When the going gets tough, the smart move on to something else. That's why I lay aside tinkering with media lists and thinking about tedders and articulated wheel rakes long enough to costume a dinosaur in a red felt Santa suit. In November, I rescued the extinct fellow from his position propped against an alley dumpster. The two-foot tall mechanical reptile's innards were tumbling outward. It lacked batteries and a remote control. Plucked from ruin, it rode around my minivan for a few weeks. Then I dumped it in the basement, where it lay forgotten until Christmas passed and 2011 turned to 2012. In the harsh light of January, dino didn't look keepable. I tossed it in the trash, then relented. If dinosaurs were good enough to walk with Jesus, surely this cast-off creature deserved a resurrection. Hence, the Santa suit and a midnight trip to Brad and Angelina's doorstep. Like a match made in heaven, a pact with the devil or something in between, they took in Dino Santa. That's not my elegantly dusted table that it rests upon, crowding out Freud, Mozart or Mr. Vogt. Now that Dino is placed, I return to thinking about tedders. I'm not certain what they are, but somewhere someone wants one, regardless of if they know it. Kind of like Dino Santa.
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