I have few wants in life, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like receiving presents as part of the celebration of your winter holiday of choice. Here’s what I’ve had my eye on lately:

Forbidden Planet 50th Anniversary Edition because even though I already own this fantastic re-imagining of The Tempest, the included Robbie the Robot model would look way cool on my desk.

Oldboy Collector’s Edition because this Korean revenge flick has a twist that had my jaw in my lap.

The West Wing: The Complete Series because, unless Obama is elected, we’re probably not going to see a real-life Commander-in-Chief as articulate as President Bartlett anytime soon.

Robot Chicken Season 1 because it’s one of the funniest things on television.

The God Delusion because I want any visitors who scan my bookshelf to know exactly where I’m coming from.

World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War because it has the words “zombie” and “war” in it.

Lost Girls because I want to see if this is literature disguised as porn or porn disguised as literature.

James Tiptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon because I want to learn more about this intriguing sf author.

Assorted Geek Goodness

Samsung 204B 20″ LCD Monitor because this blogger’s eyes deserve the very best.

I’m supposed to bring a “white elephant” present to a work holiday party tomorrow. I have no idea what sort of item I own that other people want. Some comic books? My old VCR?

This time of year is so stressful.

I thought I was compulsive about my blogging, but I’ve got nothing on the guy who kept a typewritten diary of nearly every detail of his life for twenty years. An interesting experiment, but I think I’ll refrain from recounting my trips to the bathroom. My nurses do enough of that as it is. And the descriptions of my meals would get redundant after a while. “For breakfast, I had a can of Osmolte. For lunch, I had a can of Osmolite. For dinner…” You get the idea.

Like a lot of high school sophomores, I had to read The Catcher in the Rye. And like a lot of high school sophomores in 1988, I didn’t really get what the big deal was about that book (besides the fact that Mark David Chapman carried it around before shooting John Lennon). I didn’t see why my teacher and so many other adults considered it such a brilliant piece of literature.

Tom Henderson, the narrator of King Dork, doesn’t understand the fuss, either. He views the teachers who push Catcher on their students as members of some oddly obsessed literary cult. In fact, Tom finds a lot to dislike about school in general, and this is where the book excels. it’s an exaggerated catalog of the petty cruelties and pointless busywork that is inflicted upon most American high school students. But King Dork truly shines in its portrayal of Tom, a confused, sensitive, withdrawn, creative, and typically libidinous adolescent whose greatest dream is to start a rock band with his equally disenchanted friend Sam. And like any pair of teenagers with visions of pop culture grandiosity, they spend most of their time inventing new names for their band (my favorite: The Mordor Apes). The book also has something of a mystery threaded into the plot–an element that feels undercooked and a bit forced. But this is a strong debut for Frank Portman and I look forward to his next work.

I’m now working on The Subtle Knife, the second volume in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.

Even though I have a law degree, a career, and a whole resume full of professional and academic achievements, I can’t seem to escape other people’s compulsion to pat me on the head (or its verbal equivalent). This past week has given me ample material for discrete rolling of the eyes.

• Over the holiday weekend, I was at someone’s house and another guest seemed to be under the assumption that I required an interpreter, since most of her questions for me were directed at a third person (“Where did Mark go to school?”).
• On the elevator this morning, an older woman asked me how I was doing. “Fine,” I replied. This answer must have impressed her, because she gleefully said to my nurse, “Oh, he’s so positive! That’s what we like to hear.”

I’ve decided the people I meet in life fall into three categories. First is the Hopelessly Clueless. They simply aren’t capable of regarding me as an equal and will never confront their own biases about my disability. I interact them only when circumstance absolutely requires it. The second group is the Redeemably Clueless. They act awkwardly in my presence at first, but they usually are open to a little friendly instruction (think of me as the Henry Higgins to their Eliza Doolittle). The third group is the Cool People. Right from the start, their interactions with me are free of condescension or self-consciousness. Most of my friends probably fall into this last group.

Hmm, maybe I should turn the above paragraph into a paper. I’ll call it something like The Siegel Taxonomy: Observations on Disability and Social Dynamics.