Friday, December 10, 2010

Little Deaths In Musical Beds

Every year, one month is set aside for holiday festivity.
Decorations? They're OK, I guess.

Television specials? Iffy.

Have you ever seen the Nestor abomination? It WILL make you weep. Like a little girl.

Gift giving? It's only once a year, right?

Christmas music? Hot poker to the eye, much?

I suppose the dislike for Christmas music started when I was about fourteen.
In the days before we were privy to online radio, or Sirius, we had the Sirius rip-off from our old cable company. It was pretty decent for eleven months of the year, so we were quite excited to hear what they would come up with for Christmas.
In the first night alone, they played The Little Drummer Boy several times; now, when I say several, I mean, "holy lizard with an afro, are you KIDDING me?!", several, several times. I lost track after the thirteenth go 'round, and I wish I was exaggerating that fact.

After that, I lost all interest. Any Christmas music wears on my nerves about this time every year. I mean, really, we've been going since Buford Thanksgiving, for heaven's sake! The 24th of November. Sixteen days of the same forty songs, sung by different people.

Reginald Kitty is not amused.

Speaking of Reginald Kitty not being amused, I saw this headline on MSNBC the other day, and knew I had to get that screen cap.

Now, of course, we are getting off track.
Anyway, annoying Christmas music.

As Frosty The Snowman played for the two hundredth time this season, it occurred to me that I never wondered why good ol' Frosty was carrying a broomstick in his hand when he went with the children through the village.
The conversation with my mother went something like this:

Me: What was the broomstick for, anyway?
Mother: Well, snowmen don't have feet, so he kind of used it to hobble along with. (Hobble with broomstick motion)
Me: Is that honestly the best answer you can give me?
Mother: I don't know, it's just what I always figured.

As the tune continued to play, I realized that the entire song is merely the tale of a suicide mission, on which the "snowman" endangers gullible children's lives.
How depressing is that?
Give it a listen, and see for yourself.

Of course, there is a slight bonus to this Christmas music season.
Maybe I had to look this up in the Urban Dictionary, and maybe I didn't. What's it to you?

While the holiday radio was on in the car the other day, I was happily sat in the back seat with my iPod turned up as loud as I'd like, rather than worrying about my hearing (you're never too young to take an active interest in the inevitable failure of your faculties). The excuse? Just because the Bose is noise canceling doesn't mean it covers it up all the way.

So, until the 26th of this month, I'll have to make due with "plugged-in" musical fun.
Until then, I'll just have to find something to keep me sane, and keep me rockin'.
I find the title of this song in line with my mindset today...

It's so refreshing to see that there are folks out there still willing to have fun with surrealism (Mr. Ross, I'm lookin' at you).
Of course, I have never understood the draw to abusing your instruments (time stamps 2:05 to 2:13). I know how expensive they are. You don't want to have to replace them.
Except you, Pete. I'm sure it would be a hard habit to break at this point.

As an aside, and not relating to anything, this is what my dog is doing as I write this post.
That's my baby.

Is It A Subscription Box, Or Something More Sinister? (It's A Subscription Box. Maybe.)