December

'Tis the season where we can all get away with spelling "it is" in that outdated and vaguely pretentious fashion. But alas ("alas" is fair game too), the holidays grant us all sorts of pardons and reprieves from things the other three seasons say flat out suck.

For a few weeks every year, wool sweaters adorned with snowflakes and trees and perhaps pictures of piping cups of steaming hot cocoa are deemed almost fashionably passable.

A droopy drink with a glob of egg in it somehow seasonally morphs into an enchanting cocktail miracle if you add just a dash of cinnamon.

Inexhaustible radio replays of precious songs featuring wind chimes (it sounds just like gently falling snow!) and perfectly placed piano plucks (skittish reindeer feet!) that are sung by sleepy crooners (who would probably rather be at the racetrack) are considered indispensible musical tradition.

And wrapped presents are given to and fro ("fro" = #3 for all those playing at home) with big billowy bows on them. The bow's purpose is that it has no purpose.

Yes, things are all mixed up, left and right, up and down around this temporary sugar cookie town. But lo (#4), we always have our rock shows to fall back on when the winter gets weird.

Ah, December. It's a strange time, isn't it? 'Tis.