The Truth about Saint Nicholas 12/22/00

Lots of stuff going on (as usual), but I'll start this Truth with a little fun fact.

Ever wonder how 'Saint Nicholas' became 'Santa Claus?' Try saying 'Saint Nicholas' with an Irish accent. 'SANT-nick-las' is what it sounds like, for those of you without a decent brogue. Now, remove your tongue and teeth and replace them with that of a four year-old (yes, it's painful -- but this is important, dammit!) and Whammo ... you've got Santa Claus.

There. That alone was worth showing up for -- but there's more. Ho-boy, is there more.

First of all, apologies to everyone who paid too much for a live Christmas tree this year. My uncle has a Christmas tree farm up in Massachusetts, he sells them for about $25, and he'll even box 'em up and put 'em in the mail for you. I've seen 'im do it. It's nutty. The place is called Meadowcrest Farms, and I'll be sure to remind you of that place next year.

I meant to mention that last month, and just got buried under other things. For example, the move. We moved. The wife and I did. We packed up all our shit and took it someplace else, and we're still unpacking. We've made some decent head-way (damn, but she's fast), but we've still got a bunch of boxes lying around.

Now, here's the funny part.

The apartment we moved into has the exact same layout as the one we just moved out of. Pretty clever, huh? There's no wondering where all the stuff goes, because we can just put it all where we found it. It's beautiful. All moves should be this easy.

Which begs the question, 'Why did we move?' It's a fair question, and one I'm sure the people who showed up to help us asked themselves many times while lugging boxes. The answer? Well ... the view is nicer and the appliances are new ... but that hardly justifies the damage I did to myself, nor the time invested one week before Christmas to get everything moved. So, why did we move?

One word: Security. Too many spurned ex-boyfriends of the Mrs. knew where we lived. Oh, and I should probably pen a quick note to them ...

You can stop breaking into the mailbox, you stupid, whiny, no-talent mother fucker. We don't live there anymore. It'll be someone else's mail in that box from this point forward. I hope Santa brings you an inoperable brain tumor, Dickhead.

Ah ... that was nice and therapeutic. I'm feeling good and Christmasy now.

One more thing to mention, and then I'm off to my eggnog ... do we have any aspiring writers in the crowd? Then you might be interested to know that the Mrs. and I have a brand-spankin'-new message board -- The Steele Tree House. We even have a cool new graphic ... check this out:

Ain't that great?

Our plans are to have links for writers, suggestions, feedback, and various flavors of expertise outside the realm of writing. For example, I think at this point we have a military historian, a rape counselor, and a horse expert -- to name a few. Add your expertise to the mix, use what's there, or just visit us and goof-off. Courtesy is the only rule ... step out of line, and Mrs. Steele will step on your neck. Come and register early, before all the really cool names are taken and you get stuck with something like 'NHGLL101.'

Oh ... the wife got an interesting email the other day, and I was wondering if someone could confirm for me whether or not this is really Nostradamus ...

Come the millennium, month 12,
In the home of greatest power,
The village idiot will come forth
To be acclaimed the leader.

If so, that guy was even more talented than I thought. I wonder if anyone emailed this to Bush yet.

(Editor's Note: the message board called the Steele Tree House is no more as of 10/04 or so. Who knew that the wrong message board would let someone hack into your website?)