Happy 1977!

 

Dinner last night:  Hamburger,

Monday Morning Video Laugh - December 30, 2024

 Be careful where you park on New Year's Eve.

Dinner last night:  Beef and broccoli salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Last Night of The Year...Meh

 

It wraps up the holiday period with a big bow.  It's a unfortunate reminder that, after some good time off, you are headed back to school and/or work.  And it means that you have to finally think about taking down that damn Christmas tree.

Yes, it's New Year's Eve.  The day before the first date of the new year.  And, unless you're a college football fan or love to stare at glued-on flowers, January 1 is usually a blur.  Not because of drinking.  Well, of course, maybe a little because you were chucking down some cocktails.  But it's also that dreaded day where you are forced to think about your regular life.  And, oh, yeah, that diet you need to begin.

But, first, there is December 31 and a time for frivolity.

Yeah, right.
 
Realistically, it's the most overrated of holidays. If you don't have something to do that night, you feel as if you've been relegated to the local leper colony. And, I've had a range of experiences on New Year's Eve.

Regular readers will recall my past pieces on the parties that my parents threw in our basement for family and friends.  At the age of six, I spent one New Year's Eve acting as bartender and sending some relatives into a high-ball-provoked coma.  That tale is being rested this year.  Maybe I'll share it again when the clock ticks down on December 31, 2013.

Oh, there was that New Year's Eve when I was a freshman in college.  You think I was sowing the wildest of oats that year?  Nah.  I had the flu.  And this is noteworthy since it was the very last time I ever had the flu to the current amazement of my internist.  As a result of this miraculous streak, I never have endured a flu shot.

The very next year I was healthy, though.   And a bunch of completely bored and over-served sophomores played hockey in a dormitory elevator bank, using somebody's crunches as hockey sticks.

There was the one where I was fresh out of college and trying to impress some girl with my ability to cook in that new wok I had just gotten for Christmas.  Note to all: you really do have to chop up the ingredients or your meal can be a disaster.

There was the year where my fractured shoulder was in a sling and I could barely reach for the dice playing Trivial Pursuit at a neighbor's home.  I won the game and the painkillers were delicious, thank you very much.

There was the fateful Eve when I returned from a house party to hear that my mom had just lapsed into a coma at the hospital.  My first official act of the New Year was putting my John Hancock on a "do not resuscitate" order.

And, more recently, there was that wonderful restoration of the night.  Out to dinner with good friends in Los Angeles and then hear Kristin Chenowith ring in the new year with some song at Disney Hall.
 
Yeppers, the memories swing wildly like an out-of-control pendulum.

But, I certainly can remember hands down what the best New Year's Eve was.  I've written about it before but it's a story worth repeating.

1984. 

Typically, I had not made definitive plans, when my good friend Glenn in New York called with a bright idea. He and his wife were going downtown to an oldies club called Shout. In the true spirit of marketing, the place played the song several times that night. My friends even had another girl going, so we could easily divide the drink bill equally four ways.

To be honest, I don't remember who they brought along, because I danced with so many people that night. The night was electric. One big hit from the 50s and 60s after another. At several points out on the dance hall, we toasted catcher Gary Carter, who the Mets had just obtained in a trade. At midnight, they dragged out "Shout" one more time. And we all did. I kissed a few of the other patrons around me. I had no clue who they were. I didn't give a shit. 

It was that free. 

And easy. 

And spontaneous.

We had so much fun that, by January 2, I was already making plans to recreate it the following year. And we kept spreading the words amongst other friends as if we were sharing a secret handshake. 

By the time December, 1985 had rolled around, most of my address book had been invited. And I had a girlfriend, to boot. A non-stranger to kiss at the stroke of 12. This was going to be super-electric.

It was horrible. 

What had been spontaneous the year before was now over-planned to the hilt. And the cast of thousands of my friends didn't exactly mesh. It was a disaster. To make the gloom even more pronounced, we got word in the middle of the evening that Ricky Nelson had been killed in a plane crash.

To this day, I still don't know what happened from one year to another. Indeed, I'm not even sure the club stayed open much longer.

Who can figure?

I do know one thing for sure.  In a potpourri of New Year's Eve memories, that one year chimes in brightest.  And, as if I am reliving the wonderment of it all, I now maintain a New Year's Eve tradition.  Every year, when it's 9PM on the West Coast, I will call Glenn on the East Coast.  To wish him a Happy New Year.

And remember that my very favorite New Year's Eve was all his idea.

Dinner last night:   Hot dog.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - December 2024

The trailer doesn't do it justice. 

Dinner last night:  Leftover beef and potatoes.

It's December 27!

 Time to return that ugly Christmas sweater some fool gave you.   I hope you got a gift receipt.

I don't care what religion you're wearing.  It's still ugly.

It grows on you.

Meanwhile, you know this sweater just reeks of cigar.

Is that a dog on your head or did you just forget to comb?

Aw, they're wearing each other.

And the theme is...what?

I think it works better with a T-shirt underneath.

Can we exchange him, too?

Perfect for Christmas in Branson.

Man or woman?  Vote now.

Back in the box, please.

Grandma: 96 pounds.   Sweater: 35 pounds.

Dinner last night:  Leftover beef.

No Excess Baggage

 

An age-old debate has been whether to call the legendary action flick "Die Hard" a Christmas movie.  Indeed, it does occur on Christmas Eve and has the feel of a family reunion...after, of course, a group of mercenaries and terrorists are defeated.

We might now have the sequel to this discussion with the recent unveiling of "Carry On" from Netflix.  This one has all the Die Hard feels and it is set on...wait for it...Christmas Eve at LAX.   Like Die Hard, this is an enjoyable action romp that requires a big tub of buttered popcorn and/or a box of Raisinets.  

"Carry On" starts quickly and presents the main dilemma very easily.  Before his Christmas Eve work shift, young TSA agent Ethan (played at Taron Egerton) talks with his pregnant girlfriend about the fact that he failed his police academy training.   She then goes off to her airport job and he to his.  Almost immediately, Ethan finds an earbud that connects him to the dastardly Alan Rickman of this piece played eerily by Jason Bateman.   Ethan is to let a particular suitcase get past security without examination.   If he doesn't do it, his girlfriend will be killed.

And that's it.  This simple plot sets us off on a two-hour roller coaster ride that has all the twists and turns of the original "Die Hard."   The suitcase, of course, contains a nerve agent that will kill everybody that comes in contact with it.   And, like John McClain, it is up to only Ethan to save the day.

"Carry On" is a taut action drama that will leave you on the edge of your seat repeatedly.   And you might also swear off traveling on the holidays ever again.

I heartily recommend "Carry On"...the newest movie for the holiday season.

LEN'S RATING:  Four stars.

Dinner last night:  Beef tenderloin.    

This Date in History - December 25

 

Happy birthday, Baby Jesus.  Except this really happened sometime in March.  But, a lot of other nifty stuff did happen on this date.  Wait till you see...

333:  EMPEROR CONSTANTINE THE GREAT ELEVATES HIS SON TO THE RANK OF CAESAR.  

The first of many power grabs on this Christimas day.

350:  VETRANIO IS FORCED TO ABDICATE HIS TITLE OF CAESAR TO LIVE AS A PRIVATE CITIZEN ON A STATE PENSION.

And who goes up must come down.

496:  CLOVIS I, KING OF THE FRANKS, IS BAPTIZED INTO THE CATHOLIC FAITH.

Done with relish.

800:  THE CORONATION OF CHARLEMAGNE AS HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR IN ROME.

They loved to tie up Christmas day with this nonsense.

1066:  WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR, DUKE OF NORMANDY IS CROWNED KING OF ENGLAND IN LONDON.

This king garbage just does not stop.

1100:  BALDWIN OF BOULOGNE IS CROWNED THE FIRST KING OF JERUSALEM.

Says he.

1130:  COUNT ROGER II OF SICILY IS CROWNED THE FIRST KING OF SICILY.

And on and on and on....

1642:  PHYSICIST ISAAC NEWTON IS BORN.

Not crowned, thank goodness.

1643:  CHRISTMAS ISLAND FOUND AND NAMED BY CAPTAIN WILLIAM MYNORS OF THE EAST INDIA COMPANY.

He got lucky.  Two weeks earlier and it could have been Hanukah Island.

1776:  GEORGE WASHINGTON AND THE CONTINENTAL ARMY CROSS THE DELAWARE RIVER AT NIGHT TO ATTACK THE BRITISH AT TRENTON THE NEXT DAY.

Working on Christmas?  That's time and a half.

1826:  THE EGGNOG RIOT AT THE US MILITARY ACADEMY CONCLUDES.

When do they start throwing around the mince pie??

1868:  US PRESIDENT ANDREW JOHNSON GRANTS UNCONDITIONAL PARDON TO ALL CIVIL WAR CONFEDERATE SOLDIERS.

A nice thing to do on the holiday.  But no presents for them, please.

1870:  BUSINESSWOMAN HELENA RUBINSTEIN IS BORN.

And last minute gifts of make-up bearing her name would be around on Christmas from this day forward.

1899:  ACTOR HUMPHREY BOGART IS BORN.

Here's looking at you, kid.

1907:  MUSICIAN CAB CALLOWAY IS BORN.

Hi-de-ho.

1918:  EGYPTIAN POLITICIAN ANWAR SADAT IS BORN.

So it's not just a holiday for Christians....

1924:  WRITER ROD SERLING IS BORN.

We enter a dimension of space, time....all that jazz.

1932:  ACTRESS MABEL KING IS BORN.

That's what's happening.

1932:  A MAGNITUDE 7.6 EARTHQUAKE IN CHINA KILLS 275 PEOPLE.

Hope there were 275 gift receipts.

1941:  ADMIRAL CHESTER W. NIMITZ ARRIVES AT PEARL HARBOR TO ASSUME COMMAND OF THE US PACIFIC FLEET.

So, in a way, this was a coronation, too.

1945:  ACTOR GARY SANDY IS BORN.

WKRP in Cincinnati!!

1946:  ACTOR W.C. FIELDS DIES.

Whipsnade, Whipsnade.

1947:  THE CONSTITUTION OF THE REPUBLIC OF CHINA GOES INTO EFFECT.

So that 1932 earthquake didn't destroy them altogether.

1949:  ACTRESS SISSY SPACEK IS BORN.

Also known as Sissy Space Chick.

1950:  THE STONE OF SCONE, THE TRADITIONAL CORONATION STONE OF BRITISH MONARCHS, IS TAKEN FROM WESTMINSTER ABBEY BY SCOTTISH STUDENTS.

That's going to be one long detention period.

1958:  BASEBALL STAR RICKEY HENDERSON IS BORN.

Noteworthy on Christmas day only because Jesus wasn't a great base stealer.

1974:  MARSHALL FIELDS DRIVES A VEHICLE THROUGH THE GATES OF THE WHITE HOUSE.

Okay, just being clear, this has nothing to do with the Chicago department store??

1977:  PRIME MINISTER OF ISRAEL MENACHEM BEGIN MEETS IN EGYPT WITH PRESIDENT ANWAR SADAT.

Effectively ruining the latter's birthday.

1977:  ACTOR CHARLIE CHAPLIN DIES.

The tramp has been silenced.  Of course, understanding that he didn't talk much in his movies anyway.

1979:  ACTRESS JOAN BLONDELL DIES.

She was a big deal in the movies about two centuries earlier.

1989:  BASEBALL MANAGER BILLY MARTIN DIES.

In a car crash.   Way, way, way, way too much holiday cheer.

1991:  MIKHAIL GORBACHEV RESIGNS AS PRESIDENT OF THE SOVIET UNION.

All that wall demolition proved to be too much for him.

1995:  SINGER DEAN MARTIN DIES.

That's a morte.

2006:  SINGER JAMES BROWN DIES.

No longer feeling good.

2008:  SINGER EARTHA KITT DIES.

Santa baby, how about a casket?

2009;  UMAR FAROUK ABDULMUTUALLAB UNSUCCESSFULLY ATTEMPTS A TERRORIST ATTACK AGAINST THE US WHILE ON BOARD A FLIGHT TO DETROIT.

And he didn't even bother to pack clean underwear.

2016:  ROCK STAR GEORGE MICHAEL DIES.

Wham!

Dinner last night:   Christmas appetizers at the home of Amir and Kevin.

Twas The Night Before Christmas - My Way

 

What better thing to do on Christmas Eve than to bring back this warm chestnut from blog days past.  It worked before.   It will work again.

Just imagine us in front of a warm Christmas Eve fireplace. Snug as bugs in rugs. And I open this book to read it aloud to all assembled. 

How utterly delightful! 

How comforting! 

How could I possibly get through the whole thing without making a bunch of snarky comments? 

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

Okay, it's me now. An ignoble start to this Christmas chestnut, because right from the get-go, you find out they've got rodents in this place. 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there. 

Giving rise to another horrible childhood nightmare when Monte, my "alleged  friend" up the block who liked to spew a lot of Catholic hate my way, told me that St. Nicholas was obviously Catholic and didn't visit Protestant homes. 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; 

I have never dreamed of fruit. Even once. 

And Mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, 

Bedtime headwear? The only person I ever saw in a nightcap was Fred Mertz. And what's with the nonsense about a nap? When you go to bed at nighttime, it's not a nap. It's called "going to sleep!" 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 

If there ever was commotion in our neighborhood, we didn't immediately think it was Santa Claus. It was probably the woman next door coming home drunk from the local gin mill. Once, she fell right through my grandmother's lilac bush. 

Away to the window I flew like a flash, tore open the shutter and threw up the sash. 

"Threw up the sash?" You never should have tried to eat it in the first place. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow gave the luster of mid-day to objects below, 

If I was reading this as a kid, I would have started to giggle at the mention of "breast" and probably not get through the rest of the poem. I'm just saying... 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 

This is one of the only Christmas passages that gave you any perspective on the size of the reindeer. Were they babies? And, if so, is this not animal cruelty? Making these things run all over the world in one night?? 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

Had we no prior experience with Christmas, would we immediately know it was St. Nick? On any street corner in December, there are tons of imposters. There are myriad ways that a scam artist could bilk thousands of unsuspecting children on Christmas Eve. After all, nobody is awake to demand proper identification. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!" 

Okay, no mention of Rudolph. When does he get invented? And perhaps he was nothing more than a urban legend designed to get Gene Autry a couple of Gold albums. And don't you wonder just a little about Vixen? With a name like that, I wonder which of the other reindeer she was doing. The smart money is on Dasher. 

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all! 

I typed that just as Clement Moore wrote it originally. What's with the inability to capitalize properly? 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; 

Dry leaves? How do these turn up in a winter poem? My guess is that Moore started writing this in September or October and simply got sidetracked during the process. I know just how deadly writer's block can be. Who knows? Maybe this was supposed to be "Twas The Night Before Halloween." 

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, with the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too. 

So is this proof that Santa only brought toys? That runs contrary to some other images we have. Of Mr. Claus riding a Norelco razor up and down some snowdrifts. And Santa was prominently displayed on that carton of Kent cigarettes my mother always got as well as the box of Canadian Club my dad got from his friends around the corner. 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

The way our roof was arched, there was absolutely no way that the sleigh and reindeer could have kept their balance. At least, three of those suckers would have tumbled off. Right into Grandma's lilac bush, lying next to the drunken neighbor. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 

You see, this always presented a major problem in our house. There was one chimney fireplace. In Grandma's dining room. And it was sealed with cement. I once asked her how Santa Claus could get in. She told me not to ask a lot of stupid question. 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; 

Dressed in fur? Are we absolutely 100% sure that there was a Mrs. Claus? Because the image I'm getting is Liberace. Except no gay guy allows himself to get this dirty ever. 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. 

You see a sprightly old gentleman? I'm seeing a homeless bum down in Santa Monica. 

His eyes---how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 

Possibly warning signs of melanoma or even high blood pressure. 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; 

One verse later, we have our medical diagnosis. "Mouth drawn up like a bow." He's had a mild stroke. 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath; 

A stroke brought on by heavy smoking. 

He had a broad face and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 

I never understood this image. Do me a favor. Take a jar of jelly and empty it into a bowl. It doesn't shake. It just lies there. Inert. Now, if Moore had known about Jell-O at the time, this reference would have worked. But, then, you have the rhyme problem. Jell-O, bellow, hello, mellow. The whole poem falls off the proverbial map. 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; 

Another misnomer. Fat people are not always happy. Most are depressed, having eaten themselves into a coma for deep seeded psychological reasons. 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; 

Or maybe I did. An old guy winking and making overt gestures. Hello, Pedophile. 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, 

Head twisting. Body jerking. I'm thinking Parkinson's. What about you?

And laying his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; 

Once again, I'd ask my grandmother how Santa could get out with a sealed up  chimney in our house. Once again, I'd hear, "You ask too many stupid questions." 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle, 

I never knew what a thistle was, let alone how much down you got from one. And, how about the noise this bunch generates as they leave? For what purpose? Aren't they simply going to fly over to the house next door? 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night." 

Yeah! Me, too! 

Dinner last night: Sandwich.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - December 23, 2024

 My favorite holiday blog post...back again.

Dinner last night:  Pork chop at Vespaio.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - The Annual Christmas Song Diatribe

 

Okay, folks.  This is one of those Christmas pieces that you have seen before.   But you've also seen "Charlie Brown Christmas" and "It's A Wonderful Life" dozens of times.  If you can do that, you certainly can read some comedy blog entries more than once.   And this is now a holiday tradition for me on this blog, so I have compiled several years worth of these snarky comments.  You should read through it, because there is some new stuff peppered in.
  

I'm talking about those wonderfully bad Christmas songs you can't avoid at this time of year, or really after Labor Day for that matter. 

There's always some radio station playing nothing but one Christmas song after another. Some are terrific and I could listen to them over and over. And, yet, there are others that should come around just once a year and that's it. And, when you listen to some of the asinine lyrics (and subtext), your mind wanders...

Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer: So, you know that, on the first unfoggy Christmas Eve, Rudolph was downsized right out on his sorry ass.  Technically, with the power he wields, Santa Claus is clearly part of the evil 1%.  Or maybe he brings in newer and younger reindeer.  From Mumbai.   I recently heard a version of this done by Dean Martin. In German. I'm wondering what bottles were finished off in the recording studio that night. Meanwhile, remember that stupid little Rudolph didn't even exist until the Montgomery Ward store invented him in 1939!

Santa Baby: Every female singer in the world has attempted this ditty. But, only the ultra slutty Eartha Kitt does it justice. Meanwhile, is that one golddigging whore or what? Honey, I'd get you some nice Christmas earrings but your ankles would probably knock them off.  Let's all be thankful that some Real Housewife hasn't tackled this mess...yet.  Meanwhile, poor Eartha Kitt actually died on Christmas Day several years.   This should prompted some updated lyrics.

"Santa baby, there's a question.  I have to ask it.

I think next year, I'm gonna need a casket." 

Frosty the Snowman: A wonderful Christmas memory for children. A friend whose shelf life is maybe three weeks tops.

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town: This song suggests the onset of more psychological problems. "You better watch out. You better not cry. Better not pout. I'm telling you why." So, some poor kid grows up afraid to show one single emotion. No wonder we wind up with Columbine. Can you imagine some innocent 8 year-old boy? "My grandpa died last night, but I can't cry about it because then Santa Claus won't come." I do, however, have a fantasy rendition of this. I would have loved to hear it sung by Joan Crawford.

Same song as above sung by Bruce Springsteen:  Okay, I have an announcement.  I have never been a big fan of the Boss.  Totally overrated and a virtual fraud as a human being.  He's a tax cheat and doesn't back up his political viewpoints with his own actions.  That aside, this record sounds like it was recorded in Bruce's basement and I can't stand the laughing and mugging done by him and that dead fat bastard Clarence Clemons.  Oh, how did you handle your five wives at Christmas time, Clarence?

The Little Drummer Boy:  "The ox and lamb kept time.  Pa rum pum pum pum."  Wow, that's impressive.  Sign them up for Letterman's Stupid Pet Tricks.  I hate this song, but my mother bought the 45 rpm record when it first came out.  She played it over and over and over and over.  Pa rum pum pum pum pa rum pum pum pum pa rum pum pum pum pa rum pum pum.

Deck the Halls:  "Don we now our gay apparel."  Only valid for singing in certain states.

The First Noel:  Noel?  Either a Christmas carol or a Chicago lamentation about a transit strike.

Baby, It's Cold Outside:  Every screwball pairing has attempted a version of this song, which was originally in the movie "Neptune's Daughter" as sung by Red Skelton and Betty Garrett.  When are Barack and Michelle going to put out their version?  They have only two years left.  Meanwhile, the best rendition I've ever heard was done by Pearl Bailey and somebody named Hot Lips Pages.  They ad lib dialogue throughout it and the record is hilarious.

Winter Wonderland: The lyrics from the fifth grade always stick in my head. "Walking around in women's underwear."  Except I am now aware that somebody actually put lyrics to the whole song. 

Lacey things, the wife is missing. Didn't ask for her permission.

I'm wearing her clothes, her silk panty hose.
Walking around in women's underwear.

In the store, there's a teddy.  With little straps, like spaghetti.
It holds me so tight, like handcuffs at night.
Walking around in womens underwear.

In the office there's a guy named Melvin.
He pretends that I am Murphy Brown.
He'll say "Are you ready?"
I'll say, "Woah man! Let's wait untill the wife is out of town."

Later on, if you wanna, we can dress like Madonna.
Put on some eye shade, and join the parade.
Walking around in women's underwear.

The Christmas Song: Same thing. The fifth grade version. "Chet's nuts roasting on an open fire."  Mel Torme had a big hit with this.  He was a known dirtbag in Hollywood.  I hate him.  I hate the song.

Last Christmas: First done by George Michael and Wham in 1984. Think about the song's refrain. "Last Christmas. I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears. I'll give it to someone special." How warm and special does that make you feel? This is the first ever Christmas FU song.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: Underneath the Christmas tree last night. Does Little Sally question this behavior? Probably not, because she's already seen Mommy kissing the cable guy, the mailman, "Uncle" Phil, and her "best friend" Muriel.  Wait till little Rufus does a DNA test on himself and discovers that Santa is his baby daddy.

We Three Kings of Orient are:  Since not everybody digs myrrh, I hope they bring gift receipts.

Do You Hear What I Hear by Whitney Houston:  Oh, boy, Whitney, I hope not.

Sleigh Ride by Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme:  Now that says Christmas to me.  Holiday tunes sung by two Sephardic Jews.   Eydie left us last year and I am still inexplicably wistful when I heard this tune.  Blame it on the Bossa Nova.

Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful: Now, why the call for the faithful, joyous, and triumphant to come forward? These folks have already bought in. It should be "Oh, Come, All Ye Despondent, Broken, and Agnostic." No wonder less people are going to worship these days. They're been literally preaching to the choir.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas: This is indeed my favorite "modern" Christmas song. I love Judy Garland's version first introduced in "Meet Me in St. Louis." And, Michele Lee did a tremendous job with the song in a 1990 episode of "Knots Landing." But, the rendition that always makes me sad is Karen Carpenter's. A voice lost too, too soon. And hearing her always makes me want to reach for a snack.

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer: Another absolute knee slapper from the morons who live in red-colored states. Guffaw, guffaw. If I laugh anymore, my wooden teeth will fall out. Only some jerk in Arkansas would enjoy this despicable mess. Meanwhile, Grandma has no idea how lucky she has it. Ending a life of Midwestern misery after being a head model for one of Blitzen's hoof prints.

Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow:  A big hit with NYC Department of Sanitation who's always looking for overtime.

Silver Bells:  We did a version of this when I was a kid.  "Silver bells, Santa smells, and Easter's on its way."

Here Comes Santa Claus Right Down Santa Claus Lane:  Because the song doesn't really work if Santa's coming down the Belt Parkway.

Holly Jolly Christmas:  Rhetorical question---is holly a noun or an adjective?  From this song, I can't really tell.  Another annoying ditty by Burl Ives, who worked just one month a year.  Yes, I know he was a respected actor and Oscar winner, but nobody really paid attention except for when he showed up with these annoying Christmas records.

Feliz Navidad: The annual reminder that Jose Feliciano once had a career. Gee, Jose, don't the lights on the tree look wonderful? Oh, never mind.

The Chipmunk Song: I can hear this once a year and no more. I remember this being played constantly when I was a kid. Not only did it sell tons of records, but it also probably drove up the sales of helium tanks.

Happy Christmas by John Lennon and Yoko Oh No:  A new candidate for most annoying and overplayed song.  That whispering to the kids at the beginning literally creates cavities in my teeth.  My finger can't get to the pre-set dial fast enough.  If John Lennon had not been shot in December and so close to the holidays, this record would have been in a dumpster behind the Dakota years ago.  I wish we could redo it a bit so one of the whispers you hear at the end is "can I have your autograph?"

Mamacita, Donde Esta Santa Claus:  This apparently was a big hit in 1958, but I never heard the song until I moved to California.  And with good reason, because it's straight from below the border.  Mamacita, there's a border??  What the hell-o is that-o?  Check out the lyrics that essentially turn Christmas into Cinco de Mayo.

Mamacita, donde esta Santa Claus?  Donde esta Santa Claus?
And the toys that he will leave.
Mamacita, oh, where is Santa Claus?
I look for him because it's Christmas Eve.

I know that I should be sleeping,
But maybe he's not far away,
Out of the window I'm peeping,
Hoping to see him in his sleigh.

I hope he won't forget to clack his castinet,
And to his reindeer, say,
"Oh Pancho, Oh! Vixen, Oh! Pedro, Oh! Blitzen,"
Ole! Ole! Ole! cha cha cha.

Mamacita, donde esta Santa Claus?
Oh! Where is Santa Claus?

Okay, where the heck do I start?  Santa clicking a castanet?  Changing the names of the reindeer?  Meanwhile, Santa Claus better be one smart cookie to know that the Perez household needs more presents than might have been reported in that letter to the North Pole.  You see, there's a whole family of cousins, aunts, and uncles living in the basement that nobody knows about.  And, if you're really looking for Santa Claus, little Mexican kid, you might want to look in the car trunk.  No, wait, the President just said it's okay for you to come out of hiding.  Ole!

It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Andy Williams:  Yeah, this fun song is a hard listen now that Andy's gone.  I have a friend out in LA who once went out caroling with him.  How freakin' cool is that?

I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas:  A huge hit in 1953 and, given it was the Eisenhower administration, I will just assume most people were asleep at the time.  Some annoying ten-year-old urchin named Gayla Peevey sings it and she wants a big, smelly animal under her tree Christmas morning.  I guess her drunken uncle isn't the answer.  Authorities always tell us to avoid giving puppies as Christmas presents since people don't realize that the dog is probably shitting all over the house on December 26.  I guess the same goes for bigger animals.  Are there a lot of returns to a hippopotamus pound?

The Christmas Shoes:  Hands down, the worst Christmas song ever! As somebody who has actually spent two different Christmases watching my parents' ultimately fatal illnesses play out against a backdrop of merriment, why would you want to infuse a joyful holiday with such incredible sadness? But, that's just what the song "The Christmas Shoes" does.

This piece of dreck has been around for about 10 years, and allegedly was a big hit on the country charts when it first came out. It's all about some poor little boy who wants to buy some new shoes on Christmas Eve because his mom is on her deathbed. There's no Christmas miracle at the end of the song. I'm guessing Mommy checks out as predicted. Off to meet Jesus wearing some Payless specials. And this little boy's left alone. Merry F-ing Christmas!

I am sure many, many people are forced to endure such sorrow every year around this time. I certainly had my share. I once spent a Christmas Day shuttling between two different hospitals visiting my father and my mother. But, like we all must do, I tried to move forward. Yet, every damn Christmas, this song gets played as a constant reminder. Can we at least appreciate joy for one single moment without thinking about dire consequences? The writers of this disaster should go off to meet Jesus themselves. Real soon.

Do They Know It's Christmas:  That horrible Band-Aid song from 1984 which supposedly donated all profits to curbing famine in Ethiopia.  The tune has the reverse effect on me whenever it comes on the radio.  I stick my fingers down my throat and puke up everything I ate for dinner last night.  A group of new British rock singers just did a new version of the song with lyrics tied to fighting the Ebola virus.  Meanwhile, more people will likely die from the flu this winter.

Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses:  Folks, for me, the most infectious Christmas song is this one.  It just makes me bounce up and down.  It's actually ideal as background for cutting off a driver in a mall parking lot as you fight for that last space.   Or when you still have one present to wrap and you just hit the end of Scotch Tape roll.  Whatever the case, listen in and enjoy.



Dinner last night:  Christmas tamales at the home of good friends Leo and Connie.

Classic TV Theme Song of the Month - December 2024

Not exactly a theme song but you get the snow drift. 

Dinner last night:  Leftover pizza.                       

An Incarcerated Christmas

 

 We had a feeling you weren't.

 The reason Mrs. Claus is sporting some bruises.

 Santa Claus embalmed.

 Hey, little girl, wanna sit on my lap?

 No kidding.

 The head elf.

 Some people just can't see straight during the holidays.

 We Three Kings of Orient...

 North Pole, Cell Block D

 Which one of you reindeer peed on my boot?

A shepherd who kept his flock by night.

Dinner last night:  Pepperoni pizza.

Please Cancel These Vistaprint Accounts

 

Must be a photo from England.  Obviously, it's Boxing Day.

Happy Holidays from Lenscrafters!

Bad wallpaper doesn't necessarily translate to bad pajamas.

I'd like to return them, please.

Santa's planning a home invasion robbery.

She's outsourced her husband.

Obviously, there was nothing he really wanted.

The dog is the brightest thing in this picture.

The Birth of Chucky...and Christmas.

If somebody was in need of one of those Christmas shavers from Norelco...

Dinner last night:  BLT at Cafe 50s.