I love Santa Claus. And I’m not just saying that to get great presents, really. (Although, hope you remember that, Santa, if it helps). I love the tradition, and now that I’m the one who’s spending his Christmas Eve thinking about Santa Claus plans, making phone calls to friends to see if anyone would be ready to don the red suit and get inside the character, I actually like it even more.

My Santa is not the one that gets in through the chimney in the night. My Santa is the one who walks in to see if there are any nice children in the house, and then leaves his big sack of presents to us.

Although, it’s not that straightforward. It’s almost never been that straightforward.

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Every year, Son, Daughter, and I take the ferry over to Finland about a month before Xmas. We go see the grandparents, and other family, and spread a little advance Xmas cheer. Each year, we drive up to Dad’s, and we go to hockey games.

A few weeks ago, we made our 4th Annual Road Trip to Finland, and we saw two games, one of them a road trip inside our Road Trip, as we drove 150 kilometers to catch a Finnish league game in Kuopio. And not only that, but we watched it from a luxury suite.

That means one thing: Real food.

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“Is the number 17 in there? See if number 17 is there,” I heard from around the room.

I lifted one of the sweaters in the white box, just to see what was available. There are many codes in hockey, most of which I wouldn’t be able to repeat, but one of them is not to make a big deal out of your own number. On any team, everybody always knows each other’s numbers so it’s not a problem, but when you’re playing shinny … it’s a different story.

I lifted one sweater – a number 3 – and put it back down. I picked up another one. It was 21. I put it back in the box.

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Listen, man. I don’t know how many of you people believe in astrology … yeah, yeah, that’s right, baby. I am a Sagittarius, the most philosophical of all the signs. But anyway, I don’t believe in it. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit myself. But I tell you this, man. I tell you this: I don’t know what’s gonna happen, man, but I wanna have my kicks before the whole shithouse goes up in flames. All right! ALL RIGHT!
– Jim Morrison

About 15 years ago, I went through a big Jim Morrison phase in my life. I don’t remember exactly what triggered it, but it most likely was the Oliver Stone movie which came out in 1991. I probably watched it on video in my apartment, and decided that I was Jim Morrison.

Although, I always knew I wasn’t Jim Morrison. I wasn’t crazy like Jimbo, I wasn’t dangerous like Mr Mojo Risin’. Yet, I also knew that even if I wasn’t the Lizard King, I, too, could do anything.

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