Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - December 2012

What else this holiday season?  In Vista Vision!!!

 
Dinner last night:  Beef with vegetables and noodles at Mongolian BBQ.

Santa Goes to Madison Avenue

...with these wonderful vintage advertisements. 

Santa sings, "I see London, I see France, I see Mommy's underpants."  This is what happens the moment before the song starts about her kissing him.

Celebrate your holiday with a mass murder.

Because we all had at least one sloppy drunk in our families.

I love Lucy...and nicotine.  "Call for...Lung Cancer."

And when Sammy has that holiday hangover....

The gift that just keeps on rerunning.

Now you open your smart phone first because nobody takes pictures with instant cameras anymore.

"Screw the hot chocolate.  I want a Coke!"

So Santa's outfit will be nice and wrinkle-free.

Santa smokes Pall Malls.  So should you.

Dinner last night:  German sausages and peppers at the annual Christmas gathering of good friends Amir and Kevin.

Christmas Songs I Like...and Mostly Hate - 2012 Edition

This is now a holiday tradition for me on this blog, so I have compiled several years worth of these snarky comments.  Those wonderfully bad Christmas songs you can't avoid it 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.  At what point does he join an OccupyNorthPole group?  Technically, with the power he wields, Santa Claus is clearly part of the evil 1%.   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 Kardashian bimbette hasn't tackled this mess...yet.

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.

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?  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: Undoubtedly headed to an outlet mall on a Saturday afternoon.

Do You Hear What I Hear by Whitney Houston:  Umm, not any more.

Sleigh Ride by Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme:  Now that says Christmas to me.  Holiday tunes sung by two Sephardic Jews.

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.

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.

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.

Dinner last night:  Had a big lunch so just a salad.

This Date in History - December 19

Happy birthday, Bobby Brady.  All the best, even if you were on one of the crappiest TV shows in history.

211:  PUBLIUS SEPTIMIUS GETA, CO-EMPEROR OF ROME, IS LURED TO COME WITHOUT HIS BODYGUARDS TO MEET HIS BROTHER TO DISCUSS A POSSIBLE RECONCILIATION.  WHEN HE ARRIVES, THE PRAETORIAN GUARD MURDERS HIM AND HE DIES IN THE ARMS OF HIS MOTHER JULIA DOMNA.

That's one Italian mouthful.

324:  LICINIUS ABDICATES HIS POSITION AS ROMAN EMPEROR.

After what happened to Publius Septimius Geta, can you blame him?

1154:  HENRY II OF ENGLAND IS CROWNED AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Only six more Henrys before the really interesting one goes on the throne.

1490:  ANNE, DUCHESS OF BRITTANY, IS MARRIED TO MAXIMILIAN I, HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR BY PROXY.

When does this Roman Emperor shit go away?

1606:  THREE SHIPS DEPART ENGLAND CARRYING SETTLES WHO FOUND, AT JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA, THE FIRST OF THE THIRTEEN COLONIES THAT BECAME THE UNITED STATES.

And so it begins...

1776:  THOMAS PAINE PUBLISHES ONE OF A SERIES OF PAMPHLETS TITLED THE "AMERICAN CRISIS."

Probably still applicable today.

1777:  GEORGE WASHINGTON'S CONTINENTAL ARMY GOES INTO WINTER QUARTERS AT VALLEY FORGE, PENNSYLVANIA.

Years later, they could have ditched this for a stay at Brown's in the Poconos.

1843:  CHARLES DICKENS "A CHRISTMAS CAROL" GOES ON SALE.

You could pre-order on Amazon.

1899:  MARTIN LUTHER KING SR. IS BORN.

Outlived his son by sixteen years.

1907:  A GROUP OF 239 COAL MINERS DIE DURING AN EXPLOSION IN JACOBS CREEK, PENNSYLVANIA.

Right before Christmas.  No coal for anybody's stockings.

1915:  SINGER EDITH PIAF IS BORN.

Je n'regrete rien.  Or whatever she sang.

1920:  TV PRODUCER DAVID SUSSKIND IS BORN.

His appearance on TV every Sunday night saddened me.  It meant it was back to school the next day.

1924:  COMEDIAN GARY MORTON IS BORN.

Mr. Lucille Ball.

1925:  SONGWRITER ROBERT SHERMAN IS BORN.

Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.  Please check my spelling.

1933:  ACTRESS CICELY TYSON IS BORN.

Now is the first casting call whenever anybody needs an old Black woman.

1934:  BASEBALL STAR AL KALINE IS BORN.

Put a Tiger in your tank.

1941:  ADOLF HITLER BECOMES SUPREME COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE GERMAN ARMY.

Because being a mass murderer of a whole ethnicity is just not enough.

1944:  ACTOR TIM REID IS BORN.

Venus Flytrap!!

1956:  IRISH PHYSICIAN JOHN BODKIN ADAMS IS ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH THE SUSPICIOUS DEATHS OF MORE THAN 160 PATIENTS.

That has to be one huge malpractice suit.

1960:  ACTOR MIKE LOOKINLAND IS BORN.

"Oh, Alice...."

1972:  THE LAST MANNED LUNAR FLIGHT, APOLLO 17, CREWED BY EUGENE CERNAN, RON EVANS AND HARRISON SCHMITT, RETURNS TO EARTH.

Sorry to see they ended the program on an odd number.

1986:  MIKHAIL GORBACHEV, LEADER OF THE SOVIET UNION, RELEASES ANDREI SAKHAROV AND HIS WIFE FROM EXILE IN GORKY.

They had parked in Gorky.

1996:  ACTOR MARCELLO MASTROIANNI DIES.

Death, Italian Style.

1998:  THE UNITED STATES HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES FORWARDS ARTICLES I AND III OF IMPEACHMENT AGAINST PRESIDENT BILL CLINTON TO THE SENATE. 

Yeah, we know, Bill.  You didn't do it.

2000:  NY MAYOR JOHN LINDSAY DIES.

Queens streets, still not plowed.

2003:  ACTRESS HOPE LANGE DIES.

I just ran the same gag on her birthday, but it still works.  The Ghost is Mrs. Muir.

2008:  BASEBALL PITCHER DOCK ELLIS DIES.

Really docked now.

Dinner last night:  Chicken cordon bleu.

Christmas Albums from Hell - 2012 Edition

Too cheap to hire three chipmunks, this record producer is trying to get by with just one rodent.

Remember this idiot from American Idol?   I wish we didn't.

He should have included a version of "Baby, It's Cold Outside."  Sung with Rock Hudson.

For the "hard to buy for."

Ho, ho, ho, ho, and ho.

"Oh, Come, All Ye Yiddish."

I guess he couldn't find a boys choir to sing back-up.

Not that Bing.  The other one.

Featuring "I Saw Jermaine Touching Santa Claus."

When just plain egg nog won't do.

Dinner last night:  Leftover bratwurst and vegetables.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - December 17, 2012

A different kind of Peanuts Christmas special.  From the SNL Christmas show hosted by Martin Short.

Dinner last night: Grilled bratwurst, rice, and red cabbage.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Christmas From and To Dad

Last week, I told you about the years where my family pretty much gave up on extensive Christmas shopping and I picked up the gauntlet...and dropped down the credit card.

Well, there was a short time towards the end of his life where my father, inexplicably and almost maniacally, got into holiday gift giving.  Oddly enough, I am still reminded of this every year by the United States Postal Service.  Because I still get the catalogs that my dad used to order from. 

I have never ever bought anything from two guys named Harry and David.  My father did.  I still get their holiday catalog.  I have never ever purchased anything from some place called Figis.  No worries.  My father did.  I still get their holiday catalog.  So, essentially, my dad's legacy to me is a virtual tracking of his buying power during the last five years of his existence.

The likes of Harry & David and Figis specialize in oddball gifts.  Like the pears shown above.  Baskets of other fruits too numerous to mention.  Salami.  Ham.   Chocolate.  Nuts.  Sour balls.  You name it.  The gift that just screams "the hell with your cholesterol, happy holidays!"  I can't imagine ever sending anybody a present of a perishable food that might not last until New Year's Day.

My father, however, did.  And, for those final years, he was a Christmas gift-giving machine.  He would sit in his recliner, mainly because the prostate cancer had migrated to the bone in his leg.  But that didn't stop him from going on a shopping trip.  Flipping through these catalogs and remembering all the folks he suddenly felt a need to buy presents for.

The mailman.

The superintendent of his apartment building.

His bartender.  Even though he was no longer visiting his local tavern, Dad couldn't forget all those beers that got poured a decade ago.

His bookie.  I kid you not.

I know the list of recipients because I was the one doing the ordering.  On a Saturday afternoon early in December, I'd go over to do the honors of translating Dad's order to Harry or David or Figis.  You see, I had the credit card.  My father did not.

"I don't need one.  And I don't want these people stealing from me."

But it's okay for me to give my credit card number to some faceless person on the other end of the phone. 

"You're young."

Oh.

So the annual process would begin.  My father had all his items, complete with the correct catalog number, on a piece of paper.  He would read them off and I would translate them to the sausage maker or fruit picker on the phone.

And my father would adopt annual gift themes, which meant he pretty much bought the same thing for everybody.  One year, all his friends were inundated with German summer sausages.   Because nothing says "Merry Christmas" more than a big hunk of processed meat. Another year, my father ordered nothing but cans of cashew nuts. Thank God nobody on his list suffered from diverticulitis.

I never quite understood what was behind this sudden frenzy of generosity from my father.   Maybe he knew the days were winding down.  Perhaps it was his way to try and recapture some holiday excitement of years past.  My dad never really displayed much emotion about anything.  And Christmas was, well, usually just some way for consumers to get conned and waste their money.  But, in those catalog years, my father came back to Yuletide life.  Starting in October, he would keep reminding me almost daily.

"And remember...the first Saturday of December.  You have to keep it open so I can do my shopping."

It gave him pleasure.  Who was I to quibble?

Of course, as I lamented last week, my annual Christmas present to my father became harder and harder with each passing year.  I certainly wasn't going to give him a box of apples or a year's supply of pepperoni.  As he endured his illness, he rarely left his home.  There was little he needed.  There was even less that he wanted.  And, frankly, I was running out of ideas.

And then there was his last Christmas.

The pain in his leg was so bad early in December that I had to have him hospitalized.  Although my father never shared the details of his doctor visits, the chemotherapy was obviously not working.  There was no "Catalog Saturday" that year.  Meanwhile, neither of us knew it at the time but Dad had also left his home for the very last time.

My father would always tell me that he had his doctor consultations under control. 

"When you need to know something, he'll call you."

Yeah, right.  He never did.  So, because I had a sense that this was all going downhill very quickly, I sought the doctor myself.  Naturally, he never called me back.   But, a social worker did on his behalf.

"Your father needs to be moved to a hospice."

Huh?

"Didn't the doctor tell you?  Your dad has only three months to live."

Er, no.

I was at work and looked at the calendar on my desk.  It was December 22.

Had the doctor shared this all with Dad?  I never really knew.  But, as I absorbed all this news, I thought about the inevitable.  The future.  And the present.

This would be my father's last Christmas.

And I still hadn't bought him a present. 

Why should I do?  I had never gone a single Christmas without giving my father something for the holiday.  But what this year?  A gift that will just keep on giving?  For three months, tops?

As conflicted as I was about the actual gift, I became more resolute than ever.  I would give my dad a Christmas present.  To do anything else would be an admission to me...and maybe him...that this holiday would be different than any other. 

Ultimately, the answer came to me in a divine fashion.  From God.  Or perhaps thanks to my sheer clumliness. 

As I was rounding up some personal items that he would need in the hospital, I quickly grabbed some toiletries out of his bathroom.  In my haste, I dropped his electric shaver onto the tile floor.

It shattered in pieces.

Ooops.  And thank you.

When I gave him a new shaver in the hospital as we celebrated Christmas in Mount Vernon Hospital, he asked me what happened to the old one.  I told him that I dropped it.

"You're always clumsy."

Yes, I am.   Right to the end. 

"I didn't get a chance to give you anything." 

Dad pulled out his wallet.  He had a one hundred dollar bill buried in its recesses.  It might have been there since Dwight Eisenhower was President.

"Go buy yourself something."

I told my father the same thing he told me every year.  I didn't need anything.

Dad had a stack of magazines on his hospital tray table.   He pulled one out from the bottom.

"Here.  Look in this.  They got some nice chocolate covered almonds."

It was the Harry and David catalog.

Dinner last night:  Pepperoni pizza.