Sirius Radio started their Sounds of the Season radio lineup about two weeks ago, and since they are too cheap with my subscription money to spring for more bandwidth, an existing station’s format had to be put on hiatus in order to broadcast holiday cheer and other crap like that.
This year, Sirius decided to sacrifice 40’s on 4, thus, demonstrating true Christian charity by kicking Frank Sinatra’s sorry ass to the curb for the duration of the season.
Works for me.
Now, of course, people are bitching as they are wont to do, that “it’s way too early for all this Christmas stuff,” and after careful consideration, I think I have figured out why.
Firstly, because they’re dicks. And secondly, because they’re dicks.
Look, it’s never too early for some holiday cheer. Didn’t we learn anything at all from Auntie Mame? (Lucille Ball rendition, that is. All I ever learned from Angela Lansbury was how to solve a mystery in 47 minutes or less while surrounded with old sitcom stars.)
I love Christmas. Although, granted, Christmas doesn’t love me.
All my life I have been surrounded by:
1) Cynical, materialistic folks who either saw it as a day on which they couldn’t afford to give really good and wonderful gifts, so screw it.
2) Those who could well afford to give really good and wonderful gifts,but just not to me, so screw it.
Still, I always did, and still do have hope that someday, someday, someday, things will be different.
Like that The Kid in Bad Santa before the sequel fucked up my metaphor, I keep trying to follow holiday traditions for myself, even if no on else is on board. It’s kind of pathetic, I suppose, to be baking and decorating for no one, but there it is. I still love Christmas; the lights, the colors, the aromas, the whole “let’s go apeshit celebrating in retail” etc. It’s a nice change from the usual cynical crap I have to deal with the rest of the year.
You see, I married a guy who doesn’t really believe in celebrating anything.
Birthdays, holidays, the negative test strip, etc. His childhood sucked, so instead of shrugging it off and moving on to better things now for us, he decided to become one of those people who hides behind the modus operandi of “all the birds are dying.” No one is supposed to feel joy because somewhere, someone or something is not.
Living with “Morrissey-Lite” can get frustrating as hell, like when we are in the car and I want to hear vacuous 80’s pop tunes, and he wants to listen to First Wave because indie rockers were so much more in tune with the human condition, and sang about real life, Blah blah. (And who would set fire to a soup kitchen filled with homeless amputees for the chance to go mainstream.
Let me tell you about real life in the 80’s. It wasn’t reflected by Eurotrash chortling about whatever it was that sucked in Europe at the time. It’s was Rick Springfield trying to figure out how to screw his best friend’s girl. Let’s get laid first, then worry about feeding the world tomorrow.
Which brings about an ironic dichotomy for me, because, unlike most members of the pop culture generation, to me, Christmas is not heralded in by caroling chipmunks or Santa bringing up the rear of the Macy’s day parade. (Which always left me with a feeling of forlorness and disappointment, for that meant a day of boring football or black screen QVC was about to follow.)
No, for me, the Yule season hasn’t officially started until I hear privileged Brits trilling about how it must really suck to be African. Yes, when I hear BandAid on the radio, my heart becomes as swollen as the Grinch’s after the guilt sets in.
Do They Know It’s Christmas is a freaking masterpiece. A stupid, WTF masterpiece. (As opposed to America’s We Are the World, or, as I refer to it, “Us, Too!! We Kinda Care, Now That You Reminded Us We Probably Should) that become ensconced in my mind in that magical year when I started college, but hadn’t yet met any steady guys, so I hadn’t developed that hatred for humanity that was to eventually become my charm.
And isn’t that what Christmas is really all about?
And speaking of Eurotrash, who made the decision to let Michael Buble near a microphone? (Okay, not quite Euro, but the French sneer and unwillingness
to speak without an accent is close enough. I’m looking at you, Quebec.)
Santa Buddy? Honestly? So the best way you can think of to celebrate the Birth
of God Personified is by trying to convince a sacred icon of childhood innocence to help you get laid? Okay, carry on then.
And speaking of not Eurotrash. Good ol’ passive-aggressive Andy Williams, singing ironically about how “it’s the most wonderful time of the year.” Honestly, just listen to that shit with an objective ear. The man’s intonations alone give away an unsavory intent, as if he’s about to commence a mass murder at the family table. Good times.
Not as bad, granted, as John Lennon and Greg Lake: aka The Kill Joys to the World. (And the husband’s favs. Go figure.) Sure, people are having a good time and trying to forget their troubles for a short time, but hell, we’re artists, Goddammit, and deeper and smarter than you, so y’know. Death and Gloom. Because we care. ”
“So, this is Christmas, and what have you done?“
Honestly? Well, how about I just finished baking about fifteen dozen cookies for people I won’t encounter again for the next 364 days. So don’t fuck with me, “Mr Holier Than Thou if I Wasn’t Dead and an Atheist.”
And you just know Greg was the type of kid who just couldn’t wait to tell his younger siblings and classmates that Santa Claus wasn’t real.
At least George Michael’s depressing holiday song is festive with a dance beat.
“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart. But the very next day, you gave it away.”
The very next day? Really? Wow. Either he’s a really bad judge of character, or she was suddenly blindsided with the realization that she was dating a member of Wham!
Live and learn.