It's one of those conundrums -- like the "Is the purple I see the same as the purple you see?" dilemma -- that I'm never sure how other people feel about the holidays.

Pre-Christmas (like immediately pre-, like Christmas eve, pre-), I get really anxious about no one liking my gifts and not having any money and wondering if I should have gotten that other thing I almost got and didn't get for no good reason even though I sort of had a good feeling about it. Then on the night of Christmas, after presents and early dinner because my grandparents don't like to drive in the dark, I always feel a little bit like maybe Christmas was a little anti-climactic, but because I always always feel like this and yet still recall previous Christmases fondly and, from the basis of Christmases past, anticipate each upcoming Christmas will be splendiferous, I'm pretty sure this reaction is biochemical and/or totally erroneous. Like maybe after I eat a lot and open gifts I inevitably feel something that I interpret as disappointment but is actually either exhaustion or the onset of a diabetic coma.

The reason this is a problem, though, is that people so rarely speak candidly about the more complex holiday-inspired feelings. Lots of people "LOVE" holidays, some people "hate" them, but no one ever responds to a Christmas wish with the sort of ambiguities I tend to feel (or at least they don't express it verbally, because it would be kind of awkward if they did). Probably this is a) because they (/I) feel kind of guilty about these ambiguities and b) the very source of the guilt, since if everyone just spoke out about their inner torment we could all acknowledge that it's ok to feel this way. Or something. I'm looking forward to a break from work. Unambiguously.

Last night I -- sort of on a whim, sort of under peer pressure -- went to the Oasis concert at Madison Square Garden. It was fun, because I was living what would have been a dream for my middle or high school self, and weird, because clearly many of the other people there were living a dream for their current selves, which makes them approximately 10 years behind, in terms of contemporary dreaming. This, coupled with my total sobriety (I left work at 9:10pm to go straight to the concert with people from work who had done the same, and we walked in a song or two into the set), created a few notable discomforts, prime among them the "Do I Sing When They Play 'What's the Story Morning Glory?'" dilemma (WtSMG was the first oldy-but-goody they played, but you can more or less fill in any other song that came out before 2000... or 1997... or 1995...). This is a problem because if you sing along with this song (in this case, an album track, not a single, but also the title track of their best selling album to date) and you haven't been singing along with any of the newer stuff, you identify yourself as the kind of fan who cares enough about Oasis to come to the show, but not enough to listen to any of their newer releases. But if you decide not to sing, you identify yourself as a) a non-singer (or at least too sober to let yourself sing, even though you'd normally be belting them out like there's no tomorrow -- this is probably the best outcome, socially) or b) the kind of fan that doesn't actually know any of the songs, or even really like Oasis, but who got dragged along by a friend, co-worker, or significant other because you didn't have anything else going on (this is, rather obviously, the worst outcome).

I settled on mumble-humming.

Also, at some point Liam Gallagher (in stupid John Lennon-esque sunglasses), made some mention of his kids, and I thought, "If Liam Gallagher is your father, you totally don't have to take him seriously when he tells you to stop fighting with your brother." Also, he had four monitors and kept leaving the stage during songs when Noel sang lead and is otherwise conspicuously something of a prima donna.

There are some times I think I could pick up and leave New York, maybe for Portland or Austin or some much-touted but slightly out of the way haven of liberalism.

And then there are days when I haven't finished shopping for my bosses and their last day in the office before the holiday is tomorrow but my train doesn't get into Grand Central until after 10pm but I need wrapping paper and bags and bottles of Patron by 9am the next morning. Then I can rest assured that there must (by the laws of the universe) be a 24 hour Duane Reade near Grand Central and they must have wrapping paper and gift bags, and there's probably also a liquor store near either home or my office that opens before 10am.

And this is how my faith in the laws of the universe was confirmed, thanks to the fine establishment of Columbus Circle Wine and Spirits, which opens at 8am.

The thing about the death of newspapers is...

As a "journalist" (in quotes, to signify that I once fancied myself a college journalist and a soon-to-be-professional journalist, but presently find myself a sporadic freelancer, at best), I watch Daily Intel's Media Death Watch with a certain morbid curiosity. Potentially because it's a chronicle of all the places I'm glad I didn't waste my time applying to, an excuse for why they didn't hire me if I did apply, and an introduction to hundreds of nameless, faceless people who now find themselves in a position similar to mine: committed to (or seeking) jobs that increasingly diverge from our intended careers.

But as a consumer of media, the results are decidedly more... "meh." None of the publications I read religiously have been wiped out. None of the blogs I read have been truly stricken (ok, maybe Gawker, but I was getting kind of burnt out on them anyway). Not even the magazine I write for is suffering palpably (then again, they never paid their writers to begin with, so it's hard to say how much worse it could get).

All it really comes down to is a bunch of us worrying and fumbling with the hems of our sweaters while drinking cheap wine and occasionally being interrupted by retirees who suggest going into "internet journalism" with the enthusiastic confidence of someone who believes their suggesting something to you for the first time EVER.