Last night, my child looked up at me and said, "Uncle Steve?" He didn't know I was his father. I didn't know for sure either. I just assumed I was. I had his mother so many times. And in so many different ways. The odds were with me. Anyway...he looked up at me and said "What does Christmas mean to you?" And I said: Liniel--Christmas is a time for giving. A time for receiving. A time for eggnog and rum. A time for cutting down trees and hanging plastic doodads on them and watching them die slowly in your living room. Or catch fire and burn down your house with all your possessions. It's a time for buying things that haven't sold all year long, wrapping them up in shiny paper and giving them to your friends, return them and find out you got it on sale. And they can only exchange them for things of equal value like charcoal briquettes or matchbooks with other people's names on them. A time for giving your wife that special coat she always wanted. Those seals didn't need their fur anyway. What do they want with it? They're dead already. It's a time for eggnog and brandy and driving home on icy streets, "accidentally nudging" the car next to you off the bridge. Into the frozen river, and watching the car sink, seeing the bubbles float up under the water. It's the time to sip an eggnog martini and think about the poor. And talk about feeding the naked and clothing the hungry. A time to get Christmas cards from all your friends at Consolidated and Allied and Acme. A time for watching all those happy kids sitting on Santa's lap in Toyland. Thinking to yourself: hmmmmm....maybe I'll be a Santa next year. Twelve years old is not so far from eighteen. Maybe I should be laying a little groundwork for the future. It's a time for parties at the office with eggnog and vodka. Telling your boss what you really think of him--while he gets a perfect Xerox of your wife's rear end. A time for sitting by the hearth and sipping eggnog and tequila with your feet up on a burning log, realizing that Uncle Walt has been in your garage for forty-five minutes with the car running. You say to yourself, "damn, Uncle Walt...you were supposed to bring me back more eggnog. And that, Liniel, is what Christmas means to me.