Shoplifting for Santa

An excerpt from my forthcoming book, "It Must Be Me":

I stopped believing in Santa at a young age - I believe it was the Christmas when I was four. I remember I'd been questioning the logistics of the whole delivery system, like lots of kids, and I was feeling some doubt. But then my sister made a comment one night when she walked in the door - she said she'd just seen a sleigh on a nearby rooftop as she was getting out of her car. Then she cupped her hand to her ear and looked around excitedly asking, "Are those sleighbells I hear?!"

My sister then suggested I look out the nearby window, which I almost gave me a head injury. I pulled back the curtain, but the only sight that met me was the blackness of the night sky. She was really trying to sell the story, though, and she said, "Ohh... we must have just missed him!" Our parents were in the room, and they chuckled at her comment. There was something in my sister's voice and expression then that got me thinking "something ain't quite right here." It was all just too convenient, and the conspiratorial tone ("Maybe you'll see him next year!") in the room sickened me. I decided right then and there that Santa was a sham, and I wasn't having any more of that particular myth.

I was forthright with my parents and told them that I didn't believe, but they must have felt some guilt because they tried to push Santa down my throat even harder. That Christmas I merely endured the concept of Santa, feeling somewhat more enlightened than my peers - how gullible they were. But it wasn't until a year later that I really made an issue out of it.

My father was the Electronics Department Manager of a regional department store, and it fell upon him to book their location's Santa every year. I overheard my mother saying to one of her friends that my father had prepped this year's Santa, telling him I was a non-believer. "Oh, so that's how it's gonna be?" I thought. Not really - I was only five. But now alerted to the situation that awaited me, I set about forming a plan.

On our way into the store, my parents were attempting to subtly manipulate my brain into being more receptive, telling me, "We know you don't believe in Santa, but you're going to meet him today, and since he knows everything, wouldn't he be upset to hear that a good little boy like you doesn't have any of the Christmas Spirit in him?" and other similar propaganda. I was strong and did not relent. I nodded, sure in the knowledge of what I was about to do.

As we entered the store, I noticed my father's co-workers and employees paying special attention to me - this is always more obvious to a child than adults allow themselves to believe. "So are you excited to meet Santa, Stevie?!" one giddy woman asked.

Oh yeah - bring him on. The line for Santa was long, so my parents let me walk through the toy section to kill some time. Big mistake. Since my father was a manager there, I was allowed to roam relatively freely. I knew what I had to do - I'd been pre-visualizing it for days. I selected some of the low-hanging blister packs of action figures. "Yes, these will do nicely," I thought. By and large, there were few security cameras, even in big department stores, during this time - so after a quick over-the-shoulder check, I ripped open four or five of the action figures, removed their heads with a quick plucking motion (I'd practiced) and stuffed the decapitated doll parts into my coat pocket. I sure was pretty devious little brat when I felt I'd been wronged.

With a cautious look, my parents brought through the line to see Santa. Within half an hour, I stood before, then sat on, "Santa" himself. Pity this poor man, hired to portray Santa for just a short span of time each year. He had a lot of patience - I'll give him that. But he was trying to take me on a trip that I just didn't want to be on. I didn't despise him - I despised what he stood for.

He did a bit of ho-hoing and got down to business:

"So, Stevie - I hear that you don't believe in me!" The condescension was oozing out of him.

"That's right, Santa," I replied, trying not to sound too snide.

"That's a real shame. Can I ask why you don't believe?" He was really laying it on thick.

"Well, is it true that you know if I've been good or bad?" I asked.

"Oh, yes - yes it is!"

"So - have I been a good boy or a bad boy?"

"I've been keeping my eye on you, Stevie, and I know that even though you don't believe in me, you've been a very good boy this year!"

The setup complete, I removed the action figure heads from my coat pocket and held them to his overly roughed cheeks.

"Then why did I just steal these?!" I asked nice and loud, for all to hear.

The proceedings came to a screeching halt. My father's employees suddenly had to be in another location of the store. Santa, as far as my brain can recall, did not respond verbally. He may have stammered a bit, but his rhetoric had been stifled. A red and green-clad worker ushered me off the platform.

My father was at a loss for words as well. My mother may have managed a shameful, "Oh, Stevie!" but there was no lecture as we made our way out of the store, moving through throngs of other parents actively shunning us. Nor was there any discussion on the drive home. Only years later did they discuss the event, and even then it was in hushed, halting tones. I have to say, I believe a lesson was learned that day, and I made sure it wasn't learned by me.

Underwear on the Outside

An excerpt from what I will obnoxiously call my forthcoming book, "It Must Be Me":

Underoos were a popular fad when I was around eight or nine years old, which meant that I owned them. I loved fads. My proclivity for superhero-related products made me a prime candidate for Underoos, as they were essentially colored underwear with a big insignia on the chest, and maybe a printed version of the hero's belt at the top of the briefs. That's it. You didn't get gloves, boots, or a mask, as those items would be tough to conceal under one's outerwear.

Of course, Batman was always my favorite superhero, so I chose to honor the Dark Knight by clothing my my stick-like body in a watered-down version of his costume. Like many other kids at that time, wearing Underoos gave me the slightest taste of what it might be like to have a real secret identity as I sat in the comfort of my elementary school classroom - and all while enjoying the secure barrier that underwear provides between skin and clothing. Good stuff.

And it all remained good until my mother started suggesting that I wear my Batman Underoo top to school on the outside - as my actual shirt. She thought it would be "so cute". Now, there's no logical reason this should have been seen as a sensational act - it was a light gray cotton shirt with an iron-on of the yellow-and-black Batman symbol. As far as shirts go, that's not crazy. People wear clothes with superhero logos on them all the time these days. It's accepted, as it should have been back in 1979. However, that was not the case.

These were children we're talking about, and they're doubly dangerous while in packs. So despite my protests, my mother won out and on a gentle Spring morning, cool enough that I didn't need to wear an undershirt, my love for Batman took over and, with some trepidation, I wore the top portion of my Underoos to school.

It took about three minutes before my schoolmates attacked. We were standing in the auditorium, lining up before the school day officially began, when one little girl noticed my shirt. She immediately sniffed it out for what it was, pointed to me and shouted "He's wearing underwear!" I don't think she even knew my name. The other kids smelled blood in the water and rushed over to feed on my carcass.

In no way did I want to disrespect Batman, but the fear I'd denied was quickly becoming reality. I should have heeded my instincts. The kids were pulling at my shirt, stretching it out and crackling the logo at its edges. Their cackles filled the auditorium (much like the Golden Age Joker - ed.). I was defeated.

I had no choice but to finish out the day in the decimated Underoo, though a smock in Art Class did provide brief reprieve. When I got home my mother was excited - clearly she thought she'd helped me live out my dream as a would-be hero. "How did the other kids like your Batman shirt?!" she prodded.

I couldn't tell her that the only joy I had that day was when I finally jumped off the bus and managed to sprint home before a final pummeling occurred. "They liked it," I offered, with a modicum of forced smile on my lips. It was obvious that she was looking for more of a reaction, but that's all the fake delight I could summon. I hope Bruce Wayne would empathize with me, but from that point forward, the Underoos never saw the light of day again.

My Secret Lair (or "Home Office")

When I started doing freelance work, I was living in a one-bedroom apartment. When I'd sketch, ink, or color an illustration, I'd clear off my coffee table and work right there. And when I eventually got a workable Mac, it sat on a tiny corner shelf in the middle of my living room. Not the most inspiring of environments.

A few years later, I met my wife (no, she wasn't my wife then - that would be weird) and we moved into a larger apartment together. We set up the second bedroom as an office for both of us, and I began acquiring the kind of art and objects that would inspire me when I was working. It was a start, but my office didn't fully take shape until we bought a house. Just being able to paint the walls my favorite color (a kind of pukey, limey green) was a huge head start.


It's difficult for me to really remember what it was like working anywhere other than in this office. I tried to convince myself that working in a sparse environment, like that apartment living room, would keep my head clear and allow me to focus on my work - but that really never worked for me. I like to be in the midst of fun, interesting, and meaningful things, as you can see by the photos.


Surrounding my workstation are a collection of monsters (mostly from Universal films), Kiss paraphernalia, superhero pieces, Star Wars and other science fiction elements, and other assorted collectibles from comics, cartoons, television shows and other sources.

Now that we have a baby, the dusting has become an issue, but I wouldn't trade my green palace for any other workspace on the planet. It's my secret lair, my Fortress of Solitude, my Sanctum Sanctorum (that one's for the comic nerds) - and I know my work output benefits from the rich surroundings. That stuff just seeps right in - osmosis, you see.

For a detailed description of the contents of my office, click below.

My Home Office: A Nerd's-Eye View