On Dasher . . . On Cupid . . .

Amazing the images you can find on Google when you type in the word "Christmas". So, here's my little offering to your Christmas cheer! (No, this is NOT me!)

Now that Thanksgiving is past, I've started thinking about my annual Christmas letter to friends and family. What should I say? How many lies should I tell?

Well, just to keep things fun, I'll include a short list of some highlights below and I'll let you pick out the truths from among the Christmas whoppers.

Logan

* Qualified for a spot at the national olympic-lifting event in Atlanta, GA.

* Turned 16

* Ate his weight in ring-dings in 2009

Chelsey

* Began second year at Ball State in Elementary/Special Education

* Was elected to a leadership role for the international Free the Slaves ministry

* Didn't need any tuition money from old Dad in 2009

Becky

* Took a 25th Anniversary cruise with Todd this summer

* Decided to go back to school so she could become a principal

* Thinks that the absence of Todd's mustache makes him an even better lover

Todd

* Had three books published in 2009

* Lost 5 pounds on his anniversary cruise

* Never stretches the truth

Gladwell? Well . . . Glad

This weekend I completed my reading of Malcolm Gladwell's latest book (and the NY Times #1 Bestseller): What the Dog Saw. Gladwell, the towering-haired writer for the New Yorker magazine, has written four consecutive bestsellers, including The Tipping Point, Blink, and Outliers. I've enjoyed, and learned from, each one.

What the Dog Saw is a collection of Gladwell's New Yorker essays--an eclectic blend of work that demonstrates Gladwell's incredible range as a writer, interviewer and researcher. Gladwell always captivates.

Although I enjoyed the first three of Gladwell's titles, I especially appreciated the blend of topics found in What the Dog Saw (the title of which comes from Gladwell's essay about Cesar Millan, the "Dog Whisperer").

This was a great book . . . and I'm glad I saw it.

Another CD

Last week I received copies of my latest CD, The Christmas Collection, which includes several Christmas memoirs. And, should anyone want a copy ($10), I'm giving 100% of the proceeds, royalties . . . the whole shebang, to mission. Always have.

Get 'em while they're hot.

Of course, Christmas is still four weeks distant, but it doesn't hurt to begin some gratuitous panhandling now, even before we've stuffed ourselves with turkey. So, here's my pitch. And here's what other people are saying about The Christmas Collection, by Todd Outcalt.

I was really down in the dumps. And then I listened to Mr. Alleycat's hilarious CD. I decided to purchase my husband, Herb, a Christmas gift this year (deodorant bar). Thanks, Todd.

(Mrs. E.W. Shwartz, Chutzpa, NY)

Never heard anything like it. Mr. Outcalt's sonorous voice lulled me to sleep, and I've been suffering from insomnia for the better part of forty years since I work nights as a pole dancer. In fact, I can't even think of going to bed without his voice at my side!

(Honey Money, Chicago, IL)

There are millions of people who need to listen to this CD! I was one of them. I was ready to give up on Christmas this year and convert to Buddhism, but I reached Nirvana by listening to this CD and decided I'd give the gospel of Luke another try. This CD is the real Christmas miracle!

(Bob, from Toled0)

Once in a lifetime a CD comes along that can rock your world, man! Mine got smashed. Like, totally blitzed. Incredible, dude. Buy this sucka!

(Razor, drummer for the band Hot Nuggets 'n Fries)

Why did you put me on another one of your CDs, Todd? It's embarrassing. Can you tape over the top of that one track?

(Todd's mom)

Yes, Dear

Since I have written for many women's magazines over the years, I certainly know my stuff when it comes to the fairer sex. Heck, what am I saying . . . I'm an expert! But in case there are men out there who haven't learned the secret of marriage . . . read on. Live and learn, my brothers. Live and learn.

Yes, Dear

There's a secret to marriage

That we dare not disparage

And men know it by heart (though it's queer):

That a man can stay sane

If he's content to remain

In the harmony of saying "Yes, Dear!"

Some men, of course, lapse

When they try to take naps

Or attempt to push man-strength or fear.

But in the end, brother,

Your marriage will suffer

If you don't acquiesce to "Yes, Dear!"

Those men are most happy

Who have learned this (though sappy):

That marriage runs best in the gear

Where the man takes the seat

In the rear where the heat

Can best by cooled down with "Yes, Dear!"

When the woman's in charge

A marriage looms large

And a man gets more "nookie" than beer

When he gives her the wheel

To do what she'll feel

Is best when she hears the "Yes, Dear!"

Sure, some might get mad

Or think it's too bad

That a man is more virile in tear,

But listen, my friend,

You'll find peace in the end

If you learn how to whisper, "Yes, Dear!"

And while some men feel "clipped"

Or "neutered" or "whipped"

If they follow their woman with cheer,

You can bet your life, Binky

That their marriage ain't stinky

'Cause they've learned how to holler, "Yes, Dear!"

When you learn this one key

You'll be able to pee

And plop the seat down on your rear,

Because you've been trained,

Reprogrammed, ingrained

By those two words she taught you: "Yes, Dear!"

And you'll sit there and stew

As many men do

Wondering "why in the world am I here?"

But the answer is heard

In the peaceable word:

"Whatever you want" and "Yes, Dear!"

More Methodist Madness

Actually, I've written too many of these lately . . . but here's another ditty about the Methodist church. Enjoy.

Methodists

If you love to sing

Or hear bells when they ring

And you shake hands far more than you kiss,

Well, if this is your stance,

There's a pretty good chance

That, my friend, you're a Methodist.

And if you commune rarely

And give money (though barely)

And your Bible is oddly not missed,

And you've heard of John Wesley

Or boycotted Nestle

Then you're probably a Methodist.

If you drive a junk car

Rarely sit in a bar

And there's few things that make you feel pissed,

Though you follow the laws

There's still probable cause

To call you a Methodist.

Yes, some like John Calvin

Or Luther or Benen

And I could go on with the list . . .

But if you like boring meetings

And warm, friendly greetings

Then you're likely a Methodist.

And while others like Lent

Of the Council of Trent,

And you're pulled toward the pluralist,

Or while others preach hell

When you're feeling quite swell,

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If you know nothing of Barth

Or of Augustine's heart

And you're not a staunch dogmatist,

And you don't think it odd

To speak rarely of God

Then you're likely a Methodist.

And if you are quick

To comfort the sick

And you're just an idealist,

Of if you don't care

What your pastor might wear

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If most of your friends

Live by middle-class ends

And you know few philanthropists,

And you rarely feel guilty

Convicted or silly

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If you've got just enough

Of religion and stuff

But you're not a sensationalist

And you don't like the strange

Or the newfangled change

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If you like status-quo

And just go with the flow

But there's nothing to which you'd insist,

And you don't feel a slight

To the left or the right

Then you're likely a Methodist.

And finally, my friend,

If you know that you've sinned

But you're not a deep moralist,

Then you've likely deduced

That you've come home to roost

In the church of the Methodist.

Lollygag

Being a writer (and a pastor/speaker) I would say that I spend a great deal of time thinking about words: written, spoken, communicated. Words are important, and words convey not only ideas but feelings, memories, and intellectual weight.

That being said, I also find myself focusing on certain words from time-to-time. And recently that word has been "lollygag". It's an odd word, really--an onomatopoetic feast for the lips that not only sounds funny in the mouth, but sounds funny coming out, too. And it's words like lollygag that help me to create (or even coin) new words for stories and essays.

For example, a person who is lazy might be considered a lollygagger. That's a noun. A person who is caught in the act might be described as lollygagging. That's a verb. Or, perhaps, the word could even be used as a gerund, as in the sentence: "Lollygagging is my favorite activity."

One thing for sure . . . I don't want to be considered a lollygagger, and I don't want to lollygag, and I don't want to do anything lollygaggingly (adverb) either. Nor, I suppose, would I want to be described as "the lollygagginglyiest person in Indiana."

That being said . . . excuse me while I go upstairs and take a nap. All of this writing is making me sleepy.

The Silence of the Editors

For the past six months I have been in a game of cat-and-mouse with several editors. Or, I should say, it's just been cat . . . . I email, and get no response. I phone in, leave a voice mail, and get no answer. I write, but no one writes back.

Odd, really . . . given that I've had a good relationship with these editors in the past (or is it just me?). Which sets me to wondering: Is this an editor's way of saying, "We really don't desire to work with you anymore" or "At last, we've figured out that you are a loser and we're eschewing all contact with those on our loser-list" or "Hey, you're trying to contact us, but we don't work here anymore!"

Regardless, the silence of the editors has become a real mystery to me. Perhaps some of them are reading my blog and have come to the conclusion that I am warped or need psychiatric help (or perhaps a better donut). Others may be saving their communication for one big announcement such as: "We've decided to publish all seven of the book proposals you sent us, one for each of the dwarf personalities in Snow White. And we loved your book on Dopey, especially!"

I'm not sure . . . but I do know that I'm going to keep writing. All you editors out there who have gone into hiding . . . you'll hear from me again. And I don't care what cave you're hiding in. I'll find you.

But if you did happen to get my letter of last Tuesday, why not write me back? I'll be obliged and will gladly send you a small tin of mixed nuts.