 1993 | Well, here it is, the complete collection. Click on the thumbnail to read the letter. You'll need Acrobat Reader to read them. 1994 |
 1995 |  1996 |
 1997 |  1998 |
 1999 |  2000 |
 2001 |  2002 |
 2003 |  2004 |
 2005 | |
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Ghosts of Xmas Letters Past
Monday, November 27, 2006
Generic, non-denominational, holiday-type newsletter update
Those of you who receive my yearly newsletter know that I take more than just a few minutes creating my family's yearly news update. I thought this year it might be interesting to share my creative process in this blog. I guess I'm flattering myself to think anyone would care what this process is. So if you aren't interested please just skip these postings.
PROCESS
1. In 14 years of doing this I have never started writing until a day or two before Thanksgiving. That allows time for stuff to happen.
2. I usually start this process completely blocked and spend a few days worrying what I'll do when I run out of time. I almost always start with an article about how shitty this year's newsletter is. Then, as articles accumulate, I cut it. Perhaps some year I'll compile all the "shitty newsletter" articles into a newsletter of their own.
3. Katie and I review events of the last year and highlight one or two for each family member. I come up with headlines for the articles first, then let them stew for a while in my brain.
4. While stewing I go back and read all of the previous newsletters (I'll publish them on this blog shortly, when I get to that point), looking for year-to-year running jokes and trying desperately not to use the same joke twice. Some of my close friends will ping me if I use the same joke twice. During this period I will also page through other inspirational material, such as Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans (where you should definitely check out the stories entitled "On the Implausibility of the Death Star's Trash Compactor" and "Fire: Sharp Stick of Tomorrow?") or The Onion.
5. I write. I usually think of funny stuff during odd moments of the day or night - and try to remember it until I get to a computer. I will write during my lunch hour at work and email it to myself. Whatever it takes to get the story to my home computer. This process almost always calls for liberal use of a thesaurus, which I'm guessing most writers would feel guilty admitting. I, however, am not a writer.
6. I cut, and cut, until it fits onto 2 pages. Cutting is not as hard as writing.
That's pretty much it.
As of today, I have nothing. I started last night and I have only the headline for my shitty article story. I'll keep you updated as I progress.
PROCESS
1. In 14 years of doing this I have never started writing until a day or two before Thanksgiving. That allows time for stuff to happen.
2. I usually start this process completely blocked and spend a few days worrying what I'll do when I run out of time. I almost always start with an article about how shitty this year's newsletter is. Then, as articles accumulate, I cut it. Perhaps some year I'll compile all the "shitty newsletter" articles into a newsletter of their own.
3. Katie and I review events of the last year and highlight one or two for each family member. I come up with headlines for the articles first, then let them stew for a while in my brain.
4. While stewing I go back and read all of the previous newsletters (I'll publish them on this blog shortly, when I get to that point), looking for year-to-year running jokes and trying desperately not to use the same joke twice. Some of my close friends will ping me if I use the same joke twice. During this period I will also page through other inspirational material, such as Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans (where you should definitely check out the stories entitled "On the Implausibility of the Death Star's Trash Compactor" and "Fire: Sharp Stick of Tomorrow?") or The Onion.
5. I write. I usually think of funny stuff during odd moments of the day or night - and try to remember it until I get to a computer. I will write during my lunch hour at work and email it to myself. Whatever it takes to get the story to my home computer. This process almost always calls for liberal use of a thesaurus, which I'm guessing most writers would feel guilty admitting. I, however, am not a writer.
6. I cut, and cut, until it fits onto 2 pages. Cutting is not as hard as writing.
That's pretty much it.
As of today, I have nothing. I started last night and I have only the headline for my shitty article story. I'll keep you updated as I progress.
Update on Dad
As I get older I find myself referring to my father by his first name much more often. I wonder why that is?
Anyway, since the last post on my father's health, here's what's happened:
*Spent a few days recovering in the hospital, where it was learned that his right carotid artery was 90% blocked. According to the vascular doctor, this is a condition that accumulated over time, not a sudden onset. This blockage has been restricting blood flow to his brain for a period of time measured in years, not months or weeks. This doctor theorizes that a piece of that blockage broke off and caused the stroke. His recommendation: wait for his condition to stabilize for a couple of weeks, then bypass the blockage.
The cardiologist added that Eli's heart is doing fine and that from a cardiology perspective (anyway) Eli would survive the surgery.
The neurologist was concerned that the sudden increase in blood flow following the surgery could cause swelling in the brain, causing further damage. The neurologist also suggested that a piece of the blockage could come loose during the surgery and cause another stroke.
Eli's everyday doctor demurred to the specialists' contradicting opinions. No help there.
*Eli recovered to the point where he was released from the hospital to a nursing home - a pretty bad nursing home (the Edina Care Center on 62nd and Xerxes in Edina). Even though the orders were clear that he could not walk on his own and was to have a bed alarm should he decide to try and walk on his own, Eli got out of bed to run to the bathroom (even though he was catheterized) and fell, ripping out his catheter. Luckily he wasn't injured in any other way. As far as we could tell, Eli got very little of the care that was ordered.
*On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Eli went in for surgery and it was a resounding success. By Thanksgiving day he was reading a newspaper in bed and had in general made a remarkable recovery.
*On Thanksgiving day Eli was released to the Masonic home in Bloomington - a much better care facility. He is convalescing there today.
No life lessons today - just an update.
Anyway, since the last post on my father's health, here's what's happened:
*Spent a few days recovering in the hospital, where it was learned that his right carotid artery was 90% blocked. According to the vascular doctor, this is a condition that accumulated over time, not a sudden onset. This blockage has been restricting blood flow to his brain for a period of time measured in years, not months or weeks. This doctor theorizes that a piece of that blockage broke off and caused the stroke. His recommendation: wait for his condition to stabilize for a couple of weeks, then bypass the blockage.
The cardiologist added that Eli's heart is doing fine and that from a cardiology perspective (anyway) Eli would survive the surgery.
The neurologist was concerned that the sudden increase in blood flow following the surgery could cause swelling in the brain, causing further damage. The neurologist also suggested that a piece of the blockage could come loose during the surgery and cause another stroke.
Eli's everyday doctor demurred to the specialists' contradicting opinions. No help there.
*Eli recovered to the point where he was released from the hospital to a nursing home - a pretty bad nursing home (the Edina Care Center on 62nd and Xerxes in Edina). Even though the orders were clear that he could not walk on his own and was to have a bed alarm should he decide to try and walk on his own, Eli got out of bed to run to the bathroom (even though he was catheterized) and fell, ripping out his catheter. Luckily he wasn't injured in any other way. As far as we could tell, Eli got very little of the care that was ordered.
*On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Eli went in for surgery and it was a resounding success. By Thanksgiving day he was reading a newspaper in bed and had in general made a remarkable recovery.
*On Thanksgiving day Eli was released to the Masonic home in Bloomington - a much better care facility. He is convalescing there today.
No life lessons today - just an update.
Perhaps the last?
11-19-06 - 1 dead mouse found in basement, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
Two weeks since the last fatality. I think dead mouse season is just about done. This season's death toll: 14.
Two weeks since the last fatality. I think dead mouse season is just about done. This season's death toll: 14.
Monday, November 06, 2006
My Dad is a Sith Lord
An interesting premise, yes?
To begin, one must understand the Star Wars universe. Judging only by the 1977 film A New Hope, one would think Mr. Lucas sees the world as black (evil empire, Darth Vader) and white (Luke Skywalker, Jedi - aka the Fightin' Monks). It's really much more complex than that, though you don't necessarily see it in the movies. But you do in the novels. Anyway, the Jedi (the good guys) feed off the positive energy of the Force. The Sith (the bad guys) are fueled by power and feed off the negative energy of the Force. The Sith feed off anger and hatred.
Which brings me to my father.
My father is 88 years old. He has 12 children (10 still living). He lost his wife 9 years ago and lives with his youngest son, my little brother. A year and a half ago my father had a heart attack. He survived and until recently he continued to walk the neighborhood for exercise and read from alternative news sources (like the Weekly World News and the National Enquirer) because he didn't trust the mainstream media. He read all kinds of nutrition literature because he didn't trust the medical establishment. I repeat, my dad does not trust the medical establishment.
On Saturday my father had a "significant" stroke. (I quote the word "significant" now, because it's a few days later. At the time, we weren't sure what the heck was going on.) My little brother found him unresponsive in bed, called 911, and off to the hospital we went.
Eric (my brother) and I arrived at the emergency room and after a few minutes a nurse ushered us into a family room to wait for the ER doctor. We waited in awkward silence, broken only with Eric blaming himself for not noticing sooner and by my seemingly ineffective consolation. We were finally joined by a Dr. Schneider, who, after introducing himself, broke the news in most considerate way possible. "Your father has had a significant stroke. He has paralysis in both legs and his left arm..." His tone was similar to a parent telling his child that the dog just isn't going to make it. "The convalescence will be measured in weeks and months, not days and weeks."
Shortly thereafter, Eric and I were led into my father's ER space. A bearded male nurse was shouting commands at him (shouting because my father is pretty much deaf and at the time not wearing his hearing aids) - raise his hand, wiggle his toes, etc, none of which my father could perform. The nurse introduced himself to us and continued with his neurological assessment. Eric and I watched silently.
Nothing. Well, not much. That's what my dad could do. He had quite a grip with his right hand. We watched as both the nurse and the ER doctor tested his grip strength - each man had to forcibly remove their fingers from my father's right hand. My father's left hand literally dropped lifelessly.
Soon Eric and I began to see a twitch here, a twitch there. I asked the nurse, whose back was turned to the twitching, if the movement in my dad's left knee was some sort of spasm, and was that why he was disregarding it.
"What twitching?" he asked, shocked. But my father never twitched when the nurse was watching and barking for him to move something. "Mr. Gonzalez, raise your left leg," he'd shout. Nothing. But the second he'd turn around Dad would start twitching again. It sort of became a joke with Eric and I. We'd giggle whenever he twitched because, invariably, the nurse's back would be turned.
Later, by only a few minutes, my father began to respond orally, a single syllable at a time - yes's and no's only. By this time a room had been located for Dad and the ER nurse was prepping him for admission. Soon after, a woman who I assume is some sort of administrator stopped in the room to fill out some admission forms. Does he have dentures? Glasses? Hearing aids? That type of stuff. We spoke in normal tones - we definitely weren't yelling, shouting, or even speaking loudly. In fact, since it was somewhat personal information about my father I was trying to keep my voice down because this was such a public area.
"Has your father had a flu shot?" she asked. I looked to Eric. I shrugged. Knowing my father, abso-f*cking-lutely not. I think he believed that inoculations were some sort of government plot to keep the masses in line. But who knows? Eric also shrugged.
"Eric," I said, "you take him to the doctor. Did he get a flu shot?"
The best Eric could remember was no, he hadn't. The administrator asked us if he wanted one. Being the medical power of attorney on site (I'm actually the backup - another of my brothers in Madison is the primary), I had full authority to answer for my father given his incapacitation. "We don't have to decide that now, do we?" I asked. The administrator agreed that we didn't, so we moved on.
Meanwhile, the bearded male nurse was converting all the tubes and monitors hanging off my dad to a battery powered portable unit for transport, signaling we were ready to go up to his room in Neuro Special Services. Suddenly my father became agitated and started stringing words together. The bearded nurse looked startled, as if maybe he had accidentally unplugged a vital machine. He couldn't understand my father's words, so he hurriedly asked Eric to come listen. Eric told Dad to repeat and listened closely.
"No flu shot". I think he said, "No flu shot." Once Eric said those words, my father settled back down.
I looked to the administrator and said, "I guess he doesn't want a flu shot."
This is when I realized my father is a Sith lord. He's laying in the emergency room, unable to speak more than a single syllable per breath. His only working limb is stuck in "kung fu grip" mode. He's 88 years old, frail, mostly blind, mostly deaf, completely immobile, and only chooses to muster the strength to communicate with us by summoning his rage at the medical establishment by refusing a flu shot. This is a man definitely powered by the dark side of the Force. Definitely a Sith.
Lest you think I may have misinterpreted my father's "no flu shot" request - after all, it occurred to me later that he may have just been indicating that, no, he hadn't already had a flu shot - on Sunday my father was much more lucid and I asked him. He said, "I don't like the preservatives they use in vaccine." Not a bad sentence for a man less than 24 hours after a "significant" stroke, eh?
I must again assert - this man is a Sith lord. He is primarily fueled by negative energy, usually his own rage. He is practically on his deathbed refusing a flu shot. I still can't get over that.
The moral of the story? Don't be a Sith lord. Or remember this story the next time you find yourself using negative energy to motivate yourself. Find passion through joy and happiness, not anger.
To begin, one must understand the Star Wars universe. Judging only by the 1977 film A New Hope, one would think Mr. Lucas sees the world as black (evil empire, Darth Vader) and white (Luke Skywalker, Jedi - aka the Fightin' Monks). It's really much more complex than that, though you don't necessarily see it in the movies. But you do in the novels. Anyway, the Jedi (the good guys) feed off the positive energy of the Force. The Sith (the bad guys) are fueled by power and feed off the negative energy of the Force. The Sith feed off anger and hatred.
Which brings me to my father.
My father is 88 years old. He has 12 children (10 still living). He lost his wife 9 years ago and lives with his youngest son, my little brother. A year and a half ago my father had a heart attack. He survived and until recently he continued to walk the neighborhood for exercise and read from alternative news sources (like the Weekly World News and the National Enquirer) because he didn't trust the mainstream media. He read all kinds of nutrition literature because he didn't trust the medical establishment. I repeat, my dad does not trust the medical establishment.
On Saturday my father had a "significant" stroke. (I quote the word "significant" now, because it's a few days later. At the time, we weren't sure what the heck was going on.) My little brother found him unresponsive in bed, called 911, and off to the hospital we went.
Eric (my brother) and I arrived at the emergency room and after a few minutes a nurse ushered us into a family room to wait for the ER doctor. We waited in awkward silence, broken only with Eric blaming himself for not noticing sooner and by my seemingly ineffective consolation. We were finally joined by a Dr. Schneider, who, after introducing himself, broke the news in most considerate way possible. "Your father has had a significant stroke. He has paralysis in both legs and his left arm..." His tone was similar to a parent telling his child that the dog just isn't going to make it. "The convalescence will be measured in weeks and months, not days and weeks."
Shortly thereafter, Eric and I were led into my father's ER space. A bearded male nurse was shouting commands at him (shouting because my father is pretty much deaf and at the time not wearing his hearing aids) - raise his hand, wiggle his toes, etc, none of which my father could perform. The nurse introduced himself to us and continued with his neurological assessment. Eric and I watched silently.
Nothing. Well, not much. That's what my dad could do. He had quite a grip with his right hand. We watched as both the nurse and the ER doctor tested his grip strength - each man had to forcibly remove their fingers from my father's right hand. My father's left hand literally dropped lifelessly.
Soon Eric and I began to see a twitch here, a twitch there. I asked the nurse, whose back was turned to the twitching, if the movement in my dad's left knee was some sort of spasm, and was that why he was disregarding it.
"What twitching?" he asked, shocked. But my father never twitched when the nurse was watching and barking for him to move something. "Mr. Gonzalez, raise your left leg," he'd shout. Nothing. But the second he'd turn around Dad would start twitching again. It sort of became a joke with Eric and I. We'd giggle whenever he twitched because, invariably, the nurse's back would be turned.
Later, by only a few minutes, my father began to respond orally, a single syllable at a time - yes's and no's only. By this time a room had been located for Dad and the ER nurse was prepping him for admission. Soon after, a woman who I assume is some sort of administrator stopped in the room to fill out some admission forms. Does he have dentures? Glasses? Hearing aids? That type of stuff. We spoke in normal tones - we definitely weren't yelling, shouting, or even speaking loudly. In fact, since it was somewhat personal information about my father I was trying to keep my voice down because this was such a public area.
"Has your father had a flu shot?" she asked. I looked to Eric. I shrugged. Knowing my father, abso-f*cking-lutely not. I think he believed that inoculations were some sort of government plot to keep the masses in line. But who knows? Eric also shrugged.
"Eric," I said, "you take him to the doctor. Did he get a flu shot?"
The best Eric could remember was no, he hadn't. The administrator asked us if he wanted one. Being the medical power of attorney on site (I'm actually the backup - another of my brothers in Madison is the primary), I had full authority to answer for my father given his incapacitation. "We don't have to decide that now, do we?" I asked. The administrator agreed that we didn't, so we moved on.
Meanwhile, the bearded male nurse was converting all the tubes and monitors hanging off my dad to a battery powered portable unit for transport, signaling we were ready to go up to his room in Neuro Special Services. Suddenly my father became agitated and started stringing words together. The bearded nurse looked startled, as if maybe he had accidentally unplugged a vital machine. He couldn't understand my father's words, so he hurriedly asked Eric to come listen. Eric told Dad to repeat and listened closely.
"No flu shot". I think he said, "No flu shot." Once Eric said those words, my father settled back down.
I looked to the administrator and said, "I guess he doesn't want a flu shot."
This is when I realized my father is a Sith lord. He's laying in the emergency room, unable to speak more than a single syllable per breath. His only working limb is stuck in "kung fu grip" mode. He's 88 years old, frail, mostly blind, mostly deaf, completely immobile, and only chooses to muster the strength to communicate with us by summoning his rage at the medical establishment by refusing a flu shot. This is a man definitely powered by the dark side of the Force. Definitely a Sith.
Lest you think I may have misinterpreted my father's "no flu shot" request - after all, it occurred to me later that he may have just been indicating that, no, he hadn't already had a flu shot - on Sunday my father was much more lucid and I asked him. He said, "I don't like the preservatives they use in vaccine." Not a bad sentence for a man less than 24 hours after a "significant" stroke, eh?
I must again assert - this man is a Sith lord. He is primarily fueled by negative energy, usually his own rage. He is practically on his deathbed refusing a flu shot. I still can't get over that.
The moral of the story? Don't be a Sith lord. Or remember this story the next time you find yourself using negative energy to motivate yourself. Find passion through joy and happiness, not anger.
Another One
11-5-06 - 1 dead mouse found in basement, head crushed and stuck in Better Mousetrap brand mousetrap. Cause of death: sudden blunt trauma to head.
That's the first dead mouse in quite some time. It brings the seasonal death toll, for those of you keeping score at home, to 13.
That's the first dead mouse in quite some time. It brings the seasonal death toll, for those of you keeping score at home, to 13.
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