Christmas with "Willow."

Christmas is almost here, and I'm starting to feel the heat. I'm getting an overwhelming sense of "blah" and I just don't like it. Don't get me wrong, I've still got holiday spirit coursing through my veins, but when you don a Santa hat and a "somewhere not in the US" accent for twenty-five days of X-mas fun, you start to get a bit burnt. I wonder if the Santas in the mall begin to truly hate their lives after mid-month?

At this point, I need something to grasp on to that'll keep me sane and solid until after New Year's. I'd like to say that I found a great book to read or have started painting desert landscapes, but no. I can't read and paint is so paint-y.

In this dark and trooubled time, there is always "Willow."

I speak of "Willow" a lot. I quote from "Willow" and bring the film up in conversation where a magical land of spritely awe is absolutely unwelcome. It's almost threatening, to be fair. My "Willow" agenda be pushed hard.

What are you, dear Willow? What is it about you that brings me strength through the holiday season? All of the presents have been bought, all of the eggnog has been hoarded and subsequently shunned. Why doesn't anyone like eggnog? Is it the "egg" thing?

You keep me sane, Willow. You have a magical aura about you that keeps me on track. You are my rock. My stick wielding, cloak wearing rock.

Where did you get that cloak, by the way? I may or may not want one. My wardrobe is usually dictated by how much people will laugh at me, but it's below seventy degrees in these blistering, wintery months, and me bones be cold. Cloaks are lame, I know, but capes are worse. I think. Right? Arguing online with myself about cloaks and capes. This is what my life has become.

But it's all good, it's all well, it's all so beautiful and nice and wonderful. Because you're you, Willow. You hold me together with that twig magic and that cloak and that tool belt packed up full of goodies. Which begs the question...what exactly do you keep in there? Besides acorns that turn trolls into stone, of course.

Is that a knife? Do you hold onto a ball of yarn? It seems like you would. What about a pouch of Tropical Starburst? If you had some, I'm sure you'd share. Because that's what you would do -- because you're you.

Whenever I'm in a bar, no one seems to know who you are, Willow. People are confused as to what you do and what you've done. I feel embarrased to mix and mingle with ignorant slobs who don't know what true royalty you really are. Were your adventures too obscure and indistinct to remember? Were you out-shined by bigger and better fantasy films of the 80's?

It's fine, though, because you're a legend and you shall live in my Legend Cave. Which is the back packet of my jeans. Whenever I'm feeling down and out, I'll set you up and stare into your big eyes and at your brown tuft 0f lovably goofy hair. Ahh, ya see? You did it again, Willow!

Stay sane, people. We're almost there. I know I'm the first one to lose their edge, but I'm still stoked and thrilled for Christmas, even if it means being fried on the Big Day.

But once we're through, though, we can then post pretty pictures of all the pretty presents we got and didn't deserve. It's a time of receiving and receiving, right?

Did I get that right?