500 Words

Come to think of it, Hannah Montana is a great stripper name

You can try to justify her performance at the Teen Choice Awards all you want, but Miley Cyrus’ pole dance during Monday night’s ceremony was unacceptable. Sex sells. And societal mores have loosened quickly over the past decade. The stigma that was once attached to pole dancing has lessened dramatically. Health clubs offer pole dancing classes. Porn is a multi-billion dollar industry. Many strip clubs have a higher cover charge than high-end dance clubs do.

And I wouldn’t have a problem with her performance if not for a few major issues:

1. Miley Cyrus is 16 years old. If you’re 18 or older and getting aroused by her performance – and considering that she has a 53-year-old stalker who was recently arrested, there are plenty in that demographic who are – you’re a pedophile. In the United States, it’s illegal to be a stripper if you’re under 18. But Cyrus’ performance ostensibly makes it acceptable. Hopefully, the next time a club owner gets caught for using underage dancers, his lawyer is smart enough to whip out this tape to bolster his client’s defense.

2. Cyrus and her family are enormous hypocrites. (As if you didn’t know this when she was dating a 20-year-old with their approval; I’m certain it was a completely chaste relationship.) About a year ago, they made just short of a federal case out of photographs that Cyrus took for Vanity Fair with legendary photographer Annie Leibovitz. The family and her handlers cried that Cyrus was exploited and that they did not know that Leibovitz had taken “topless” shots of Cyrus – even though her father was on the set; “topless” shots that were about as titillating as a root canal. That was wrong. Wrong they said. But being an underage stripper is okay. Her parents don’t just belong in the Hypocrites Hall of Fame. They deserve their own wing.

Chris Rock once said:

"Sometimes I am walking with my daughter, I'm talking to my daughter, I'm looking at her, I'm pushing her in the stroller. And sometimes I pick her up and I just stare at her and I realize my only job in life is to keep her off the pole. Keep my baby off the pole! I mean they don't grade fathers but if your daughter is a stripper you f—ked up.”

When you hear about the Cyrus clan, the stories always mention how religious and god-fearing they are. Miley Cyrus has been quoted in USA Today that her faith is “the main thing.” There are the Cyrus’ – usually photographed dressed like homeless hillbillies – going to church. Clearly, they missed the sermon about asking themselves, “What Would Jesus Do?”

Now, I’m not a deeply religious person, but I don’t remember the Bible passage in which God encouraged pole dancing. (I’d probably be a more avid reader of the Bible if that was the case.) But if Miley’s church encourages pole dancing, save me a front row pew for the next 500 Sundays.

3. It’s expected that a 16-year-old girl, hormones raging, will act out; however, when you’ve cultivated your career as an innocent, Disney performer, are getting paid millions to foment that image, and, whether you like it or not, are a role model to a generation of young girls, pole dancing is not acceptable. How would you like to be the parent of a 13-year-old who says to their mother that she wants her parents to install a pole in her bedroom so that she can dance like Miley did on the awards show?

Let’s make it clear. I’m no prude. I’ve visited strip clubs and have had lapdances, but never in any of those clubs were the dancers 16 years old. I’m not disparaging the women who choose to dance. There’s great money in it for many of them. But they’re adults. And when you go to a strip club, you don’t see 13-year-old girls in the club idolizing the dancers.

To paraphrase Britney Spears, another pop tart who took full advantage of using underage sex to sell millions of records, Miley Cyrus is not a girl, but not yet a woman. Both touted their purity (though we’ve learned in Spears’ case that that was a lie also) while using sex to sell records. The difference between the two is that Cyrus is still a Disney employee (while Spears was not by the time she released her debut; admittedly a tenuous distinction.)

Regardless, it wasn’t right then and it certainly is not right now. Cyrus stepped it up a notch and in the process, became more of a joke than she already was. Miley Cyrus should be ashamed of her behavior. Then again, considering who raised her, you can’t be surprised.

TEN YEARS

He deserves better than an attempt to tie his passing to all that he missed – both good and bad – in the past decade. He deserves better than an attempt to connect the championship victories of his favorite sports teams over the past 10 years to some sort of divine intervention. He deserves better than a clumsy try at tying together lyrics from his favorite musicians into a tribute. He deserves better than flowery prose. He deserves better.

He also deserved better than being in the ground for the past 10 years. He deserved to see his daughter grow up. He deserved the chance to get rich. He deserved the chance to spend summers on the beach and Sundays on the couch. He deserved the chance to be a member of the bacon-of-the-month club. He deserved to make new friends and strengthen the relationships he had with the old ones. He didn’t deserve to suffer and he didn’t deserve to die.

Ten years burning down the road, the landscape has changed. We have all moved to different places – mentally, physically, geographically. We’ve married and divorced, loved and laughed. And yet, our sadness remains in the same place; under the now-lush tree that provides shade for a grave in a town called Tennent. Ten years later, our smiles are never truly full, our celebrations are never truly joyous, our lives are never truly whole.

We have learned to cope, to live with the pain, to blunt the sadness. But we have not forgotten, because the loss, the pain, the emptiness is always there. We have not forgotten his smile, or the way he commanded a room, or the burger-eating contests, or his Valentines Day wedding or his New Year’s Eve funeral. We have not forgotten his love of the Yankees and the Giants and the Rangers. We have not forgotten the concerts, and Cleveland, and the summer houses.

There is not a day that he is not in our hearts, in our memories, in our thoughts. And it is not a manner of actively trying to remember Anthony, because the activity is unnecessary. Those who were fortunate enough to inhabit his little corner of the world for even a few minutes know that Anthony is always there, maybe not at the head of the table anymore, but definitely a central part of the room. He is still there at every wedding, at every birthday party, at every ballgame. He is still there when we think about cheap McDonalds hamburgers and ex-girlfriends wearing soccer shorts, and music blaring from the Himalaya.

Ten years. It is an eternity and it is a heartbeat. Ten years. It is a voyage and a step. Ten years have passed and a day has not gone by that I have been truly whole. Ten years have passed and a day has not gone by that the sadness has lessened. Ten years have passed and a day has not gone by that I haven’t grieved for my best friend.

THE BEST ALBUMS OF 2008

1. The Hold Steady, Stay Positive: It's one thing to follow up a classic album (Boys and Girls in America) with one that is arguably better than its predecessor. It's another to include three bonus tracks that rank with the best songs the band has written.

2. Amadou and Mariam, Welcome to Mali: The duo's first album in three years hasn't yet North American shores, but the hype it has generated on the other side of the pond is well-deserved. World music that is accessible, enthralling, and enlightening at the same time. Sheer genius.

3. Southside Johnny. Grapefruit Moon: The Songs of Tom Waits: It's all about the horns. Southside Johnny Lyons' interpretations of classic Tom Waits tracks benefits from LaBamba and the Hubcaps rich horn section. The disc crackles with an energy nearly unmatched by any band recording this year.

4. Vampire Weekend, Vampire Weekend: One of the most-hyped new bands of the year lived up to expectations on their thrilling debut, which channeled mid-1980s, Graceland-era sounds with erudite, but not impenetrable, lyrics.

5. Kaiser Chiefs, Off With Their Heads: On their third album, Kaiser Chiefs return with an edgy, tight, 11-track collection, which expertly produced, and chock full of potential radio hits. Or else they would be if you could find a radio station that still played music.

6. Ryan Adams and the Cardinals, Cardinology: The prolific Adams has had some hit or miss releases over the past few years, but his latest, Cardinology is a masterpiece. It's country beats flow like a cool river and bathe you in a haunting pool of spirituality.

7. Hot Chip, Made In the Dark: The band's third album is, quite simply, a dance classic – one that you'll hear at parties for the next decade. It's that rare combination that makes you want to move as much as it makes you want to think.

8. Al Green, Lay It Down: With some artists, it's just enough that they get into the studio and sing, because you know that whatever they do is going to be memorable. Al Green is one of those artists and the right Reverend transports listeners back to 1970s R&B heaven.

9. The Killers, Day and Age: The year's most underrated record. The Killers suffer from unrealistic expectations. After their legendary debut, the bold follow-up, Sam's Town, was a complete departure and that terrified and upset the lemmings who wanted Hot Fuss: Part II. But that's not The Killers, who clearly see themselves being in the music business for the long run. On their third album, the band returns with a different sound, less bombastic, less Springsteen influenced, and just as compelling.

10. Ponytail, Ice Cream Spiritual: Fun. That's what this album is. Fun. It's a pop pleasure, that captures the band's essence. Known for their energetic live shows, this album nearly captures that experience.

11. Jody Porter, Close to the Sun

12. Girl Talk, Feed the Animals

13. Bob Dylan, Tell Tale Signs, The Bootleg Series, Volume 8

14. Spiritualized, Songs in A & E

15. Santogold, Santogold

16. TV on the Radio, Dear Science

17. Conor Oberst, Conor Oberst

18. Lil Wayne, Tha Carter III

19. The Walkmen, You and Me

20. Rick Springfield , Venus In Overdrive

21. Travis, Ode to J. Smith

22. Local H, 12 Angry Months

23. Saul Williams, The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust!

24. Tokyo Police Club, Elephant Shell

25. Oasis, Dig Out Your Soul

26. Cut Copy, In Ghost Colours

27. British Sea Power - Do You Like Rock Music?

28. Nine Inch Nails, Ghosts I – IV

29. The Clash, Live At Shea Stadium

30. Nada Surf, Lucky

31. Portishead, Third

32. The Streets, Everything Is Borrowed

33. Randy Newman, Harps and Angels

34. Drive-By Truckers, Brighter Than Creation's Dark

35. Pat Monahan, Last Of Seven Acoustic

36. Various Artists, Imus Ranch Record

37. Coldplay, Viva La Vida

38. Kings of Leon, Only By the Night

39. Neil Young, Sugar Mountain, Live at Canterbury House 1968

40. Guns N' Roses, Chinese Democracy

A 500 WORDS REWIND: THE NEW CAR

In the weeks leading up to the end of 2008, I'll post some blog posts that ran on 500 Words long before anyone knew what a blog was. By request, from 08/05/2000...

500 Words is usually 500 Words long. Tonight, it is not. I traded in my car for a newer model today. Without so much as a goodbye, she was gone--driven away by Nick, the car dealer who wanted to be sure she still was operable.

Though it did not bother me then, I sit here now, upset, sad, and angry… angry that I did not say the things I really wanted to say to her. Angry that I did not thank her, thank her for the nine years she gave me, and thank her for the memories… memories that were lodged deep in the cushions of her seats.

I never thanked her for taking us on that trip to Cleveland six years ago. (Six years ago, it seems like forever sometimes, but tonight it feels like yesterday.) There were three of us in that car, leaving at midnight like bandits looking to steal back a little back a little bit of our youth. O.J. was only a football player when we left that night, though that would soon change.

We stopped at Foodtown for supplies… Gatorade, chips, Pez. Though the cash register tried to betray us, twice flashing 666, we ignored the omens and piled in, caffeine at the ready.

It started raining about five minutes into the trip. Early on a Monday morning, driving across the barren, perpetually under-construction wasteland that is Pennsylvania, we laughed and ate and listened to the crazy people on the sports  talk-radio station.

By the time I stopped to refill the gas tank, the earliest fingers of morning gray began to permeate the dark. My passengers, the ones who promised to remain awake through the night, began to stir.

We pulled into the hotel parking lot around 8 in the morning. It was too early to check in, so we drove to town. The driving tour of  Cleveland took less than an hour. We ate breakfast, checked in, and fell asleep.

Jacobs' Field was our destination and, tickets in hand, we made our way to the stadium. Fortunately, the stadium proved worthy of an eight-hour trip. It glistened the way a new field does, alive, green. I do not remember the final score. The game was secondary.

We got dinner at a greasy spoon near the hotel and went back to the room, pigging out on wings, pizza, and burgers. We were boys on a road trip, on a mission. And I don't know that we appreciated just how lucky we truly were.

The next day posed a dilemma for one member of our traveling party. The New York Rangers had not won a championship in 54 years and they were on the verge of winning one that night. However, we had tickets for the baseball game. For Chris and me, the choice was clear--go to the game. For Anthony, the choice was also clear--stay in the hotel.

Chris and I walked back into the room with three minutes to go in the game. He sat at the edge of the bed, transfixed when we entered. Though neither Chris nor I had said a word, we were told to shut up. Anthony was drinking this in.

And when the buzzer finally sounded, at the end of the game, he jumped in the air, he screamed, he cheered. He nearly got us kicked out of the hotel. So we dragged him to the car and drove to the Flats. We ended up at an empty sports bar, with the only Ranger fan in Cleveland. We toasted the victory, happier for Anthony than we were for the Rangers. 

The next morning, we began the long trip home. About two hours in, the right rear tire blew out violently. We pulled over to inspect the damage. There was little evidence that I ever had a tire on that wheel. We tried to take the tire off and put on a spare, but even with gloves, the lug nuts were too hot. We waited, baking in the sun, in the middle of nowhere.

Eventually, we changed the tire, found a tire shop, and bought a replacement. And a few hours later we were on our way. By the time we stopped for a late lunch, we were tired and crabby. The trip was over, though we still had hours to drive.

Looking back now, I realize how that trip could be seen as a metaphor for life. We went out with great anticipation, great dreams. We realized those dreams and on the way back, we were deflated. Nevertheless, we got through that bump in the road and we moved on, difficult as it was.

Unfortunately, my friend Anthony had to move through life more quickly than the rest of us. He would have been 28 years old Sunday, and I guess I wanted to make sure he knew that no one has forgotten that fact.

While he got to see many of his dreams come true, many more remained unrealized because he left us way too soon. While I am grateful because I got to say goodbye to Anthony and I got to wish him Godspeed, I feel like another part of him left me late today, when my trusty Nissan Stanza drove off into the gloaming.

A 500 WORDS REWIND: THE BEST SEAT IN THE HOUSE

In the weeks leading up to the end of 2008, I'll post some blog posts that ran on 500 Words long before anyone knew what a blog was. By request, from August 6, 1989...

I don’t even remember what the Happy Waitress consists of anymore, but I do remember that it was his favorite meal at the diner.

Every summer, Sunday night, we would trek to the Ocean Queen and the king would hold court, 25 loyal members of the crown hanging on each word he spoke. You didn’t try to have your own conversation because such a transgression would draw the ire of the king. But don’t misunderstand: There was never any anger involved. He just wanted you to be a part of his group, in his world, to feel his love.

And feel it we did. Though 26 years wasn’t enough to take all he had to offer. We wanted to be a part of Anthony’s world because we knew that wherever he went, joy would follow. At baseball games too numerous to mention; through summers so sultry that the prevailing memory is of spending three months in the pool; at so many movies, he was there with us. And we were better for it.

He was loved by us and loved even more by our parents who wished that their own sons could be more like him. However, he was no mama’s boy. In fact, he always was surprising us.

He surprised us one cold December night when he told us he was going to be getting married and was going to be a father. And when you asked about his plans, he looked at me with a gleam in his eye and replied that he’d thought about the alternatives but had to have this kid because what if she grew up to be Nadia Comenici or Don Mattingly?

From anyone else, you might have laughed at this rhetoric and maybe even shaken your head in stunned disbelief. However, you believed Anthony because he believed what he was saying. He really believed it.

So we watched him fall in love and we were there when he got married. When he became a dad, he handled it all so well. And we watched him when as he got sick. Bulldog from the start, bulldog to the end: The son of a boxer who made his dad proud, fighting his own 15-round battle. He had us believing that he would beat this opponent, this cancer, because he believed it himself.

Though he’s gone, we know, on those special nights in our lives, he’s still there. When Coney threw that perfect game, he was in the empty seat next to me.

When Bruce walked onto the stage with his band for the first time in 15 years, there was Anthony with the best seat in the house. He will always have that seat. In our hearts he will get what he always deserved—the best seat in the house.

Anthony would have been 27 today and I know where he will be tonight: Section 8, Row 1, Seat 1, front-row center at the Meadowlands.

For yet another night, he will have the best seat in the house.

ONE MILLION WORDS

The number one million has always fascinated me. It’s a large enough number to seem unimaginable, yet small enough to be reachable. When I read about school children who collect a million pennies or bottle caps, I marvel at their determination and am somewhat jealous of the awe they must feel when they finally reach their goal.

It is the chase to one million that has provided the inspiration for a project that I am undertaking in 2009. In honor of the 10th anniversary of 500 Words, I am embarking on a quest: One Million Words. It sounds like an unattainable number; however it averages to about 2,750 words per day, which makes the achievement possible, though still, admittedly, unlikely.

And in order to make this more challenging, not every word I write throughout 2009 will count towards my goal. I’m still working on refining the list, but, as of now, I’ve decided to count blog posts on 500 Words, any fiction or non-fiction work of which I’m currently or will begin writing, any screenplay I choose to write, any interview /feature I write for Groovevolt.com (though not the daily news pieces) or other sites to which I contribute.

Excluded from the count will be any emails, Facebook updates, notes, etc. Only the words written between January 1 and December 31, 2009 will count for projects currently in progress. (I will note and post the current word count of the project prior to January 1, 2009 in order to ensure the integrity of the project.) I will try to update 500 1,000,000 Words at least several times a week and perhaps will put up a Facebook Group as well to detail my progress.

I realize that some might see this as a vanity project and might wonder why they should care. While, admittedly, I am hopeful to score some sort of publishing or film deal out of this endeavor, the genesis for 1,000,000 Words came from a friend – more specifically, as a result of the passing of a friend. Some of you might be unaware that I lost my best friend, Anthony DeCarlo, December 28, 1998. Just like the number one million is unimaginable, so too is the idea that 10 years have passed since his death.

 Accordingly, I will donate at least 20% of any money generated by this project to charity. In addition, I will place a tip jar on 500 Words. Any money generated via the tip jar will be donated to charity as well. (I have a few in mind, but am open to suggestions.) I realize that times are tough, so I’m not asking anyone to donate, but if I inspire you at anytime in the next year – it’s possible – feel free to duke me the cost of a cup of coffee or a beer at the bar and, with your help, I’ll make sure it gets donated in the memory of a friend who left us too early and who continues to inspire me each day.

LIVE BLOG: THE VICE PRESIDENTIAL DEBATE

Join us for a Live Blog of the VP debate Thursday night (October 2).

NO MOVIE FOR YOU

The days prior to the release of the Sex and the City movie, have been marked with heavily-promoted premieres where the cast members show up for several minutes, twirl on the red carpets while wearing their ridiculous outfits, and wave to screaming fans who clearly have nothing better to do than to wait outside of a movie theatre for hours in the hopes of glimpsing one of their favorite stars.

I’ll save you all the diatribe about Sex and the City being one of the main reasons that groups like Al-Qaeda hate the United States (though I agree with Al-Qaeda on this point), there has been one positive that has come out of the release of this film.

In the past few days, the New York tabloids have told stories of women who have spent tens of thousands of dollars on tickets to the New York City premiere at Radio City Music Hall (and/or the afterparty) and who have discovered that their tickets are worthless. One woman flew in from Singapore after having paid $19,000 to discover that the tickets she supposedly had purchased for the premiere and afterparty didn’t exist.

Evidently, thousands of fans (mostly women who came dressed in their finest rags) stood outside Radio City the evening of the premiere clutching first-come/first-served passes to the film and were shut out of the film after spending many hours and in many cases, hundreds and thousands of dollars, on these passes that didn’t guarantee admission.

Those who live in New York City are likely familiar with the passes: small postcards with the film’s poster on the front and theater locations on the back. These are promo passes, which do not guarantee admission. It appears that some brokers got their hands on these and started selling them for top dollar.

Meanwhile, it appears that the promoters didn't plan on letting any of the well-dressed commoners into the screening, this despite the fact that Radio City Music Hall has a capacity of approximately 6,000 for movie screenings. The result: Lines around the block of stiletto-wearing harpies who missed work, and, spent, in some cases, thousands of dollars to travel to New York City to see a film they could have seen in their hometowns three days later for no more than $12.

Admittedly, it was a crappy of the promoters to hand out these promo tickets if they had no intention of letting anyone not on the guest list into the building. At the same time, if you are one of those entitled women who believe that throwing enough money at a situation will get you everything you want, it's nice to know that sometimes, there is a little bit of justice in this cruel, cruel world.

YOU DON'T KNOW FROM FUNNY

Entertainment Weekly, which never met a list it didn’t like, recently posted a photo gallery of The 25 Funniest People in America which kicked off at No. 25 with Augusten Burroughs and somehow managed, through its next 24 picks, to become less and less credible. And while many will argue that comedy is subjective, that one person’s Eddie Murphy is another’s Dane Cook, and that arguing about this list is playing into the hands of the editors who know that controversial lists draw in readers, it is important to note that for many, EW is the entertainment magazine of record. And that makes this list - a toxic combination of racism and incompetence - one that deserves further scrutiny.

 

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1. The Judd Apatow Posse - White
2. Stephen Colbert and the Colbert Report -Mostly white (plus a token Southeast Asian)
3. Tina Fey - White
4. John Stewart and the Daily Show team - White
5. Steve Carell - White
6. Chris Rock - Black
7. Matt Stone and Trey Parker - White and white
8. Amy Poehler and Will Arnett - White and white
9. Larry David - White
10. Kristin Wiig - White
11. Conan O’Brien - White
12. David Cross - White
13. Ellen Degeneres - White
14. Ricky Gervais - White
15. Will Ferrell - White
16. Amy and David Sedaris - White and white
17. David Letterman - White
18. Jack Black - White (despite his surname)
19. Craig Ferguson - White
20. Diablo Cody - White
21. Demetri Martin - White
22. Dave Chappelle - Black
23. Sarah Silverman - White
24. Catherine O’Hara - White
25. Augusten Burroughs - White

Now, let’s take a look at the racial makeup of the EW writers credited for having contributed to this piece. (If there is a mistake here, please tell me. All racial information was gleaned from the best information available online.):

Rebecca Ascher Walsh - White
Scott Brown - White
Kristen Baldwin - White
Michael Endelman - White
Raymond Fiore - Black
Nicholas Fonseca - White
Gregory Kirschling - White
Michelle Kung - Asian
Jeff Labrecque - White
Alice M. Lee - Asian(?)
Nancy Miller - White
Josh Rottenberg - White
Chris Nashawaty - White
Jessica Shaw - White
Dan Snierson - White
Ken Tucker - White
Karen Valby - White
Alynda Wheat - Black(?)

 

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Not only is the group that put together this list overwhelmingly not comprised of black people, but the group has clearly never seen a black comedian perform anywhere other than on television.

The most glaring omission is Tracy Morgan. Anyone who has ever seen him do standup, who watches him on 30 Rock, or who heard him on his most recent appearance on Howard Stern’s Sirius radio show, knows that Morgan may well be the funniest bastard on the planet. And somehow, he cannot crack a list that includes Diablo Cody (who has one screenplay and friends at EW, where she is a contributor), Catherine O’Hara, Kristin Wiig, Will Ferrell, and Demetri Martin.

(And before you claim that I must be a misogynist, it should be noted that Lisa Lampanelli deserves to be on this list and Sarah Silverman deserves better than the No. 23 position.) In addition, I recently saw a female black comedian on HBO who made me laugh so hard, I did a spit-take while watching her routine. (Unfortunately, I came in approximately two minutes after the start of the routine and didn't catch her name.)

Unfortunately for Morgan, he’s black. And if you include more than two black people on the list, you might scare your subscribers in South Dakota who have never seen more than two black people in the same city let alone in the same group of 25. That’s also why Charlie Murphy failed to make the list.

Of course, you can argue easily that the writers of this list also ignored genuinely funny white males like Artie Lang, who deserves a place on this tally. But that’s less glaring than is the fact that two of the funniest bastards who ever picked up a microphone are at No. 6 and No. 22 respectively. That both aren’t in the top five is nothing short of criminal. That they also failed to include Eddie Griffin is insanity.

Can you see where we’re going here? Redd Foxx, who has been dead for 17 years is funnier than Poehler can ever hope to be. Though I consider myself a fan of by his earlier shenanigans, Ferrell has been funny once in the past year, in an Internet video, where a three-year-old stole the show. And while I love Tenacious D, Black has been coasting for about 10 years now. (Need proof? Check out his appearance on the American Idol finale where he was a Pip.)

Eighteen people contributed to this list. Could one of them, and I know I’m asking for a lot here, have gone to a comedy club in the past year? Could someone have watched Def Comedy Jam?

I’ll leave it to others to explain why Amy and David Sedaris (both of whom are actually funny on their own, and have not, to my knowledge ever worked together) had to be teamed as one entry. Are the late-night talkers (Letterman, Ferguson, O’Brien, etc.) that hilarious anymore? And the clock on the Judd Apatow Posse (their capitalization, not mine) might not have reached 14:59 yet, but we’re certainly into the 13th minute.

Back to the original point, did anyone read this list and wonder where have all of the funny black comedians gone? Because if you didn’t, then you’re definitely not part of the solution.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS FROM 500 WORDS