Dear Friends and Family (or Current Resident),

Well, the holidays are over. It is my sincere hope that all of you got what you wanted, although the gospel of the Rolling Stones tells us it's not always possible to do so. Anyway, here are some general observations about the holiday season that has just concluded.

First, I'd like to discuss the Ghost of Christmas Commercials Past. What is it with that ancient Folgers coffee commercial? It's at least 25 years old, judging by the feathered hair and the fact that I remember seeing it from the womb. You know the one I'm talking about. The strapping young son surprises his family by coming home from college or something. He smells the coffee brewing. His precocious little sister runs to embrace him. Then mom comes down the stairs in her bathrobe and exclaims, "Peter?!" Everyone smiles. Good-old dad, honored member of the bowling club, steps up to greet his son. It's the most tiresome Norman-Rockwell-on-lithium family portrait ever, and yet we are re-introduced to it every year, because—I suppose—if the milk is good enough, it never ever goes bad, right? Is this the advertising world's version of playing Bing Crosby records every Christmas? Is it supposed to be vintage chic? Just because legwarmers have come back doesn't mean that we should revive every other trend from that era. What's next, exhuming Reagan? Don't forget there was some nasty Cold War stuff in the 80s. Not to mention the hair. My God, the hair. Even Linda Kozlowski looked like something the cat expectorated. Let's let this Folgers commercial die a natural death, instead of lengthening its agonizing existence with yearly life support. I mean seriously. Twenty-five years is a long time for your advertising guys to be out of ideas.

I got some great gifts this year. A new MP3 player from Nick, a CD sountrack of Spamalot from my parents, and seasons 2 & 3 of Wonder Woman from Nick's family. From my brother in law, I received a Hello Kitty toaster. If you have the heat high enough, it imprints the face of Hello Kitty on your toast, a decoration that is at once grotesque and delightful. Thanks Ryan.

I learned on New Year's Eve that I am the only person I know who is amused by that hyper, unintelligible squirrel on 12 oz. Mouse. Everybody gets Aqua Teen Hunger Force—the warped beauty of Carl on his South Bronx Parasite Diet is self-apparent—but the jumpy, chattering squirrel who is perfectly rendered in a show where the majority of the images barely register as better than stick figures? Not so much. I'd just like to point out that it must be funny to someone else, too, or it wouldn't be on Adult Swim. So just back off, critics of 12 oz. Mouse. The stoners are with me on this one.

Oh, and despite a massive assault from liberal hippie tree huggers who champion nasty concepts like "inclusiveness," Christmas seems to have survived unscathed for another year. With all of this rhetoric of late, I keep picturing Christmas as a battered prizefighter in shiny patriotic shorts, shouting "Adrian!" and spraying blood all over the ring. But how, you may ask, could our beloved Christmas possibly prevail in a world where a diabolical Target posts "Happy Holidays" banners in all of its stores? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that 80 percent of the population celebrates Christmas, and that it's unlikely that this majority will be in any way marginalized or persecuted by a minority who simply wish to celebrate their own holiday and have their country sort of half-acknowledge their identity in the process. No one's keeping anyone from celebrating Christmas. Besides, the "Happy Holidays" trend was initiated by stores themselves because—check it out—Christians are not the only ones who buy things. That's all. Now I don't want hear another word about this, or I'll turn the car around and you won't get any ice cream.

And speaking of the free market, for the billionth year in a row, consumerism was a must for the holidays. Ad agencies (except for the Folgers people) gave us a new crop of commercials showing us why buying stuff is the best way to tell our loved ones how much we dig them. Sears gave us atomically enhanced televisions and wrenches that were so large they had to be carried by several people down wintry city streets. Their ads never compelled me to buy anything, but I did get the urge to read Gulliver's Travels again. Radio Shack, too, blitzkrieged us with ads this year, this time involving a series of people who sit in a "wishing chair" and tell the camera what sort of electronic device they want for the season. It's like televised visits to Santa, except that the people are extremely obnoxious grown-ups. Hey, remember that one chick who told her mom to buy her a particular phone because, if she didn't, she would just have to get it from her doting dad? If I were that girl's mother, not only would I not give her that camera phone, I'd kill her. Kill her dead. "Oops," I'd say to the police. "God told me to do that. No seriously, he totally did." Add to this the usual pablum of doe-eyed (or should I say "dough-eyed") children baking cookies, and you've got one tedious batch of holiday commercials. You know what I really would like to see from advertising over the holidays? Gnomes. Not creepy elves in felt hats ... actual gnomes. Come on guys, Travelocity hasn't cornered the market on this. Gnomes could effectively advertise everything from microwavable pizzas to personal lubricants. Gnomes don't always have to be cheery and helpful, you know. They can be sinister when necessary. They can exude sensuality. They can even do impressions of Margaret Thatcher if the money is right. So the next time those ad execs are trying to find the perfect spokesperson for their holiday juggernaut, I hope they'll consider a spokesgnome instead. Either that or Bruce Campbell. That guy is my hero.

Love and Kisses,

Karen