Nah, that would mean having feelings! My Christmas was uneventful. The vibe is always pajama-tastic and our gift-giving is minimal, since Christmas is mostly a chance to get together and watch Chanticleer and Band of Brothers and consume cookies in obscene quantities.

I watched an entire season of So You Think You Can Dance in a single night, which is really the way to go, because rooting for people for one evening is a lot less exhausting than doing it for eight weeks.(I am also beginning to think I am a jinx, because the dancer of my heart has never won, even though most of the time I understand who won and why. Hint: if you are a supertalented gay dancer, you will probably come in second. Have fun!)

Awesomely, I went to see Sherlock Holmes. Expect two articles on that sometime this week. Just so you all know, my mother is a bigger movie freak than I am (the film canister has not fallen far from the tree). She fell asleep during Sherlock Holmes. If I could, I’d make that my entire review; unfortunately, that only works if you know my mom. Damn you, frame of reference!

On the way home, a guy in a cord blazer and an Eddie Bauer suitcase cuts the bus line in front of me. He proceeds to ask me a series of questions like, “Will the porter take my bag?” clutching his copy of Self-Reliance fiercely to his chest. When he finally asks if he’s in the right group, and is told he’s actually supposed to be behind me, he declines to move with a smile and a patronizing, “Well, I’ve never taken a bus before. I’ll just stay here.”

He was corrected. [Okay, maybe this really is my version of a heartfelt holiday essay.]