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The Conical Glass

November 2005

About:

Sue Trowbridge lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the co-owner of an independent record label, 125 Records, and web diva of interbridge.com.
Feedback: loudfan@gmail.com

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11.29.05 Get Mauled, Save Money

Back on Nov. 2, I announced my intention to finish my Christmas shopping by Thanksgiving. Not only am I finished, but my aunt in Sweden has already received the box of gifts I sent her. Obviously, judging from the "Black Friday" news coverage, many people prefer to risk getting trampled in an effort to snag a bargain (I'm so, er, proud that this happened near my former hometown of Grand Rapids). "Erik Turk, 38, left the Grandville [Wal-Mart] store in an ambulance—but with a $400 laptop computer." Good for you, Erik! Since you're Canadian and probably don't have health coverage in the U.S., I hope your savings were enough to cover the emergency room bills!

In the spirit of curmudgeonly Grand Rapids Press writer John Douglas, however, I must declare that the holiday season doesn't really begin until you've heard "The Little Drummer Boy." Even though I won't be hitting the department stores and malls in December, I am sure I'll have plenty of opportunities to hear the odious carol. Douglas used to note his first hearing of it in his column, so I'll pick up the baton and let you know when the pa-rum-pa-pa-pum makes itself heard.

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11.28.05 Bizarro Discovery of the Day

Despite my advanced age, I am still capable of learning about things that absolutely astonish me. Today, while reading author Lee Goldberg's blog, I came across a reference to something called mpreg. If this is new to you, too, well... have you heard of "fan fiction"? That's where people take beloved characters created by others—for instance, Harry Potter, the cast of "Star Trek," or Buffy the Vampire Slayer—and make up their own stories about them, which they then post on the internet. I was familiar with a subset of fanfic called slash fiction, which are homoerotic stories about two male characters—often ones who are at odds in their creators' fictional universes, like Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. There's a hilarious parody of slash fic on the "Colbert Nation" web site involving Stephen Colbert and Bill O'Reilly:

"Who would've thought, Stephen Colbert and Bill O'Reilly, cooped up in a tiny one-bedroom press dorm for the duration of the RNC," continues Stephen, nonchalantly resting one foot on the bed in a seemingly innocent but, from the perspective of his shorts, deliciously provocative way. O'Reilly tries to tear his eyes away from Stephen's ensemble, but finds that his muscles will not obey his brain's desperate command.

OK, so by now, you're probably thinking, that's pretty twisted and bizarre. You ain't heard nothin' yet. Mpreg is fan fiction in which a male character gets pregnant. Because I am a glutton for punishment, I Googled "mpreg," and found a site called "Make My Man A Mommy!" which lists the top five most popular Mr. Moms: Severus Snape, Harry Potter, Remy Lebeau ("X-Men"), Legolas ("Lord of the Rings"), and Draco Malfoy. There are also sites featuring photos of male TV stars, such as Charlie (Dominic Monaghan) from "Lost," in which their stomachs are poking out a bit ("Here you will find as many pictures as I can gather where Charlie looks like he might have a pregnant belly!").

I am not going to link to any of these sites, but they are accessible via Google, if you insist on seeing them. After all, you never know when something will hit the mainstream—I was positively blown away when I learned that there are people who are sexually excited by anthropomorphic animals like Bugs Bunny or the mascots you see at sporting events, and then "C.S.I." did an episode about them.

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11.27.05 Valley of the Dolls

I am a sucker for rock movies, which is why I wanted to go see "New York Doll" despite the fact that I have never been a fan of the New York Dolls, a fabulously over-the-top glam-rock band that flourished briefly before disintegrating in the mid-70s. Almost any music fan, however, can appreciate their influence; their appearance on Britain's "The Old Grey Whistle Test," which caused the TV program's host to sneer at their "mock rock," was a flashpoint for future stars like Morrissey and members of the Clash and Sex Pistols. (Lesser bands, like Poison and Cinderella, blatantly stole their boa-bedecked, heavily-made-up look.)

"New York Doll" is a documentary about the group's former bass player, Arthur "Killer" Kane. The film's director, Greg Whiteley, met Kane because they were both members of the same Mormon temple in L.A. Whiteley's longtime friendship with Kane enabled him to make a remarkably intimate film. After his brief early stardom, Kane's life went into free fall, until his downward spiral into substance abuse ended when he converted to Mormonism and got a job at the church's family history center. (Meanwhile, two of his fellow Dolls died of heroin overdoses.) Even then, though, his financial situation was so dire that he had to pawn the bass guitars he used back in the Dolls days.

In a way, "New York Doll" plays like a super-sized episode of VH1's "Bands Reunited," which is fine with me because I loved that show. But like the best documentaries, such as this summer's "Murderball," the plot twists and turns in "Doll" are so extraordinary that if someone tried to pass them off in a scripted movie, you'd never believe them. Since I'm not a Dolls fan, I honestly had no idea what was going to happen. No doubt at least a few of you music nerds already know. Joe knew, and still enjoyed the film. But to be taken by surprise by everything that happened... wow. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I don't want to say anything else, but if "New York Doll" comes to your town (not surprisingly, it's in limited release), do check it out.

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11.22.05 Adaptation

Today's phrase is hedonic adaptation. In short, some psychiatrists claim that once you've bought a new car or gadget, or even if you won a million dollars playing the lottery, your general level of happiness doesn't increase—you will adapt to your new circumstances and return to your previous "happiness set point." An article in my local paper's Sunday business section by Wall Street Journal columnist Jonathan Clements suggested that if you are aware of this principle, it can help you save money. "Suppose you trade up to a luxury car or you hire a service to clean your house every week. Initially, you will get a real kick out of your higher standard of living. After awhile, however, you will start to feel dissatisfied again." Instead of spending your money on things like high speed Internet access, cappucinos or satellite radio, Clements suggests socking it away and saving it for your retirement.

Now, I'm a big believer in saving for retirement, despite its inherent non-fun-itude. Joe and I participate in two separate automatic withdrawal plans, not to mention a handful of dividend reinvestment plans. But is hedonic adaptation real, or just some anti-consumerist phony talk?

I must admit that my more recent upgrades—faster computer, smaller cell phone, energy-saving refrigerator, etc.—don't send me into daily paroxyms of joy, but there are a few things that are so wonderful that I wouldn't want to live without them. Chief among them is the TiVo, which is quite clearly among the greatest inventions of the 20th century. The iPod, which allows me to store several audiobooks on a tiny device, is another.

Perhaps my love of new technology is influenced by my childhood. I was a kid in the years before VCRs or DVD players came along, which meant that if I wanted to see a movie, I had to wait for it to be rereleased into theaters or show up on TV. I envy kids who get to watch their favorite movie eight thousand times. Did I learn patience because I only got to watch "The Sound of Music" or "The Wizard of Oz" once a year? Maybe, but more likely, it was just frustrating. One friend of mine even recorded "The Sound of Music" on her primitive cassette recorder so she could listen to it over and over again; I settled for the record album. I'll bet today's children, with their enormous caches of Disney movies, would find that little story unimaginably bizarre, sort of like the time my mom told me that when she was a kid, TV shows were all in black and white.

In sum: saving for retirement is boring; technology is fun; and owning TiVo and an iPod will make you a happier person. Now get out there and buy things!

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11.21.05 A Modest Proposal

Yesterday's San Francisco Chronicle featured an article and photo essay on Death Row at San Quentin Prison. It was very interesting. I didn't know, for example, that there are actually three separate areas for Death Row prisoners. The convicted killers who are easygoing and don't make trouble, for instance, have their own "quiet cell block," North Seg. The vast majority of the prisoners are held in the East Block, an enormous, decrepit five-story cage. Then there's the Adjustment Center, "where the 'worst of the worst' are held under heavy guard and in isolation. These inmates get their exercise in 8-by-10-foot cages watched over by gun-wielding guards."

I happened to be driving past the Q today, and it occurred to me that being a prison guard would have to be one of the worst jobs in the world. Then I hit upon an idea. There are currently 647 people on California's Death Row, and as everyone knows, it takes forever (well, 16 years, on average) before the convicted prisoners finally run out of appeals and feel the needle's deadly stick.

So consider this. What if, once a year, the prison guards got to vote (by secret ballot) to send one inmate to the death chamber? If someone was a particularly bad egg, the guards could "get rid of the problem," permanently. Maybe they'd choose an especially unruly convict, or perhaps they'd rather mete out some swift justice to a notorious killer like "Night Stalker" Richard Ramirez or child murderer Richard Allen Davis (who killed Polly Klaas). It would give the guards an added sense of control over their workplace, and would also help keep the inmates in line.

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11.18.05 The Stupid American

I don't know what made me think of it, but the other day, I realized that I had no idea who the Prime Minister of Canada is. For some reason, the only name that came to mind was Jacques Chirac, whom even I know is the president of France. I think I was confusing him with Jean Chretien, the former Canadian Prime Minister.

Our neighbor to the north, a country I have visited numerous times—I even sometimes listen to the American broadcast of the CBC's "As it Happens"! How pathetic I am. I looked it up online, and learned the Prime Minister's name is Paul Martin. If you knew that already, congratulations; you're one up on me.

I tried thinking of other world leaders' names. I know Ahmed Chalabi because he's in the news all the time. I know Tony Blair and Vladimir Putin (who could forget him after hearing President Bush's alleged nickname for him, "Pooty-Poot"?). But what about the guy in Afghanistan—the one who always wears that little hat? How about the prime minister of Japan, the one with the big hair? Ichi-something? Worst of all, I have no idea who the prime minister of Sweden is; I have seen his name numerous times, but it's never stuck in my brain. I'm sure I knew it when I was there and read it in the paper every day, but now I've forgotten.

There's so much trivial junk up in my brain, I guess it shouldn't surprise me that there's no room for the names of current world leaders. I guarantee you that if some ancient Elton John hit that I haven't heard in a decade comes on the radio, I will remember all the lyrics.

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11.17.05 Anatomy of a Screen Name

I still remember my first e-mail address: ins_aset@jhu.jhunix.edu. It expired when I graduated college; a couple years later, in the prehistoric days of the internet—the web didn't exist yet, and I logged on via a 1200-baud dial-up modem—I acquired my second address: trow@access.digex.net. Later, as I changed Internet service providers, I moved on to trow@charm.net and trow@slip.net, before settling on the permanent address, trow@interbridge.com.

Because I planned to do a lot of traveling in 2005, however, I signed up for a gmail account, which would allow me to check my e-mail via the web, whether I was in Cancun, Stockholm or New York. Any mail sent to interbridge.com is automatically forwarded to my gmail address, loudfan@gmail.com.

Why "loudfan"? Naturally, I tried to sign up for trow@gmail.com, but gmail cruelly would not allow it—my screen name had to be at least six characters long. I was already using "loudfan" as my alias on several message boards, such as Television Without Pity and The Comics Curmudgeon, so I panicked and picked it for my new gmail account. As most of you know, it comes from the Loud Family, a band whose web site I have maintained for many years. It seems kind of appropriate for a record company, since it has a sort of "woo-hoo! Turn it up! Rock and roll!" feel. However, it's not so cool for my "serious" business.

I've grown to love gmail for its convenience, its excellent spam filtering, the capability of searching all of your old saved messages, and the gigantic disk quota (particularly useful for me, since I frequently get large attachments from clients). But the slightly juvenile sounding screen name nagged at me.

I perused gmail's "help" files, and what do you know—I was able to switch my default "sent from" address to trow@interbridge.com. So now I can seamlessly switch between loudfan or trow when sending e-mail. I can't believe it took me so long to figure this out.

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11.16.05 Trendspotting

bread

By my count, the words "whole grain" or "whole wheat" appear on the wrapper 18 times. Low carb, schmo carb—today, it's all about the grains, baby!

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11.15.05 Blind Item

That author currently getting a lot of media attention for his new nonfiction book with its spurious/shocking claims (depending on which side of the political spectrum you inhabit) is a total hound dog. Not only did he cheat on his wife, but then he cheated on his mistress with one of his grad students. What's more, since they couldn't "do it" at his place (wife/kid) or at hers (roommate), they had to go to a sleazy motel—and he made her go in and register the room in her name. Yes, the student showed incredibly poor judgment, but he, as the authority figure, was even more in the wrong.

I've fallen out of touch with my old friend (and her name is common enough that Googling her doesn't do much good), but whenever he has a new book out and pops up in the media, I can't help but wonder how she feels, and how she's doing. I hope that in the intervening years, the author/prof has seen the error of his ways and given up his serial adultery; or, at least, that he's stopped seeing his female students as potential conquests.

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11.14.05 Civility Is Dead

I recently read a mention of a new book by Lynne Truss, author of Eats, Shoots and Leaves, the surprise best-seller about proper punctuation. Her latest tome is titled Talk to the Hand: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door. I haven't read it yet (though I did immediately request it from the library), but the title is so perfect that I just know I'll love it.

No one really needs further proof of the rudeness epidemic, but I can't resist posting this. No, it was not left on my windshield; I found it on the ground near the Berkeley library's north branch. (Blurring added to make it a tad less offensive.)

angry mickey

I think what's most amazing about this is the amount of work involved. Someone had to go to the trouble of creating the sign, having it photocopied (it's obviously a copy and not a computer print-out), and then keeping a supply at the ready in his car, waiting for just the right occasion to use it. Unlike, say, a hastily-scrawled note on the back of a bank-deposit envelope, it's clearly premeditated. And "Mickey giving the finger," so beloved of boys in my junior high school who used to draw it on their notebooks (see also: Bugs Bunny smoking a blunt), adds just the right mix of insouciance and hatred—as if to say, You, bad parker, are so unworthy that even the beloved ambassador of the Happiest Place on Earth is giving you the one-fingered salute!

Yes, even an innocent trip to the library can turn into an opportunity to spread bile, misery and woe to others. What a world we live in!

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11.10.05 Cannibalism

I heard my first bit of Christmas music in a store today. I can't even remember now which song it was—just a smooth-jazz rendition of some inoffensive carol. Hopefully we're still a couple of weeks away from full-on, in-your-face "Little Drummer Boy." If I ever hear anything from the Michael Bolton Christmas album, I shall drop my shopping basket and run screaming from the store.

One frequent underwriter of NPR programming during the past couple weeks has been the publisher of a book called Secrets of the Widow's Son: The Mysteries Surrounding the Sequel to The Da Vinci Code. After hearing the book plugged at least 20 times, I finally looked it up on amazon.com, and yes, this is a book about a book (The Solomon Key) that doesn't even have a publication date yet. According to one review, author David A. Shugarts "hypothesizes that Washington D.C. will be The Solomon Key's setting because its architecture contains many secrets and the city's history is deeply interwoven with that of the Freemasons... The remainder of the book sees Shugarts building on his idea that (Dan) Brown will write about D.C."

To quote the great Stephen Colbert, this guy has balls. Maybe I should write a book speculating about the contents of Thomas Harris' next Hannibal Lecter novel—trying to figure out who he'll eat next.

Speaking of cannibalism, I heard "Timothy" by the Buoys on the radio this morning. Surely one of the oddest hit singles of all time, "Timothy"—written by Where the Truth Lies scribe Rupert Holmes, of all people—is about three guys who get trapped in a mine. When rescuers finally arrive after a week, only two of the men come back out, and the narrator notes, "My stomach was full as it could be/ And nobody ever got around/ To finding Timothy..." Grisly, yes, but it beats Celine Dion singing "Feliz Navidad" any day.

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11.6.05 Humpy!

Big thanks to Andy Ingraham Dwyer for the teensy martini glass favicon he contributed to this site. I feel this blog is much more suave and sophisticated already. You rock, Andy!

If you love Mary Worth and the Black Eyed Peas, then this is the comic for you.

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11.4.05 Where the Truthiness Lies

I am elated that Comedy Central's "The Colbert Report" has been extended through the end of 2006. The one-two punch of comedy goodness that is "The Daily Show" plus "The Colbert Report" is just too wonderful for words. I particularly enjoy Stephen Colbert's nightly intro, which is always something along the lines of, "Shave your head, get a wet sponge, and flip the switch, 'cause you're about to get a Truthocution." Or, "Strike up the klezmer and start acting like a man. You're about to have a Truth Mitzvah."

Instead of getting a Truthocution from Stephen last night (it awaits on the ever-patient TiVo hard drive), Joe and I went to see "Where the Truth Lies," a film based on the mystery novel by Rupert Holmes. The film, directed by Canadian auteur Atom Egoyan, was released unrated, because the MPAA couldn't handle the truth of nudity and simulated, non-graphic sex; that pretty much doomed it to failure at the box office, and ensures the DVD won't be carried by many rental chains and big-box stores.

I haven't seen "Saw II," which came out last weekend. However, thanks to ScreenIt! I do know that it contains "lethal and bloody acts where people are killed by various means and in various fashions (including but not limited to being shot, burned alive, having a head crushed in a steel trap, being bashed in the head with a spiked bat, etc.), while a cop severely beats a suspect. All of that has very bloody, gory and grisly results... along with various moments of potential peril (and scenes of vomiting blood from being poisoned, etc.)."

"Saw II" is rated R, however, which means the MPAA thought it was pretty much OK. Sure, a young kid can't go up to the counter and buy a ticket, but its rating ensures that when the DVD comes out, it'll be easy to pick up a copy at Best Buy or rent it at Blockbuster (or having an older sibling or friend do it for you). And, of course, some kids will probably resort to buying a ticket to "Chicken Little" and sneaking across the hall to see "Saw II."

So what's so offensive about "Where the Truth Lies"? Well, it's a fairly slavish adaptation of Holmes's trashy-but-fun book about a 1950s comedy team, quite obviously based on Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin, who abruptly dissolve their wildly successful partnership when the nude body of a dead woman is found in the bathtub of their hotel suite. The book and film take place in the early 70s, when an enterprising young journalist is collaborating with the Martin character, Vince Collins, on his autobiography. (In the movie, Vince is played by Colin Firth, so his ethnic identity switches from Italian-American to Brit.) His ex-partner, Lanny Morris (Kevin Bacon), plans to write his own book about their years together, and tries to quash Vince's project. The journalist, simply known as K. O'Connor in the book and Karen in the film, is caught in the middle... knowing full well, of course, that one of the men might be a murderer!

As successful stars of stage and screen, Lanny and Vince have their share of groupies, of which the dead woman was one. There is some brief full-frontal nudity, a few topless scenes, and a shot of Kevin Bacon's butt. It's hardly earth-shattering. Afterwards, I sort of wondered what all the ratings board fuss had been about. Tellingly, there were only three other people in the theater with us last night, and they happened to be Swedish (Berkeley students, I'm guessing). In Sweden, this movie would probably be rated the equivalent of PG-13.

And the film itself? I enjoyed it quite a bit; if you've read the book, it truly is like watching it come to life on the screen, although Alison Lohman seems far too sweet and dewy to play O'Connor, who's young but has been around the block a few times (Lohman is 26 in real life, but looks much younger). In the 1970s scenes, Firth amusingly affects kind of a Robert Goulet look, with the big mustache and wavy hair; I always enjoy Firth, but Bacon is the real star here, capturing Lanny's manic onstage energy and his subdued, almost sinister offstage persona. I prefer the book's ending to the film's, though in the interest of compressing the storyline, I understand why they had to change it. With lots of nice period detail and a lot of plot twists, "Truth" is worth seeking out when it comes out on DVD—particularly if you agree that a few bare breasts are less upsetting than watching someone having his head crushed in a steel trap.

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11.3.05 Open the Window

[Edited to add: A seven-minute interview with Peter Sarsgaard aired on All Things Considered today! Check it out, P.S. fans.]

Interesting article in The Hollywood Reporter about director M. Night Shyamalan's speech at the ShowEast movie theater exhibitors' convention. He's complaining about the shrinking "window" between theatrical release and a film's debut on pay-per-view/DVD. "We can't disregard the effect we have on each other when we see a movie," said Shyamalan. "I make them for a room full of 500 strangers."

Zillionaire Mark Cuban is experimenting with doing away with the "window" altogether; I was astonished when Rog wrote about watching "Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room" (produced by Cuban) on TV 's HDNet Movies channel the day before I was scheduled to attend a preview screening at a film festival.

To be honest, I think it would be a good idea to do away with the "window" in some cases. Those of you who live in smaller towns and cities would be astonished at the sheer number of films that opens in the San Francisco area every week. Last Friday, for example, saw the local debuts of the wide releases "Shopgirl," "The Weather Man," "The Legend of Zorro," "G," "Prime" and "Saw II," as well as artier fare like "Nine Lives," "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang," "Kamikaze Girls," "Three... Extremes" and "Make It Funky." Tomorrow will bring a new crop, including "Chicken Little," "NBT: Never Been Thawed," "Jarhead," "Christmas in the Clouds," "Ballets Russes" and "Paradise Now."

Who can keep up with so many films? I see an average of 30-40 movies a year, and most people see far less than that. (My total is inflated by movie-intensive periods during film festivals.) However, if I had the chance to pay, say, $5 to see a film on pay-per-view the weekend of its theatrical debut, instead of having to schlep to the theater and paying $9.50, I would probably see a lot more things that I'm marginally interested in. "NBT: Never Been Thawed," a micro-budget indie mockumentary about "the founder of a frozen entrée collectors club," for example, has been getting wildly mixed reviews—the New York Times says "it succeeds in stirring up some maniacal laughs," while the New York Post calls it "painfully unfunny." For $5, would I take a chance if it was playing in my living room? Quite possibly. Will I run out to the Act in Berkeley this weekend to see it? Definitely not.

Eventually, I think the best case scenario would find films like "NBT" getting coast-to-coast debuts on pay-per-view, with reviews and features appearing in newspapers and magazines to stir interest, while major films like "Jarhead" and (ugh) "Saw II" continue to go to theaters with the "window" intact. I'll bet a lot more people would have seen "Murderball," for instance, if it had gone this route. (I'm still bummed about that film's anemic box office take. Trust me, it was a really excellent movie, and you should totally rent it.) Theatrical gimmicks like the 3-D treatment "Chicken Little" is getting on some screens will become more commonplace. I think ultimately, the result would be a better selection of movies for those with discerning tastes, and a good deal for those who don't live in movie-saturated cities like San Francisco.

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11.2.05 It's Coming. Are You Prepared?

Yesterday, I had occasion to visit one of the East Bay's many fine shopping centers. I arrived around 12:30 and scored a prime parking space just steps away from the stores. There were no lines at any of the cashiers' stations; the background music was pleasantly inoffensive; I was able to get in and get out with the greatest of ease.

My friends, this is all about to change.

Three weeks from Friday, shopping is going to become a nightmare that you won't be able to wake from until early January. Shoppers will be jostling each other, lines will be extra-long, and worst of all, you will hear nothing but Christmas music. Perhaps even—God forbid—"The Little Drummer Boy."

Every year, I swear that I am going to get my Christmas shopping done early, and then I never manage to do it. Well, this year, I mean business. Perhaps due to a post-race burst of energy, I have actually purchased about 50% of the presents I need to buy. My goal is to have them all wrapped by Thanksgiving, and in the mail by Dec. 1. (For anyone on my list: no peeking if a wrapped package shows up early!)

You may think I'm crazy, or wish you had the time to do your shopping so early, but look at it this way—you don't have time not to do it now. As it gets closer and closer to the holiday, shopping will get more time consuming, stressful and unpleasant.

The biggest rule: once you do get your shopping done, that's it. No sneaking out to buy last minute gifts, no matter what. The only shopping I plan to do between Nov. 25-Dec. 25 is for food and staples. Later this month, I will report back and let you know whether I managed to follow through. So far, I am off to a good start.

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