Authors Electric

Every November when holiday decorations start to twinkle from street lamps and shop windows, I think about getting my crimson costume out of mothballs and suiting up again. Yes, I was – and still am in many ways – Santa Claus, or a Santa Claus , anyway. Ho ho ho. I'd like to say that I became a professional St. Nick out of Christmas spirit, fondness for children, elfin yearnings or as a writer in pursuit of a good, first-person story. Truth is, as in many tales, it was out of desperation. My trip to the North Pole started at the turn of this new century as I pushed past my sixth decade on planet Earth. As you may recall, the third millennium's opening act proved a great disappointment all around. No flying cars. George W. Bush, arguably America's worst president and certainly the stupidest, was handed the White house by its conservative crony majority. Horrific terrorist attacks; followed by ginned up wars: We all know the sorry history. At least the millennium ...