This is Christmas music, jerk-off

Here is how I choose friends around the holiday season: I always keep a copy of Run DMC's "Christmas in Hollis" in my car when interviewing for a new friend. Basically, I pop in the disc in my car, and if the person then asks me, "Don't you have any Christmas music?", and I reply "This is Christmas music," and then we high five or something - then this person is worthy of my friendship.

I have pretty much always chosen my friends via checklist. I have things that I like - movies, sports, etc - and if people I meet don't like these things, then screw them. Seriously, I hope they get e.coli or something. I once broke up with a girl because she had never seen "Ghostbusters." When my buddy asked why I broke up with I said, "She is a dog" and we laughed and laughed - and then I called my ex up and told her that and I laughed some more, mainly because she didn't get the "Ghostbusters" reference. Her developing an eating disorder was not so funny, but I still think it was worth it.

Office Romance = EPIC Fail

Here's the thing. We all know that a little eye candy around the workplace will make the day go faster. A cute coworker in the cubicle next door will guarantee that you always bring your A game to the office, and as a result your performance will likely improve. But only your WORK performance. The day you start thinking with the man downstairs is the day you abandon any sense of right and wrong.

Take Harry Ellis. Crank snorting and bad jokes aside, he seems to be pretty good at his job. I mean I don't know anybody ELSE who negotiates million dollar deals for breakfast. But apparently that's not enough. He decides to spend any free time around the Nakatomi building by attempting to court his married, mildly attractive superior.

Coincidentally enough, MY office just had me complete a(nother) online course about business ethics. I know things are a little different out in LA, but here in THIS neck of the woods, personal gifts are never a good idea. Good thing, too, because I can't afford to pay for sex with fancy watches.

I'm not too ashamed to admit that I've dipped my pen in the company ink once or twice, and while it's never ended well, at least I never got shot in the face.

Murdering people is okay, provided you inscribe a Christmas joke on the corpse

I have never murdered anyone, nor do I plan to. I fall into the Seinfeld category, where if I really, really hated someone, I would opt for years of subtle mind games on the victim. Insanity trumps lack of breathing. Still, if an intruder ever barged into my house (god forbid) and I was forced to defend my keep against the hostiles, I would certainly need to finish my self defense spree with a little humor to keep my own sanity. (Like that? In the literary world we call that "coming full circle").

When McClane kills the blond terrorist from a workout video, he scribbled "Ho, Ho, Ho" on his lifeless corpse. Bloody brilliant. Helps McClane keep a level head. I mean, he just killed a man, right? He just saved himself 30 years of therapy bills with a little holiday humor. I have decided that if an intruder enters my home and I shoot him up to kingdom come, I really hope it is around a holiday, such as Easter. Then I can write, "Only one person rose from the dead at this time of year" or something like that. Then me and the cops will have a good laugh.

Always Have an Exit Strategy

Whether you're going to war with a foreign country, hooking up with a girl you probably won't respect in the morning, or knocking over an LA high rise with a team of anonymous henchman, it's ALWAYS a good idea to have a way out.

Hans Gruber's plan to flee the scene of the crime was both brilliant in nature and incredibly short-sided. Let's imagine for a moment, that everything goes according to plan. They jack the vault, blow the roof, and make their getaway in the ambulance stashed away in the back of their cargo truck. Genius, really, unless you're one of Gruber's gunmen. I can't believe that during the ride to Nakatomi, when Gruber's crew was crammed into the truck with said ambulance, not a one of them thought to ask: "How the hell are we all going to fit in this thing?" I mean how many bodies does your typical ambulance hold? Six, maybe? And how many terrorists were there? That's right - TWICE that many.

If I know Gruber like I think I do, he was well aware of this. He doesn't seem like the type to watch his henchmen pile into a tiny ambulance like it's some sort of clown car or Mexican transport. No, it's my contention that Hans KNEW his numbers would be thinned by the end of the night, and he wasn't planning on bringing the whole gang with him on the way out. So it's actually a good thing McClane started picking off terrorists one at a time. Each one of Gruber's men that bit the dust was a bigger cut of money for the rest of them, and one less he'd have to send up to the roof before it went bang.

Sometimes I wonder how Die Hard 2 would have been different if Gruber and a few of his boys had successfully executed their escape plan. Nothing against Colonel Stewart and his gang of Mercs, but a second round of Gruber vs. McClane would have been AWESOME.

Organization is the key

You would think a boozehound that is behind on child support doesn't have his shit together, but McClane proves that alcoholic, deadbeat dads can have a clear head that is ready to function. McClane needs to remember names and number of terrorists, so he writes that shit on his arm. Nice thinking, John-Boy. What the camera didn't show you was the names of McClane's kids scribbled on his other arm. Those are a little difficult to remember.

For Emergency Use Only

It's hard to imagine, some two decades removed, that Die Hard is an 80's film. Director-extraordinaire John McTiernan has a way of making his films immune to aging with a minimal amount of bad music, outrageous costumes, and crazy hair. Sure, there's some Run-DMC and a pair of leather pants, but it doesn't have the same "HEY, DON'T FORGET THIS IS AN EIGHTIES FILM" theme music as, say, Beverly Hills Cop.

With this in mind, think how bored McClane must have been while NOT gunning down Terrorists. Granted, the whole thing takes place in the course of a single evening, but nobody of today's generation has the patience to sit still for longer than a couple of minutes. And again, this is in an era before cell phones, Facebook, Twitter, and internet porn. THIS is why McClane smokes. I mean what the hell ELSE is he going to do? When *I* have some down time between death-defying shootouts and fist fights, I like to keep in touch with the outside world. A text here, an online quiz there, whatever makes the time go faster.

In 1988, McClane's walkie-talkie was as close as the world had come to a Blackberry or iPhone. So what does he do? He uses it to keep himself occupied. Nevermind clearing the airwaves for official police business; when Johnny Mac has something on his mind, the boys downstairs are going to hear about it. Between passing on love letters to his wife and making play dates for his children, there's plenty to keep him entertained. Want to talk about Twinkies with the big black man outside? Yep, there's an app for that.

Where McClain and I finally disagree

I have learned a lot from McClane, so when I decided to ignore the blog for a while after I got back from Rome I thought it would be awesome. You know, like how McClane ignores his kids. Sure, he carried around pics of his little tikes in his wallet and smiled wistfully at them from time to time, but that doesn't really substitute for a simple phone call. In his defense, their non-English speaking housekeeper was probably confused every time a drunk loose cannon called and sputtered non-nonsensical cop jargon into the phone.

Either way, I am back now. I feel like the cop that got his badge taken away, suspended from the force, but then got the bad guy playing by his own rules. Then the captain would shake my hand and say, "Your methods may have been unorthodox, but welcome back to the team. I am promoting you to senior detective." A triumphant return - that is me. Except when I slam down my badge in the name of what is right, it is a plastic badge I bought at the Halloween store at the mall and the police chief is my dog, Barney. Man, I am so lonely.