I just popped in to the Forest Service office between an all day stint at the police department, and a session of the borough assembly that I agreed to speak at as an expression of my degenerating mental condition.

I'm here because one of my supervisors, who for purposed of decorum shall remain anonymous^* decided that one of the deep red Outfitter-Guide cards that I have entered into the database that I created for him is in error. He'd like me to just correct it. That is, one card in a stack of nine hundred and twenty two. So here I am after hours burrowing through the stacks of blood colored cards, looking for just the one he wants corrected, like some odd ground dwelling rodent creating a den for winter. Oddly though, it isn't the number of cards that had me agitated though, it's the color.

For, what does all this redness remind us of? It reminds us of the tragic discovery I made Saturday when taking pictures of the local children meeting Santa. I volunteered to do so to raise money for the cub scouts, a worthy cause to be sure. But as the afternoon wore on, I discovered my breathing growing shallow and rapid, my pulse pounding and my body contorting in awkward poses, without being consciously aware of why. Imagine my dismay when I paused to consider the matter, and was shocked to discover that it was all because I was fearful of making eye contact with Santa.

I'm forty four years old, and I'm afraid of Santa Clause. At least since I lost some weight I'm not asked to play Santa anymore.


^*Darryl, you hear me?! It was Darryl! D,A,R,R,Y,L- Dar-ryl, DARRYL!