We're cramming popcorn from a Christmas Story tin watching football and a movie where aborted fetuses are portrayed as the adults who the writer has projected they'd become and "All I want for Christmas is you" is playing for the 35th freaky time as I write this. Libido has diminished to a trickle, thanks to BarbiDoll Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs and cinematic reminder of LDS magic pants (Jennifer Connelly has hit the wall). Melvin Udall's "what if this is as good as it gets?" tangles with my unflappable, swimmingly stable status prolly because of holiday machinations. Indifference, solitude and sarcophagus sensibility is where former miscreants go when the lighting plan screams out "I'm here but I'm not". The poor kid in this morning's movie was haunted because he liked to take it in the seat. I never knew that consternation but keeping the home fire burning during this Yule requires eyes on the surroundings. When you've got a place in line that scoundrels would repent for, then keep your cognitive tongue off the pole.