Dear Dr. Babooner,

Ten days ‘til Christmas and I’m helpless when it comes to those cute little cookies. Some of them aren’t so little! And neither am I, once the festive tin has been emptied. What with all the parties at the office, I expect to gain about 6 pounds by New Year’s Day.

Here’s the real problem – Christmas cookie bakers are also pushers.

Typical scenario – an e-mail goes out to everyone in our department saying there are cookies in such and such a location. The mingle bells are ringing, and all work stops. Within moments, crowds are streaming past my desk, all on their way to load up with goodies. If I don’t immediately join the herd, people swoop in as they walk by, saying something like “Christmas cookies by the coffeemaker”, as if that’s a magic phrase that will allow me to drop everything I’m doing at the moment.

Before long, the social pressure becomes unbearable. I can hear them down there, talking and laughing and munching, and it becomes difficult to concentrate. I do believe in sociability and teamwork, so I get up.

When I arrive at the scene, someone grabs a little paper plate and begins loading it up with gingerbread snowmen, toffee squares and snickerdoodles. I say I’m watching my diet and people scoff. “C’mon, it’s Christmas,” they say, as if that somehow suspends the well-documented physiological effect of massive amounts of sugar and fat.

In some ways, I think the Christmas cookie crowd is the opposite of a therapy group. They are a community of food abuse sufferers, bent on self-destruction and committed to dragging you into their sad pool of caloric misery in the name of glad tidings and good cheer. They foist their morsels on you with such earnestness it borders on an insult if you refuse to take one or seven of these tiny fat bombs back to your desk.

Dr. Babooner, I want to be nice, but Christmas cheer is killing me.

Sincerely,
Santa’s Overstuffed Sack

I told S.O.S. that is is OK to lie at Christmas time if the goal is self preservation. I would tell the cookie pushers that I am under doctor’s orders to eat only vegetables at work. In fact, bringing a tray of festive green celery and jolly red radishes to the Christmas party is a great strategy that might succeed in getting everyone back to work more quickly!

Another tactic – let co-workers know about a newly released study that indicates exercise is much more potent in its effects against weight gain and the onset of diabetes if that exercise is done in a “fasted state”. So tell everyone you’ll be happy to enjoy a plate of cookies with them – after you lead the group through an exhausting regimen of jumping jacks and push-ups. That will help you manage the extra calories, and it might get your name permanently removed from the Impromptu Cookie Binge e-mail list!

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

As part of yesterday’s discussion, tim offered lyrics by Loudon Wainwright III to a song called Plane, Too, from his second album, Album 2.

There was a hipster on the plane
There was a sailor, too
Big business man on the plane
Stewardess, too
I saw a movie on the plane
Grand Canyon, too
Earphone music on the plane
Time magazine, too

Airplane food was on the plane
Airplane coffee, too
Airplane booze was on the plane
Tea and milk was, too

Reclining seats were on the plane
Seatbelts, too
“No Smoking” sign was on the plane
In French and English, too
Hostess button on the plane
Ventilator, too
Vomit bag was on the plane
Oxygen, too

There was a bathroom on the plane
A flushing toilet, too
There was a mirror on the plane
Me, too

Wainwright’s Album 2 was released in 1971. The big airplane news in the early 70’s was the introduction of the still impressive Boeing 747, the first of which was named the Juan T. Trippe (after the Boeing CEO), commissioned in October 1970.

That once proud jet, a marvel in its day, is now an empty hulk, rusting by a roadside in South Korea. I’m not permitted to post a photo of it here but you can see it by following this link to a website called airliners.net, where there is a gallery of photos taken of the same plane in different places all over the world through it’s working life. The aircraft is a superstar, fallen on hard times.

The big concept was to operate the fuselage as a restaurant, thinking that people might find it charming to eat on a plane. But no one who has ever eaten anything on a plane could possibly think it would be fun or worthwhile to climb into an aircraft to receive a meal of any kind. The airlines created a reality too stark to overcome, and this marketing idea flopped.

Though apparently the notion still has some lift in Germany, where this unique dining experience awaits.

Please fasten your seatbelt and share your most memorable (for whatever reason) restaurant stories.

Teenagers live such anguished lives. Here’s the latest quandary from perennial sophomore Bubby Spamden.

Hey Mr. C.,

I was talking to my friend Doug about music yesterday and he said we should form a band. Not just the two of us, but us and a few other people. I said that sounded cool even though I don’t know how to play any kind of instrument and am not a very good singer, but he said that’s all right you don’t have to be a good singer to be in a band.

What you have to have is a good name with enough attitude that people will remember it. He said a good name for our band would be “The Flaming Sacks of Poop”, because it’s something shocking that you can picture and it’s real hard to forget. At first you might even want to stomp on it to make it go away but then, if you think for even a moment, you realize you’d better not. So it’s got a special appeal for the brainy audience too.

I said I did not want to be known as “A Flaming Sack of Poop”, and was thinking that a better name would be “The Kings of Seduction”, because that sounds smooth and classy.

He said “Kings of Seduction” is the kind of name people forget as soon as they hear it. They’d be left wondering if we were in charge of Seduction or Romance or Chocolates, whereas “Flaming Sacks of Poop” is the kind of name that creates a lasting memory.

We decided to let the new members of the band figure it out, so we invited Brandon and Heather to join us and we told them what the name choices were. Brandon liked the “Flaming Sacks of Poop”, and Heather was for “Kings of Seduction”, even though she is more Queen-like, personally. That didn’t really accomplish anything.

So then Doug said let’s find a middle ground just like the president did on the rich people tax and call our band “The Kings of Poop”. But then Heather said what about “The Flaming Sacks of Seduction”? This went on for a while. Compromise is hard.

Now it looks like our group is going to be called “Dung Love Combustion”, which I really hate. But unless I agree I guess our careers will never get started, and this may be my only chance to be in a band – ever. Because I still don’t know how to play anything.

Should I go along with a decision that feels ridiculous, or stand my ground?

Your rockin’ pal,
Bubby

I told Bubby he should address a more fundamental question. Can a non-musical person make a meaningful contribution to a band? Making a compromise to get the band up and running may turn out to be a mistake if the result is bad music and embarrassment. Perhaps the time spent arguing over a name could’ve been put to better use studying the guitar.

But learning things is also difficult, and inventing names is fun!

What’s the best band name you ever heard? Or would like to hear?