If you only see one concert this year, make sure you see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band.

Valentine’s day: a day celebrated for the saint of love, the saint of sweet, sweet sex. Sweet chocolate covered sex.

I went to the local pharmacy yesterday to get a card for the holiday, but was turned off by the racially discriminating options. My hope was to send a card to my friends and family that inspired the same kind of hopes and dreams that Martin Luther King Jr. himself brought to so many.

Holiday reporting by Terrance Doyle

review/story by T. Doyle Perfect. Christmas is coming. A shooting pain in my head and a hole in my wallet. Definitely the most wonderful time of the year. Twenty-five aunts and uncles and cousins asking me the same stale questions about the same stale things. Store-bought pie because this year aunt Prudence is hosting. No liquor to take the edge off because this year aunt Prudence is hosting. Where the fuck is my flask? I really need to find that flask. Oh, and then there's Kathy, too. I can hear her now. "But the kid's would really love it," she'll say. "Nothing has changed in the month since thanksgiving, Kathy," I'll say. "But the kids." "But my dignity." She'll stand there, smoking a cigarette in the cold on the porch, holding the itchy red suit and looking like, because I told her no, the world is going to end within seconds. I'll stand there, anxious and wishing that I could bum a cigarette off of her, or at least take a drag from hers, but afraid to reveal to her and, inevitably, the whole of my family, that I am a smoker. "I'm going to go inside now," I'll say. "Okay," she'll say, her heart yet again broken by my unwillingness to bring joy to anyone. Once inside, after navigating the maze of family members and unbridled angst, I'll grab a bite to eat. Cookies or a brownie or something. Maybe some turkey, if there is any left. I'll wash it all down with a coke or some coffee, find a spot on Prudence's plastic covered couch in her sterile living room, and wait for dyspepsia to consume me. I'd watch the game, but Prudence prefers not to expose her children to the evils inside the box. A baby grand piano sits in place of a television, and I can't play a lick. Aaron the ignorant Christmas pig and my racist uncle will be within earshot and I will be disgusted by whatever base ideology is spewing from their collective vile maw.

-day one- Today is the first day of the Jewish Christmas. I couldn’t be more excited. I am in a relationship with one of those Jewish American Princesses so this is my first time celebrating the glorious week of feasting and drinking in honor of Palestine’s eventual death. To be honest, even though I was brought up in a Christian home, I can’t wait to taste my first Matzo loaf made with the blood of Christian babies. My little Jewish queen girlfriend mentioned something about being the only child in her second grade class who didn’t believe in Santa Claus. I hope that means we get to run through the streets (well, I doubt she will run because she has asthma and runs like a turtle, but I can piggyback her around) in search of those Santa rapists on the corner begging for money and ringing bells to attract the children so they can stuff them in their present bag and bring them back to the North Pole where they’ll put them in the elf maker machine. Yeah, I figure we can knock out a few of these St. Nick’s of the apocalypse. Now, I know there are a lot of traditions and regulations for this Jewish holiday, but I really wish they’d include the destruction of Christian holiday icons to the list. I’m not even talking about cutting the heads off these corner Santas. I’d settle for throwing snowman and reindeer decorations from people’s yards into the street for the plow to run them over. In fact, that’s what I plan to do tonight. Consider it the Jewish Christmas’ form of caroling. As for my holiday generosity, I believe the perfect present for that special someone on the first day of the Jewish Christmas is a Kabbalah necklace. Oh yeah, will someone please explain this menorah thing to me. Is it some kind of twelve arm god? -day two- Second day of Jewish Christmas

This year Alex Butzbach has decided to celebrate each day of Hanukkah by honoring a different member of Wu-Tang Clan each day As one of the foremost rabbinical leaders and Kabballah adepts in this hemisphere, Method Man (b. 1971 as Clifford Smith, Hampstead, New York) has written extensively on the beauty of the religion of the Hebrews. I would have to say that he is my favorite Jewish scholar right now. When I discovered that in 1999 Rabbi Method held an open forum debate with one of the foremost Christian scholars of our day, Fred Durst (of the Limp Biscuits for Jesus Ministry), I had to check it out. What I discovered will enlighten you greatly on the nature of these two wonderful religions. The following is excerpted from “N 2 Gether Now: Cross-Theological Studies on Being and Faith.” [Fred Durst:] Who can be the boss? Look up to the cross Stranded in the land of the lost According to Christians (and this is kind of fucked up), Jesus was killed by being nailed to a cross. By his rising from the dead on the third day, he indeed proved that he was the boss and was able to shepherd his people from a meaningless existence on a lost planet to heaven. Standin up, I'm sideways I'm blazin' up the path Runnin on the highways of rap Choked up by the smoke and the charcoal Lava stamps and brands me like a barcode I'm Dashin all the meteor strikes This is basically just imagery that warns against the evils of Satan and Hell. Keep the media dykes As re-enforcements for the fight And that alone with keep John Ghotti on the phone Tangled in his own I got the bees on the track Where the fuck you at? While many Christian preachers advocate against homosexuality, Rev. Durst advises that they are worthy soldiers in the battle against evil. His reference to John Gotti is a critique of the Catholic church, which he feels is too hierarchical to even show people the way towards goodness.

This year Alex Butzbach has decided to celebrate each day of Hanukkah by honoring a different member of Wu-Tang Clan each day Today, I put on a yarmulke for the first time. I had one made that was embroidered with “Masta Killa” on it, and the guy beyond the counter gave me a weird look. He was wearing one too, but his was unadorned by the name of a member of the illest rap group this side of the Mississippi. I was unperturbed by his shadowy glance, if a little disappointed that he hadn’t wanted to engage in a rap battle. As I walked out the door of the embroidery shop into weather which looked ready to release a blizzard, I expertly balanced the sacred hat on top of quickly expanding Jew-Fro. I probably used around 20 bobby pins to secure it in place. At this point, I looked something like a cross between Ben Wallace circa 2005, Al Franken, and Pinhead from Hellraiser. That was okay by me, since I knew that I walked blamelessly in the eyes of Yahweh, He who is most praiseworthy and just. However, as I tried to walk back to my apartment, groups of grubby children began to follow me. I hastened my stride as more and more street urchins began to form a milling crowd around me, but it was for naught. Soon they had surrounded me. I was forced to stop. I looked over their heads to see if anyone nearby was seeing this unsettling phenomenon, but for some reason, the streets were empty. Finally, I turned to one of the children, a short, particularly filthy one who seemed to me to be their leader. “Hey…What’s up?” At this, he and the other children simply peered penetratingly into my eyes. I could feel their gaze as it withered my corneas and burned dozens of pairs of pinpricks on my retinas. I started to get dizzy.

This year Alex Butzbach has decided to celebrate each day of Hanukkah by honoring a different member of Wu-Tang Clan each day Day Three (U-God) This day is named especially fortuitously. When I say "U-God" out loud, I'm not only referring to one of Staten Island's finest (and fuck what ya heard), but I'm calling out to the Supreme Being who has shepherded His people throughout the vast wasteland of human society since Time Immemorial.

This year Alex Butzbach has decided to celebrate each day of Hanukkah by honoring a different member of Wu-Tang Clan each day Day 2 (Ghostface Killah) I think I'm doing pretty well for a first timer. All I've consumed today is a Pretzel and some coffee. The pretzel was big and soft and came from the same glassed-in heating case that some bagels were in, so there was probably some transference via osmosis of Judo-Particulate Matter. Food: check. On Seinfeld, they were always in that fucking coffee shop. Drink: check. There were a fair amount of calories in that meal, so I don't need to worry about some Holocaust-survivor grandmother telling me that I'm too skinny and that I need to eat eat eat!

This year, Hanukkah is going to be big. I mean huge. Why, you ask, will this year's celebration of temple lights or driedels or whatever be a big deal for all you mensches out there? Well, I've decided to celebrate this solemn holy day. This is my first Hanukkah, so you must forgive any discrepancies between my observation of the occasion and that which is traditionally acceptable. Day 1 (Raekwon): I feel like my not being Jewish might be an asset rather than a weakness. I believe I can more easily focus on that which is Jewish because it contrasts with my Catholic upbringing. After all, if you see something every day (yeah!), it probably starts to blend into the background. Jews are probably used to menorahs and Torahs being all over the place. I have curly hair, so I'm going to count that as a point in my favor. If that particular piece of information is of interest to any Jewish ladies who might be reading this, I'll also have you know that I'm circumcised. Like, a ton.

"I'd really rather not." "But the kids, they'd love it." "Again, I don't think so. I really don't."

I’m quite certain that at this time of year it’s difficult for the discerning eater/socializer to find the ideal Thanksgiving dinner. Reviewers have just begun posting their thoughts on particular Thanksgivings, each advocating a different one to the reader. Let me go on record right now as saying that the Thanksgiving dinner I attended a week ago was without question the best Thanksgiving ever. If you only attend one Thanksgiving this year, you simply must make it the Thanksgiving dinner my family held last week. Allow me to be frank for a moment: there is a lot of luck when it comes to pulling off the perfect holiday gathering. We all remember Christmas Eve 1998 when a fight between my mother and grandmother conspired to ruin the holiday season. Only by chance did my aunt give to my father as a gift a trivia book which engrossed the family for the entire night and caused our memories of in-law antagonism to fade. How can we forget my uncle’s ham-fisted attempts at humor nearly spoiling the Fourth of July 2001, only to be negated by the timely arrival of fireworks which awed all members of my clan, young and old? For all the platitudes that I’m about to bestow on Thanksgiving 2007, luck played as big a role as the individual members present.

Thanksgiving Reviews By Zach Forsberg-Lary Thanksgiving # 1 “Friend’s Thanksgiving” Host: Joseph Rochira Location: Sawyer Ave. Warwick RI, 02818 Date: Sunday November 18, 2007 Time: 4:00 PM Attendees: 25+ Food Quantity: 10/10 Food Quality: 8/10 Food Variety: 7/10 X-Factor: 4/10 Overall Score: 6/10 High Point: Reminiscing with Pat Splaine about the dumb shit we used to do when we were kids. Low Point: Having to sneak out the back-door for a cigarette. Comments: Four turkeys: two oven-cooked, one deep-fried, and one smoked! Joe is a great host. His recently restored 1968? Camaro is looking pretty sharp. Heidi Warner called me a bad boyfriend because I left Erika to fend for herself with people she didn’t know. Miss Sandra D was in the house, which made me happy. Teddy Splaine asked gender-biased trivia questions after the meal. Thanksgiving # 2 “The Larys” Host: Richard and Marian Lary Location: 35 Sandalwood Ave. Warwick RI, 02886 Date: Thursday November 22, 2007 Time: 12:00 PM Attendees: 6 Food Quantity: 5/10 Food Quality: 8/10 Food Variety: 4/10 X-Factor: 7/10 Overall Score: 7/10 High Point: My Grandfather offered to teach me how to shoot guns next summer. I said I was interested. Low Point: Carrying tons of boxes from their basement to their attic before the meal. Comments: Good food, good company. There was kind of a lonely vibe in the house. Most of our family is in different states now, so it was kind of a weak showing. Had to rush out after dinner to make Thanksgiving # 3. Thanksgiving # 3 “The Townsends” Host: John and “Tyke” Townsend Location: 414 Middle Bridge Rd. Narragansett RI, 02879 Date: Thursday November 22, 2007 Time: 2:00 PM Attendees: 14 Food Quantity: 7/10 Food Quality: 8/10 Food Variety: 5/10 X-Factor: 8/10 Overall Score: 8/10

“Hello, Mr. Turkey wing,” I said. The turkey was silent. I kissed it. It was cold, frozen, thawing. “Come sit next to me at the fire,” I said. I carried over the turkey and sat it on my lap. A few minutes later I heard my mother’s voice. “Where is the turkey?” she said. By then the crotch of my pants was wet from the defrosting turkey. My mother said it would be my job to prepare the cranberry sauce. Our family has always bought the canned kind so I figured my job would be easy, but when I went to bed the night before I was restless. I won’t lie; I was nervous. I snuck downstairs and rumbled through the pantry for the cranberry can. When I found it I brought it to bed and slept peacefully. In the morning I awoke refreshed, but found calamity in the kitchen. Someone had lost the can opener. “My cranberry sauce will be ruined,” I said. “There’s a hacksaw on the workbench,” said my father. There were supposed to be steamed carrots, but someone forgot to boil the water and we just ended up with soggy orange sticks. We gave them to my dog, but he got sick and stopped eating before he even finished his second bowl. There was supposed to be pie too, but it disappeared like the can opener. We suspected my uncle until we noticed my dog slinking away with a grin on his face. It was almost like he couldn’t help laughing at our disappointment. He must have been faking it when he said he was full off of carrots. My father was in charge of the potatoes. He often liked to quote himself and refer to his potatoes as the best in town. They were usually lumpy and one year he had gotten them to taste like spoiled melon. There was hope this year though, at least until he accidentally dropped the whole container of cream into the pot. “This fucking stove,” he said and kicked the stove. It isn’t entirely clear why my father saw the stove at fault in this scenario.