Dear Santa,

As you know, I’ve been a relatively good boy this year, certainly as compared to last year. And now that my community service is done and many of the civil suits settled, I feel like I’m finally working with a clean slate!

We’ve not always communicated efficiently in the past, and so I’m keeping this year’s wish list short and “civil-tongued” — I think that’s the term you used in your reply to last year’s letter. You’ll note that this time around, per your request, there are no overt threats against Mrs. Claus or the elves if I don’t get my way. I am willing to make some changes if you are.

So here’s my Christmas wish list, please let me know if you need any further clarifications, invoice numbers, or celebrity home addresses. Thanks, Nick! You’re the greatest!

All I want for Christmas:

Please teleport Tyra Banks to the exact geographical center of the Arctic National Wildlife Preserve. I finally caught an episode of America’s Next Top Model, the latest in America’s new pornography of cruelty-and-humiliation-based “reality” programming, and that woman deserves some time alone. I figure it’ll take her a few months to find her way out, and this should at least put the show on temporary hiatus for a while. It’s OK by me if you want to give her some warm clothes and food or whatever. It’s also OK by me if you don’t.

Do that sneaky fly-around-the-planet-in-a-night thing you do and switch the reels at all the theaters opening King Kong so that millions of people globally will see Syriana instead. Hey, I like Pete Jackson as much as the next guy, but wouldn’t it be refreshing to have Syriana top the box office reports? And then wouldn’t it be fun to watch the citizens of the world achieve a collective moment of clarity, rise up in a series of bloodless revolutions, and tear down the Western military-industrial-oil complex? I think that would be fun.

While we’re on the subject, any way you can get my government to stop lying to me in 2006? Long shot request, I know. Thanks, anyway.

See if you can get Eleanor Friedberger of the Fiery Furnaces to accept my marriage proposal. This is, of course, my annual Rock Chick Crush request. If you check your files, you’ll see that over the years I’ve asked for your assistance on this matter with Siouxsie Sioux, Sinead O’Connor, Tanya Donelly, Laura Ballance, Liz Phair, Melissa Auf der Maur, Shirley Manson, Cibo and Matto, that crazy girl from Elastica, Ms. Dynamite, Poe, the character Lisa Bonet played in High Fidelity, and, um, Billie Joe Armstrong. I am willing to make a lot of exceptions for Billie Joe Armstrong.

Really and sincerely — do whatever you have to do to get Dave Chappelle back into the Comedy Central studios to make more Chappelle’s Show episodes. To the extent that I understand what’s going on, I totally back Dave and his choice to walk away from the soul-crushing Hollywood machine, because Dave is a genius and I defer to his judgment on these matters. Unfortunately, Dave is a genius, and so he needs to get back to work regardless, because that’s what geniuses do. Paradoxical, isn’t it? Please figure it out and get us a Season Three, thanks. (As a Plan B, give the reins to Sarah Silverman. Have you seen her pitch video? Maybe while you’re at it, see if she’ll marry me, too.)

I actually could use some socks this year, thanks. Also, one of those sonic toothbrushes, and a new motorcycle.

Can you please somehow convince all the old, dumb, unfunny syndicated newspaper cartoonists to retire, so that all of the young, smart, funny cartoonists looking for work can get published? That would be nice. It’s puzzled me for a long while — how is it that every other genre of entertainment turns over constantly with new blood and ideas, and yet three generations of my family have been skipping over 90 percent of the funny pages while eating our breakfast cereal? The exception here, of course, is Marmaduke. Because that dog is huge, and the joke somehow never gets old!

Round up all the studio executives responsible for canceling Arrested Development and have them meet me in the alley behind my house. I want to have a talk with them. May as well also grab up the knuckleheads who cancelled Joss Whedon’s Firefly and bring them along, too.

This is such a dumb coincidence that I almost hate to mention it, but I really do need two new front teeth, having lost them in the Ron Artest incident last year in Detroit. You and I both know that I did the right thing there, but we Pistons fans are somehow still getting grief about the whole thing, and meanwhile I look like one of the Hanson brothers. Maybe a Paul Wall grill, and a bottle of some that stuff DJ Screw used to drink when remixing and/or undergoing dental surgery, just to take the edge off a little bit.

Peace on earth, goodwill to all, and a swift kick in the ass to Spielberg and Lucas so that we get the new Indiana Jones movie while Harrison Ford can still memorize his dialogue. Yes, I know I’m obsessed with this, but someone has to light a fire here, and it may as well be me. Or, more to the point, you.

Well, thanks in advance, Santa. Say “hello” to Rudolph for me, and to that weird kid you got in the shop that still wants to be a dentist (maybe he can help with the front teeth thing?) Let me know if you guys still want in on that time-share condo in Miami — I’m guessing you could use a little sun. Good luck with the Big Trip, and keep an eye peeled in case Tyra starts wandering north. It’d be just like her to show up on the porch, trying to bum a ride back to L.A. Honestly! Some people!

Yr pal,

Glenn

The Precinct

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:

Detective HAL JENKINS, 25-year veteran, NYPD. JENKINS recently divorced his third wife and suffers from severe stomach ulcers.

Detective JOHNNY FALCONE, hotshot rookie, NYPD. FALCONE is new to the precinct; inexperienced but eager. He speaks only in song titles from the first Ramones album.

Squad room, 15th Precinct, New York City Police Dept:

FALCONE is at his desk. JENKINS enters, pulling occasionally from a Pepto-Bismol bottle.

JENKINS: Did the lab come back with anything on that DOA?

FALCONE: I Don’t Wanna Go Down To The Basement (2:37)

JENKINS: What’s with you, kid? I asked you an hour ago to get those files! Forget it, we gotta go canvass the area on that deli shooting.

FALCONE: I Don’t Wanna Walk Around With You (1:43)

JENKINS: You got a real smart mouth for a rookie, Falcone. Do it yourself, then. I gotta interview this skel in interrogation.

FALCONE: Beat On The Brat (2:31)

JENKINS: Don’t I wish. Not with IA sniffing around.

FALCONE: Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue (1.35)

JENKINS stares.

FALCONE: I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend (2.15)

JENKINS: Why you gotta be bustin’ my balls all the time? Wise up, kid. Look, I’m gonna roll this perp, then I want you to meet me back at the stakeout. You got it?

FALCONE: 53rd & 3rd (2.21)

JENKINS: Right. Now get outta here!

The native habitat of the US movie and entertainment industry, Hollywood, California is lush and densely populated ecosystem. Home to thousands of fascinating species, the Hollywood landscape is swarming with the strange and wonderful — ruthless predators, docile vegans, majestic failures, and vast roaming herds of Beautiful People. On your next trip to LA, see if you can spot some of these amazing creatures!

The Struggling Screenwriter Scribblus interminus Pale and sickly, the Struggling Screenwriter makes its home deep in the burrows of Santa Monica coffee shops, huddled over laptop computers and worn copies of Syd Field books. This odd creature usually exists in a bizarre state of symbiosis with a gainfully employed mate. While the mate provides food and shelter, the nocturnal Screenwriter spends its nights in a kind of fugue state in which it imagines it is reinventing the heist film. Within a year or two of reaching maturity, the Struggling Screenwriter migrates from Hollywood in droves, where it returns to its original family unit in the Midwest and sets up a bedroom in the basement.

The C List Celebrity Vaguii familiarus Thanks to mushrooming media technologies, the C List Celebrity is flourishing in the modern era, running rampant and unchecked over the verdant sidewalks and parking lots of Hollywood. Several subspecies have been identified in recent years, including the Screeching Comedienne Harpy, the Prime Time Pageant Show Discard, the Rehabilitated Porn Star, the Bad Sitcom Sidekick, and the frighteningly prolific Campy 1980s Referent. The C List Celebrity has found a successful niche in the Hollywood ecosystem by settling in the endless valleys of basic cable “reality” programming, where it is often fed, clothed and housed for weeks at a time. Oddly, the actual biological origins of the C List Celebrity are shrouded in mystery, but some scientists believe they are hatched beneath the rafters of abandoned Burbank soundstages.

The Studio Mogul Honcho haedius Once renown for its glorious pelt of fine Italian suit jackets and seamless hair weaves, the Studio Mogul has found its numbers dwindling in recent years due to internecine struggles and (some say) cannibalism. Now on the brink of extinction, the Mogul fiercely defends its territory with many formidable defense mechanisms, including personal publicists, libel attorneys, tell-all books, and a glandular “stink spray” secretion known as the Eisner Stench. Despite its dwindling population, the male of the species is still considered to be particularly potent — during its annual 363-day mating cycle, the Mogul often attempts to mate with many hundreds of interns and up-and-coming actresses.

The Independent Film Director Scavengus incessantii Solitary and cunning, the Independent Film Director maintains its position in Hollywood due to a single but formidable survival skill: the ability to forage surprising amounts of money from maxed-out credit cards, family and friends, and the occasional unwary investor. A relentless hunter, the Independent Film Director can often be seen at industry events lulling prey into submission with passionate monologues on narrative decay and mise-en-scene. When its victims are sufficiently numbed and distracted, the Independent Film Director pounces — socializing mercilessly and fundraising with savage abandon.

The Iconoclast Musician Hipstrus junkie Usually found wandering Sunset Strip in packs, grumbling about studio rental rates, the Iconoclast Musician is distinguished by its hipster thrift fashion sense, expensive-looking haircut, and constant air of snide dismissal. Despite debilitating environmental conditions and virtually no income, the Iconoclast Musician nevertheless manages to subsist on a diet of gas station sandwiches, cheap heroin, and the occasional backstage fruit tray. Those who manage to survive the first few seasons usually end up working as record store clerks and attending 12-step meetings in the Valley. In extremely rare instances, Iconoclast Musicians go on to incredible fame and fortune for one to three years, after which they end up working record label A&R jobs and attending 12-step meetings in Beverly Hills.

The Aging Movie Queen Decrepedi vanitus Easily spotted due to its polysaccharide exoskeleton, the Aging Movie Queen is driven by a tenacious will to survive. Despite the ravages of age, precancerous tanning rituals, and a lifetime of “recreational” drug use, the Aging Movie Queen cannot be dissuaded from competing for territory at award ceremonies and charity fundraisers. Biologists have noted that this species has developed an inadvertent group camouflage technique in recent generations, as repeated “elective cosmetic procedures” have rendered individual pack members virtually indistinguishable. These days, the Aging Movie Queen derives much of its parasitic nourishment from devotional legions of gay male admirers.

The Eager Young Protégé Naiveius doomedii Also known by its more accurate scientific name, the Production Assistant, the Eager Young Protégé typically migrates to Hollywood in huge regional groupings around springtime, having departed various university habitats with Communications and Dramatic Arts diplomas. Hunted mercilessly by many other Hollywood species, such as the Mid-Level Studio Executive, the Sexually Confused Talent Agent, and Colin Farrell, the Eager Young Protégé survives by clustering together in cramped, overpriced West Hollywood apartments and maintaining a moderately toxic blood-alcohol ratio. Many if not most of these hopeful migrants quickly move on to more hospitable climes, but some do remain, morphing into the larval form of the Struggling Screenwriter or emerging after a short dormant period as the Mid-Level Studio Executive’s New Pregnant Wife.

Other notable species include the Hypertoned Body Nazi, the Bling-Breasted Compton MC, and Fat-Headed USC Film Student. Your donation to the Hollywood Preservation Fund is key to protecting these magnificent creatures. Send your check to this author, c/o PopMatters.com. Thank you for your concern.

You’ve probably caught wind of this latest scandal. Cartoon megastar SpongeBob is accused of appearing in a children’s video that either (a) promotes tolerance and diversity or (b) forwards homosexual “lifestyle” propaganda, depending on who’s describing the situation. Naturally, gay rights activists are lining up on one side of the debate; cultural conservatives on the other. If you’re in the mood to wade through it all, the debate is pretty well outlined here on CNN.com.

My concern is simple: If SpongeBob — like the Teletubbies and others before him — is indeed being associated with some gay lifestyle scandal, well, the record needs to be set straight immediately. Because SpongeBob is gay. Really gay. Fabulously gay. You see, I roomed with Bob for a semester back at UCLA, and I can personally attest that he is to gayness what Captain James Tiberius Kirk is to interstellar space commanders.

There’s just no doubt about it. Back then, of course, Bob was just another starry-eyed invertebrate with dreams of making it big in Hollywood. He almost certainly didn’t anticipate the larger cultural ramifications of his particular orientation. Truth be told — and this is just between you, me, and the Internet — Bob was simply a sweet kid with an adolescent love for famous people. He adored celebrities — male celebrities to be sure, but the fame and glamour aspects were much more important than the gender or the plumbing.

I remember Bob developing crushes on dozens of TV, film, and music stars, only having his heart inevitably crushed when — one by one — they all turned out to be hetero or made some public declaration of their disinterest in dating sea life. Harry Hamlin. Wolf Blitzer. Eddie Vedder. Ren and Stimpy.

Bob and I hung out together quite a bit back in those days. He would introduce me around to many of the other up-and-coming ‘toons that were interning at Disney and Nickelodeon. They were a wild crowd, let me tell you. Suffice it to day that none of them were paragons of virtue, and the studios spent a lot of money covering up some of their more sordid antics.

For example, Jimmy Neutron? Total pothead. But really smart and quite professional, even when stoned to the bejeezus belt. One of those guys that could smoke half a pound of fine, uncut Turkish hashish then show up at rehearsal and totally nail his lines. Jimmy used to try to smoke up Bob all the time, but even then Bob really was a SquarePants. He just didn’t go for drugs or booze. Also, being a sponge, whenever he did indulge, it was dead obvious; he just ended up dripping bongwater or tequila all over the place.

Neutron was actually one of the good guys. The others were much worse. Lilo and Stitch ran with the Oakland chapter of Hell’s Angels, and both were indicted several times on meth lab charges.

Let’s see, who else? Oh yeah, the Rugrats were just huge back in those days — the TV show was topping the Nielsens and they were all signing fat movie contracts. Quite frankly, that whole crew was a little creepy. Chuckie was the ringleader, and he ran the outfit like a doomsday cult. Word was he and the kids had some dirt on several Nickelodeon executives, and the entire production was one big extortion racket, with the Burbank mob providing the muscle. A lot of people don’t know this, but before the Rugrats show broke big, Tommy sold coke, Dylan was a bookie, and Angelica made a lot of little “art films” in Amsterdam. It’s all very hush-hush now, of course.

That’s why it’s so puzzling that Bob, of all ‘toons, has this weird scandal suddenly attached to him. He’s a total sweetheart, one of the few animated characters I’m proud to still call my friend. His loyalty and essential decentness are a rarity in the business, and I won’t stand idly by while a dear spongefriend of mine is dragged through the mud.

The first point, of course, is that homosexuality is not scandalous, and that tolerance and diversity are not just good values for kids to learn: They’re essential. A lot of people don’t seem to get that, so I’ll type slowly and those folks can go back and re-read this paragraph. Sound out the big words, okay?

But by far the most important aspect here is that, for heaven’s sake, if you want to attach a scandal to a prominent media ‘toon, go after some of these other punks. Hollywood has a long and rich heritage of animated freaks and degenerates. For example, it’s common knowledge that Chilly Willy was a Nazi. Also, Sylvester shot JFK and The Flintstones ate babies.

So the next time one of these stupid non-scandals hits the headlines, can we please as a nation take a deep collective breath and rethink our priorities? Otherwise we just may, in the eyes of the rest of the world, look like idiots.

Cramming is a time-honored and revered academic tradition, tracing all the way back to ancient Greece. Aristotle is said to have stayed up for three straight years while preparing his thesis on Poetics, and students at the Lyceum are generally credited with inventing the first form of Vivarin.

While not generally the most effective way of assimilating information, cramming is a good short-term solution for an upcoming test. The idea is to jam your frontal lobes with as much relevant information as humanly possible, then vomit it all back up within a day or so. Those of you who have been down this road know what I’m talking about. The amount of raw data you can functionally retain for 24 hours is amazing.

There are a number of ways to optimize your cramming performance, chemical and otherwise. As a rule, you should begin the process by defining your parameters. Do I need to ace this exam? Or will a “C” get me by? Am I willing to sacrifice pride for time by studying until five minutes before class and showing up in my robe with a cup of coffee? Am I prepared to risk permanent cognitive damage by revving my brain up to fifth gear for 14 hours? The answer to all these questions is yes.

Next you’ll need your supplies. Find out exactly which books you need to read and go straight to the store to buy the equivalent Cliffs Notes. Purchase a set of multicolor highlighters, and remember — the more acrid the ink fumes, the better they will keep you awake when you snort them at 4 a.m.

Perhaps the most important element of a good cramming session is maintaining proper chemical parity. Caffeine will be your best friend for the next several hours, but you must respect her power. Don’t peak too early — a good rule of thumb is to consume one cup of coffee every time you turn a page.

All right, then. Time to settle in. Remove from your room all possible distractions — records, books, plants, roommates, furniture, home-brewing equipment and carpeting. By painting warrior-like patterns on your face with the highlighters and chanting everything you read out loud, you will achieve a Zen-like state of consciousness.

For the next several hours you will descend into a world of near omniscience, absorbing all information you come across. You will be able to photographically recall pie charts pixel by pixel. You will memorize entire chapters verbatim and calculate pi to 100 digits. You will highlight and underline, memorize and prioritize. And you will not blink.

Like an Apache from a sweat lodge, you will emerge hours later into the bright sun for your 9 a.m. class. Then, in a mighty display of intellectual prowess, you will fill in little circles with a No. 2 pencil.

The down side, of course, is that within about an hour and a half you will have forgotten everything you learned. Oh, sure, bits and pieces will remain. Things like the atomic weight of tungsten and Maasai puberty rites will continue to kick around in your cerebellum for years, along with the lyrics to “Come On Eileen.” But for the most part, you will have no serviceable recall.

Not that it matters. A passing grade is a passing grade, thank the gods. You’ve lived to see another day. Now breathe deep, rejoice and go get drunk. You done good, kid.

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