Sunday morning I engaged in one of the finest old American Christmas traditions. The tree and everything went up the Friday after Thanksgiving, most of the shopping is done (and much of it had been done since February, since Yvonne doesn’t play games in these matters), and only one thing remained. The one thing that, to me, divides the Christmas Season from all the other holidays that Wal Mart would happily serve up as a live sacrifice to a pagan god. The thin line that keeps Thanksgiving from being nothing more than a dress rehearsal for Christmas dinner, with Halloween sitting nervously and wondering when it’s next on the chopping block. And that thing is Alan Rickman, God rest his soul, landing ass-first on the ground outside Nakatomi Plaza. Die Hard is everything you want in a Christmas movie, unless you really need to see more airplanes to get your metaphor erect, in which case you should opt for Die Hard 2: Die Harder. In case you want to fight me on this, know that I stepped away from the TV afterwards to see the first proper snow accumulation of the season. Coincidence? Yeah, but I’m still going to use it to my advantage because I’m not a good person.