to leave through the window. Then what’ll she say?

Traditions are traditions because they’re good. That’s what I always say. Some traditions are unshakable. My wife and I have the same conversation every time I take one of my winter morning sojourns. She puts her hands on my shoulders and says, “It’s 70 degrees outside. You’re going to be pouring sweat in that coat. We live in Southern California.”

“Honey,” I tell her. “It’s the middle of December. I don’t know where you grew up (actually I do, because we discussed it briefly while we were dating), but where I grew up, in Ohio, the middle of December means it is cold outside.”

Then my wife cries. I never know whether she is crying out of joy or pain. I like to think it is joy, or maybe the pain of too much joy.

Women.

To walk down to the old Studio City fishing pond from my backwoods cottage you have to take Laurel Canyon Drive, or as we call it in these parts, Puddler’s Lane. At the bottom of Puddler’s Lane, next to the La Salsa restaurant, is a small country inn and restaurant called Gabe’s where the coffee is hot and the hospitality is on the house.

“Still making hot chocolate the old-fashioned way?” I always ask Gabe.

“Yep,” he shoots back.

And we laugh and laugh.

“How’s the wife?” he asks. “Still crying a lot?”

“Yep,” I shoot back.

And we laugh and laugh.

Then he leans in and says, “One of these days she’ll understand the true meaning of a Southern California Christmas.”

“Yep,” I shoot back.

And we laugh, but it is less laughing than the before laughing.

With hot chocolate in hand and the winter sun on my face, I continue down Puddler’s Lane, where I happen upon the parson and his wife.

“Parson Brown,” I say, “or is that a snowman pretending to be Parson Brown?”

“Sometimes I can’t tell,” Parson Brown’s wife says, a little too quickly, if you ask me.

“Good day to you,” the parson says. “Did you enjoy the sermon this morning?”

“Yes, I did,” I reply. “But who was that Jesus fellow you kept talking about? Is he new?”

Then the parson looks at me, hard, to see if I am joking.

Then I stare back at him in stony silence, so as not to betray the joke.

Then he smiles. Then I smile. Then the parson’s wife smiles. Then a sparrow passing right over our heads turns its head and smiles and we all see it smile and this makes us smile even more.

Nope, they don’t make ‘em like Puddler’s Lane anymore. And by ‘em, I mean streets. I wave hello to Big Jim at the blacksmith shop and the teenagers taking their smoke breaks outside the Vons grocery store and the choir in the town gazebo and the Asian girls working at the old mill, which is now a Panda Express.

Approaching the bottom of the lane I’m passed by scores of towheaded children running down to the old fishing pond with ice skates slung over their shoulders. You know you’re coming up to the old fishing pond because you can hear the yells and screams of the children. Most of them are yelling and screaming in disappointment because the pond is not frozen and never will be.

“Mithter,” one of them says to me, “when will the pond freethe? I want to thkate.”

“Little girl,” I say, “if you understood the true meaning of a Southern California Christmas, you would know the answer to your own question. Now run along, you little scamp.”

(Above: The old Studio City fishing pond on a blustery December day.)

Normally I sit and enjoy my hot chocolate and watch the local children spray paint colorful phrases like “Suck it, unfrozen pond!” onto the pond’s surface, which never works, because you can’t spray paint a pond.

Kids.

But that’s not what happened on this Sunday.

On this Sunday I felt a hand touch my shoulder. I knew this hand. I knew it by its grip. I’m not one to brag – kind of a humble sort – but I am considered somewhat of a local expert when it comes to hand grips. Doesn’t pay the bills, but it passes the time in sleepy Los Angeles County, don’t you know.

“I’m going skating,” my wife says. And there she is, standing in her skates, not crying.

“Me too,” I say.

“You’re not wearing skates,” she says.

“It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll walk with you.”

With the joyous sounds of the choir from the town gazebo singing “Let It Snow” reverberating off the hillsides, we step off the banks of the grass, knees arched in space, time slowing, as we push our skates across the surface of the pond, and we glide and glide and glide.

For about one second.

Then we sink like fucking stones. Because, as the children have correctly noted, the pond is not frozen.

Knee-deep in muck and mire, we laugh and laugh and laugh, and it is more laughing than the before laughing.

And she says, “Honey, I now know the true meaning of a Southern California Christmas. We don’t have snow and ice. We have to make it ourselves. God bless us. God bless us, every one. I shot my eye out.”

Then that sparrow from before flies overhead and turns to us and smiles. And we smile back. Then the sparrow smashes violently into the trunk of a palm tree. But the sparrow is OK. Most of his injuries are minor and after a few minutes he is able to walk it off.

(This is a sketch I am working on. It’s fun, so I’m sharing it as this week’s column. I plan on performing a finished version next year around Christmas. - Joe)

ACT 1

Bethlehem. 1 BC. A crowded inn. Night.

Joseph of Nazareth enters and walks to the front desk where the innkeeper is seated.

Joseph of Nazareth: Hello, good innkeeper.

Innkeeper: Ring the bell.

Joseph: I said hello, good innkeeper. My name is Joseph of Nazareth.

Innkeeper: I said ring the bell.

Joseph: I hardly see the point.

Innkeeper: Just ring the bell!

Joseph rings the bell.

PING! PING!

Innkeeper: I heard you on the first ping!

Joseph: Sorry.

Innkeeper: Are you!?

Joseph: Yes. Ahem. I am traveling with my wife Mary. She is with child. We need a place to stay for the night.

Innkeeper: I don’t see what I’m supposed to do about it.

Joseph: You’re the innkeeper.

Innkeeper: That’s a wild accusation.

Joseph: Are you not the innkeeper?

Innkeeper: That depends.

Joseph: Is this an inn?

Innkeeper: Yes.

Joseph: And do you keep it?

Innkeeper: Yes.

Joseph: Then you’re the innkeeper.

Innkeeper: Curse your science, Nazarene!!!

Joseph: Good innkeeper, now that we have established that you are in fact the innkeeper, I beg of you to rent my family a room for the night. We just need some space on the floor for a few hours. That space over there will do – the one by the pile of leper arms.

Innkeeper: No.

Joseph: Why not?

Innkeeper: Many reasons.

Joseph: Such as?

Innkeeper: Suppose another man and his wife and unborn child come in later and they want that spot on the floor. We’ll call them the Goldsteins. If you took that spot now it wouldn’t be fair to the Goldsteins, would it?

Joseph: But we were here before the Goldsteins.

Innkeeper: I find that suspicious.

Joseph: Are you accusing me of something?

Innkeeper: If the Goldsteins were out of harm’s way they would have been here by now.

Joseph: But there are no Goldsteins.

Innkeeper: How convenient for you (whispers) murderer.

Joseph: I can’t murder them. You made them up in your head. The Goldsteins don’t exist.

Innkeeper: Then they’re as good as dead.

Joseph: Yes. Exactly.

Innkeeper: He admits it!

Joseph: I admit nothing.

Innkeeper: And yet our lack of Goldsteins admits everything!

Awkward pause. One of the leper arms falls to the floor.

Joseph: You’re mad, innkeeper.

Innkeeper: Am I mad? Or am I so mad that I’ve come back ‘round the bend and I’m completely sane?

Joseph: Yes. No. I don’t know. Please, can I just have a room? I am a carpenter. I can fix something for you. I’m excellent with wicker.

Innkeeper: Fine! We have one suite left. It’s the outdoorsman’s suite. Do you like the outdoors?

Joseph: Well, when I’m not indoors, I’m usually outdoors.

Innkeeper: Good. Follow me. And try not to murder anyone on the way out.

ACT II

Later that night, Joseph reenters the inn.

Joseph: Good, innkeeper.

Innkeeper: Ring the bell.

Joseph: Good innkeeper!

Innkeeper: I said ring the bell.

Joseph rings the bell.

PING! PING!

Innkeeper: Shhh! Have you gone mad? You’ll wake everyone up!

Joseph: There’s a sheep in my outdoorsman’s suite.

Innkeeper: Oh, uh, that’s not a sheep.

Joseph: I know what a sheep looks like and that is definitely a sheep.

Innkeeper: It’s not a sheep, it’s a, uh, walking pillow.

Joseph: A what?

Innkeeper: It’s a walking pillow. It’s the perfect holiday gift for the active sleeper.

Joseph: I heard it go baaaaaah, like a sheep.

Innkeeper: Sheep don’t go baaaaaah. They go bohhh.

Joseph: They go baaaaaah.
Innkeeper: Bohhh.
Joseph: Baaaaaah.
Innkeeper: Bohhh.
Joseph: Baaaaaah.
Innkeeper: Walking pillow!!!!!!!!

A sheep hears the commotion and wanders into the room. The innkeeper puts his head on the sheep.

Innkeeper: Here, have a walking nap.

Joseph: I will not have a walking nap.

Innkeeper: If you’re not tired, you can try counting walking pillows.

Joseph: Fool. I know what a sheep is. That is a sheep. There is a sheep in my room. And there’s an ox, too.

Innkeeper: No. It’s not an ox. No. It’s an organic beef storage unit.

Joseph: There’s no such thing.

Innkeeper: What you call an “ox” is actually a living, breathing mechanism for keeping 800 pounds of beef fresh and tender until slaughter.

Joseph: That’s what an ox is.

Innkeeper: No, ox are big and mean. Beef is never mean. Beef gives you good blood and bones.

Joseph: Good innkeeper, my wife is about to give birth and there is an ox, or an organic beef storage unit, or whatever, sitting at her feet waiting to eat my child. And this is no ordinary child. I didn’t want to mention this, because there’s no way anyone will believe this, but our son is the son of God. He was conceived by the father and will be born unto a virgin. He will turn water into wine, heal the sick and die for our sins so that the father will open the gates to the kingdom of heaven and we may all live forever. I know that you, who doubt all this, can never believe this. But it is the truth.

The innkeeper looks off into the distance, at a star outside the window. Another leper arm falls to the floor. A mouse runs out of it.

Innkeeper: I believe you, Nazarene.

Joseph: But you haven’t believed a word I said all night.

Innkeeper: In my brain, this makes perfect sense.

Joseph: It does?

Innkeeper: Yes, I have always thought a baby should rule the world. Think about it. Because I haven’t.

The curtains draw while a choir of 8,000 Austrian boys enter.

While the front desk bell goes: PING-PING-PING-PING…

Choir:
Jesus sleeps in his manger below
Resting his head on a walking pillow

Ignore the ox that is eating his foot
It’s just an organic beef storage unit

Good innkeeper, we will leave in the morn
We won’t tell the Bible you were a moron

From now on a baby shall rule the land
His breast-based economy is welcomed by man

PING-PING-PING-PING…

- THE END -