Earlier this week, I put together a list of the saddest Christmas songs inspired by the most miserable of them all “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” I even wrote an intro. But last night at the longest midnight mass of all time, I realized, in the midst of a fit of laughter, that Christmas isn’t entirely bad after all.

The family ended up at an Episcopalian church somewhere near Homestead. All smoky with incense, it was like a wooden womb decorated with a great big glowing rainbow cross. I thought the atmosphere was fitting for some jazzy X-mas tunes. Who knew these Anglicans would put us through a two hour service that literally started with Genesis and ended with… well, who knows, we left before the end.

The National Basketball Association’s lockout has reached Day 151 (as of Oct. 30), and is stretching its way into the beginning of the season. Commissioner David Stern rubs his Troll fingers together after canceling a month’s worth of games, and counts the bars of gold he hides under his bed (totally not politically correct to compare a Jewish man to a gold hungry troll). Union Reps feel like the Three Billy Goats Gruff, asking to pass Stern’s toll bridge, while promising a fatter meal in the future. Yet everything stays status quo, and no resolutions are made.

While some superstars play All-Star events, make commercials mocking the stupid things that come out of their mouths, or sign fake contracts to play in Italy, there’s still the 400 or so other players twiddling their thumbs figuratively staring at the walls but actually spending lots and lots of time in strip clubs. I suppose the more disciplined players will spend their time in gyms trying to stay in peak athletic condition, but a lot of players are going to have to find ways to fund their addictions to Cristal, impregnating white women, and buying the newest Bentley in all 8 different colors.

So, before they have to declare bankruptcy and play in the Israeli Basketball Leagues, here is a short list of money making opportunities that put basketball player’s best assets to work:

Cleaning Services
Unfortunately for Home Depot, the NBA lockout will lead to a significant drop in step ladder sales. These guys can get to anything, I’ve seen it happen. Cabinet tops, ceiling moldings, or that corner of your living you can’t quite reach with a broom and there’s been a spider living there for three years and you’ve gotten used to him, even gave him a name, but now that the little guy is gone you’re pretty grateful.

We all have unrequited crushes
be they half-asleep
or mostly dead criminals,
these hunky finds will keep hope alive for the phrase “I don’t have a type.”

I’m over 30, straight, and no one wants to date me. I would like to procreate one day. What should I do? -One Sad Lonely Bitch in Miami.

Ah, you poor lonely bitch. It’s a tricky situation. First, I would recommend you get off of your ass and stop feeling sorry for yourself – that’s not helping anyone. Not your friends, who have to listen to your bitching and complaining, and not YOU who has to listen to yourself bitch and complain. You have less time than you did ten years ago it’s necessary that you get your ass in gear. Guys are getting “better looking” and us ladies have a number of “clocks” to compete against.

Next, wear more blush. Blush never hurt anyone. Adding the rosy cheeks of youth will convince no one that you’re 19, but it will help you feel better and look prettier. Old isn’t a problem, but ugly never got no one nothing but pity.

Inspired by the video John Spain posted on our Facebook wall of Hurricane Gloria .

Growing up in Miami mostly, I’ve ridden out dozens of massive storms, but like with sex, the most memorable hurricane was my first. It was Gloria and we were in Stoughton, Massachusetts. It was 1985, before moving to South Florida was a permanent consideration for my family. My father was away at medical school and my mother, brother, and I were hunkered down at my grandparents’ government subsidized two-bedroom. Like with all hurricanes, we were bubbling with anticipation.

Probably the most exciting thing about wind is its unpredictability. Halfway through the storm, my grampy invited me to walk out into storm with him. He kept an eye on me as I slowly edged my way into the winds where the rain whipped at my skin like pellets. Of course it didn’t take long for it to almost knock me on my back. When you’re six, feeling helpless is something you do, it happens regularly. Your cousins throw you around. You’re small, you get pushed about, but rarely does a force of nature other than a stomach virus make you lose all control. Feeling the wind pick me up, trying to get my footing again; it is one of the most powerful feelings to feel so powerless.

I got scared and ran inside.

When I lived down south, I still used to drive out like four times a week to go to PS14, which is what Bar was once called (Bar is possibly the stupidest name for a bar ever). It was where you could find me – like Dorothy Over the Rainbow. I just loved it there.

It was filthy, always. Even after it was jazzed up and then jazzed down, it was still a shithole. The bathroom floors were always covered in fluids, ten people often emerged from behind the lock-less doors. The smell of pot wafted around like it was legal. The cheapest of drinks were drunk. There were fights, and bad music and great music. I danced on that filthy floor. I watched endless games of pool. Now that Bar is closed. It’s been a struggle. There’s nowhere I want to go. No place with basically free drinks where I can dance with people I mostly know. No lawless location where punches are thrown and the only consequences are rolled eyes. No more walking home alone at 4 a.m.

Now, who knows what’ll happen to the space, but as far as I’ve heard, I don’t think it’ll be opening as an independent spot. Enough reminiscing. I made an effort to go out this weekend and have fun in a world without Bar, and needless to say, it was a challenge. Here’s the rundown.

Friday: The Bass, The Abbey, failed attempt to go to the Shelbourne

The Casey Anthony trial is just about over. The stakes are high. The case is pretty damn serious and now it’s up to the jury to decide her fate. The defense’s closing arguments were strong. Did they create reasonable doubt? They just might have.

Here are a few reasons why the jury might just acquit this loon.

PROSECUTORS ARE DICKHEADS
During closing arguments, head prosecutor for the State repeatedly made facial expressions, mocking the defense through body language. That is one-thousand percent unprofessional and could create a bias in the minds of the jurors. At one point the prosecutor actually laughed at the defense’s arguments. In addition, the prosecutors repeatedly objected during the closing arguments, which is usually taboo in such cases. In summation, prosecutors are dickheads, not all the time, but sometimes. And if the prosecution oversold its case, acting like a cocky little shit, if you were a juror, you just might have to acquit.

Jimmy Tracy is a nurse.

I meditated about anal hygiene on this site last year, but I sense that another scatological debate begs for the light of day. Picture, if you will, a stack of magazines next to a toilet. My entire life, I have never done more than stare at the cover of the one on top while I took care of business (Playboys excepting, of course). It gradually dawned on me that people actually read articles, or even entire magazines, while shitting. My question boils down to this: How huge are these anaconda shits and may I please see what took you 10 minutes to push out?

I feel as though I may be tempting fate. Not because I’m asking to look at your stool, but because I don’t want to ridicule the unwell. I can’t judge anyone with bowel disease or acute infectious diarrhea. Take your time – I’ll use the shitter upstairs. For that matter, older folks have slower gastrointestinal motility. If I let my father-in-law beat me to the bathroom, I only have myself to blame. My issue is with healthy young people. Your stacks of magazines tell the story. You need to wrap it up. People are waiting.

Dave Landsberger recently contributed poetry to complement photos for the hard to explain, subscription postcard magazine Abe’s Penny. Landsberger lived in Miami for three years before moving home to Chicago last year. According to him, “I miss my Miami friends, the ocean, and el Rey de las fritas.” He currently teaches English and literature at Harper College. Read more of his poems here after you read the ones below. He enjoys writing poems about sports. We like to read his poems about sports. We sent him several photos and he added one and so we have his poetic reaction to some tense Chicago-Miami sports games and a clip art of a flamingo.

ROBBINS & ENGLEWOOD
A Michael Jordan jersey is a white boy’s passport to the ghetto in Chicago.
Last week I got called a “face nigger”. Was it my beard? Who cares.
Chicken & fries & white bread & Flamin’ Hot Cheeto bags in the streets.

These blizzards combust you, cover you like white wicker baskets,
letting just enough sunlight slip in, so,
who cares, game’s on,

Bulls vs. Heat, who cares; always something to be proud about.
All famous black people come from Chicago,
The Harlem Renaissance 2: The Big Score.

ACROSTIC
Be it a billy goat or an expansion team in teal,
Another reason will manifest from the prairie grass to contra.
Real Marlins fans exist; I’ve seen them Casino-style and cartwheel
To the scent of nacatamales, down and up three Kia Sephias,
Marrying the scent of Miami fall (live here two years, you’ll smell it too) outside the bastille
And bonkers of Whatever’s Paying Us Stadium. Cubbies, change your jerseys to aqua.
Name another blame: a farm animal, or yourselves?

Check out the other two after the jump.

How to explain Port-au-Prince traffic? No lanes, no cops, no rules. However, almost no animosity or mistrust between the drivers. In its place, there’s a sense of battlefield camaraderie among those brave enough to take the wheel. From above, I imagine it would resemble a fast-forwarded stadium parking lot exodus. On the street level, it’s mouthfuls of dust and smoke, choppy as horseback, a veritable brass ensemble of horns, and there is no better way to experience it than on a wooden plank protruding from the back of a rusty, dilapidated pick-up.

Tap taps are the idiomatic public transportation of Haiti, the hackney carriage of Port-au-Prince. The iconic version of a tap tap is a vividly decorated pick-up with a covered bed, though many are unpainted trucks with natural, tetanus-colored roofs. There are two parallel benches and, invariably, a spare tire in the bed. The tailgate is removed, so the benches and railing extend the approximate width of an extra human ass past the bumper. Passengers jump into the back, sometimes while the truck is rolling and already packed stiff. In this case, the newcomer stands on the protruding portion of the bed with his head above the cover: the most ventilated, scenic, perilous, and entertaining spot in a tap tap.

Sometimes you do a wondrous thing quietly, for reasons entirely of your own choosing, and never expect public recognition for your efforts. Such was the case when I got a vasectomy.

Legally, if you’re eighteen, you can request a vasectomy. If you have children, doctors will sever your vas deferens without a second thought (or in my case, sever, cauterize the ends, fold them over, and staple them together). Childless and twenty-two years old, I had to undergo counseling before they’d consent to the procedure.

I told them I didn’t want children and never would. They said I was too young to know if I’d want children one day. I told them if I ever changed my mind, I was a firm believer in adoption. After an hour with two different folks, one male, one female, they scheduled the procedure.