'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,
Commercialized cheer made me want to get soused.
I'd tired of false spirit that panders and sickens,
Flogging corpses of Charlies (both Schulz and Dickens).
The neighbors' houses, with decorations so bright,
Ensured that I wouldn't sleep well tonight.
A book in my lap, and a beer in my mitt,
I'd just settled in for a long winter's snit.
When out in the alley there arose such a ruckus,
I climbed from my lounge chair to see who the schmuck was.
I pulled up my pants and stuck toes in my shoes,
And grabbed up my ball bat to give him the news.
Yet what would my bloodshot eyes now reveal,
But a Chrysler Imperial with an old man at the wheel.
With a Camel in his mouth, he was flicking his Bic,
How was I to know that this was St. Nick?
While his long white beard was quite plain to see,
He shook when he coughed like he might have TB.
Then the jolly old elf finally got his smoke lit,
And said, "It's a disgusting habit, but I'm trying to quit."
His car held the clue that he was Kringle because,
It had Nunavut plates with just one word: CLAUS.
"Your car's cherry," I said, "and I think it's neato,
"But Santa, good man, why go incognito?"
Sighing, he said, "I've checked my list twice,
"But see here: Christmas can't come with a price,
"Some how you've lost our perspective, I fear,
"You're spending and buying too much every year.
"So I'm driving the U.S. with deliberate speed,
"To see if there's anything that folks really need.
"I've decided that I'm cutting way back, and fast,
"If things don't change, this trip is my last."
Astonished, I fell down, which was a mistake,
'Cause my seat collided with the tines of a rake.
Grabbing my end, I leapt in the air,
Crying, "Santa, what led you to feel such despair?"
"You're wasting your money on overpriced toys,
"They'll be broken by New Year's by the girls and the boys,
"Video games with violence and blood,
"Marking the birth of the Savior with crud,
"Pardon me now if I speak with presumption,
"And I regret if I've helped fuel your consumption,
"But the sight of the malls makes me want to barf.
"It's family that counts, your home and your hearth,
"Not the price of the gift, or the style of the wrap,
"Give your family a hug, instead of some crap,
"Tell your grandpa and grandma that you really care,
"Don't send them both sweaters that they'll never wear.
"Christmas isn't a time to show off your wealth,
"It's not only sinful, it's bad for your health.
"The credit card debts cause nothing but stress,
"And charging those gifts makes your budget a mess."
The Chrysler started to miss, and he gave it some gas,
Then said, "Look at the time! I'd best move my ass,
"I've got to get back to my North Pole lair,
"The reindeer and sleigh are waiting up there."
"But Santa," said I, "If our attitudes must shift,
"Then what are you giving to us as a gift?"
He coughed out some smoke, and said, smiling with mirth,
"Just a heartfelt note that says, 'Peace on Earth.'"
Then dropping the Torque-Flite down into big "D,"
He laid a little rubber and waved "bye" to me.
"To Glassport! To Port Vue! To Liberty and Lincoln!
"To Elizabeth and Clairton (hope the coke works aren't stinkin')!
"Your Fair City and White Oak, West Mifflin, Gill Hall,
"Whitaker, Homestead, Duquesne and Munhall,
"To the length of the Mon and the Yough from its mouth,
"To all the Versailles: North, borough and South,
"To North Huntingdon Township, Manor, and Trafford,
"To Wilmerding Borough, Mon City and Forward,
"To Pitcairn and Braddock, and of course, Turtle Creek,
"May next year bring all of you the joy that you seek!"
And I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight,
"Is Route 837 to the left or the right?"
Let's cut the figgy pudding, people. The best thing about Dec. 25 is that on Dec. 26, I won't have to listen to another danged Christmas carol for at least 11 months.
Most Christmas music is treacle. I'm sorry, but fair's fair. There are only so many bad pop singles that I can take in a day anyway. I have an even lower tolerance for pop singers warbling heartfelt interpretations of crummy tunes with insipid lyrics to the accompaniment of sleigh bells.
Yes, let's admit it: Most Christmas songs are awful, and they're not improved when some washed-up pop has-been covers them.
Think I'm wrong? Well, what Christmas song has ever been a hit outside of Christmastime? That's right, none. And before you say "Big 'duh,' no one wants to listen to Christmas music outside of Christmastime," well, nothing has prevented songs about summertime from being played on the radio all year long, has it?
Otherwise, The Beach Boys (speaking of groups that turned out execrable Christmas music, they're one of them) wouldn't have had a career at all, would they? Actually, it's hard to find a downside to that thought. But I digress.
Now, before you begin thinking that I'm a complete heartless, cruel, evil person, well, you're right --- but it's not as if I go around dumping cauldrons of boiling oil on carolers, or flipping the bird to children's choir. I'm perfectly willing to listen to traditional Christmas music sung by talented (or even untalented) amateurs. It has its place at community celebrations, or in worship services. I've even been known to sing along, and I've heard my singing described as "perfect." (Once, a vocal coach, upon hearing me sing, said, "I've never heard anyone do such a perfect rendition of a sick moose making love to an air-raid siren.")
I just can't take pretentious pop hackery masquerading as seasonal cheer. In fact, there a few Christmas songs that are instant turnoffs for me. If they come on the radio, I instantly change the station; if they're playing on the PA system in a store where I'm shopping, I will leave until they're over. I despise them that much.
James Lileks had similar thoughts in his column for the Minneapolis Star Tribune a few weeks ago. But he was much too polite, if that can be believed. I have no such constraints.
The all-time, King Kahuna of Krappy Khristmas Karols is "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer," by Elmo & Patsy. I thought it was only marginally funny the first time I heard it, and I was eight or nine at the time. It's one supposedly "ironic" joke --- "Ha! Ha! Grandma's dead! And she got run over by Santa Claus!" --- is repeated endlessly by people affecting fake hick accents.
Or maybe they're not faking. Maybe they are hicks.
Either way, "Grandma" has become less and less funny with each successive playing, so that at this point, it actually sucks the funny out of other things that it's placed near. Experts indicate that it would take the entire combined writing staffs of Mad, The Onion and National Lampoon and the cast of Monty Python, working 24 hours a day, seven days a week, up to five years to repair the funny deficit created by 20 years of radio airplay of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer."
Also, "Elmo & Patsy" were a real married couple who divorced after the song became a hit. All I can say is, good for 'em.
But there's no shortage of other records that are fished out of the garbage after Thanksgiving and pushed through the tinsel-flecked maw of commercial radio. No list of rotten pop Christmas records is complete, in my never-humble opinion, without including "Christmas (Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time)," by Paul McCartney.
"The choir of children sing their song. They practiced all year long. Ding dong, ding dong. Ding dong, ding dong. Ding dong, ding dong. Simply having a wonderful Christmas time. Simply having a wonderful Christmas time. Simply having a wonderful Christmas time. Simply having a wonderful Christmas time." Brilliant lyrics, eh? It makes you suspect that Ringo was the talented one.
The British royal family knighted this "ding dong," which explains everything you need to know about the decline and fall of the British Empire in the second half of the 20th century.
This song debuted in 1979, and you can understand why nihilism and double-digit unemployment characterized the UK during the late '70s. People in England heard this piece of krep and said, "Well, there's no point trying to maintain a high standard of living now."
It's pretty clear that when it comes to The Beatles, the whole was more than the sum of the parts. In this early '60s, the raw sound of early Beatles records jumped out from the pretentious, over-produced sludge that many producers were shoveling into the marketplace.
So what happened? After the Beatles broke up, John Lennon and Paul McCartney started producing pretentious, over-produced sludge like "Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time" and Lennon's piece of trite hackery, "Happy Christmas (War is Over)."
"And so this is Christmas, for weak and for strong, for rich and the poor ones, the road is so long, and so Happy Christmas, for black and for white, for yellow and red ones, let's stop all the fight." Gee, thanks John Lennon, for taking a brave stand against war and discrimination! To paraphrase Tom Lehrer, it takes a lot of courage to speak out in public against things that everyone is already against. You've shown us all the light.
With that in mind, I reserve a special load of coal for the stockings of all of the members of "Band Aid," for inflicting "Do They Know It's Christmas?" onto the public in 1984. Why should it surprise anyone that Paul Bleedin' McCartney was involved in this travesty?
This piece of crapola also required the talents of Bananarama, Culture Club, Duran Duran, The Eurythmics, Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Spandau Ballet and Wham! I don't know if "Do They Know It's Christmas?" hastened the decline of their careers, but it would serve them right if it did.
Oh, but you say Band Aid generated thousands of dollars in food and medical supplies for Ethiopia? Hey, guess what? McCartney, Bob Geldof and Phil Collins, who were also involved with this project, are multi-billionaires. If they really wanted to help, they could have bought Ethiopia. Pop stars can save their false piety.
At least there's no phony charity or preachy message in "Feliz Navidad," Jose Feliciano's contribution to the worst music of the season. "I want to wish you a Merry Christmas. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas. I want to wish you a Merry Christmas from the bottom of my heart." Lather, rinse, repeat. Boy, you really burned the midnight oil writing those lyrics, eh, Jose?
Maybe it sounds better en espanol. Or, maybe it sounds better when it's just not trilled through the nose of Jose Feliciano. But frankly, I don't intend to find out.
Lileks suggests that any Christmas music produced after 1965 should be burned. There's something to that. If forced to listen to pop Christmas music, I enjoy Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Nat King Cole, and Phil Spector's 1963 "A Christmas Gift to You!" (Anything by Phil Spector is Number One With a Bullet, as they say. Heigh-yo!)
But frankly, I'll be happy to wake up on Boxing Day and be free to turn on my radio and find it free of Christmas music. Instead, it will be nothing but right-wing talk show hosts still ranting about John Kerry two months after the election; endless commercials for colon cleansers, car dealers and erectile dysfunction pills; and burned-out "classic" rock tunes.
Come to think of it, I may start to miss the Christmas music.
A big announcement rocked the Western Pennsylvania media world overnight. A man who's become a fixture on the local scene announced he was stepping aside to get on with his life's work; he's been controversial at times, but I've very much admired his spirit and fearlessness.
No, not that guy, I'm talking about Dave Copeland:
Today marks the end of my nearly three year experiment with the personal blog. ... Blogs are the new email, and I do not want to be one of those annoying people who forwards you the same cute message, link or scam that all the other annoying people have already sent you. Silence is increasingly golden, especially in a world where anyone can have their own electronic column.
I will miss it --- and especially the great people who have emailed, left comments or just been generally supportive of the whole thing. And I won’t stop blogging; but future blogs will be focused and have a purpose beyond the reckless self-promotion that characterized this blog.
"Glassport was a wonderful community in those days, and still is," said the son of the late John and Cecelia Bradley. "The focus of our life very much was the church, St. Cecelia's parish in Glassport. Our family was very involved in the life of the parish and it became a part of our family existence." ...
The family ties aren't intertwined quite as much these days in Glassport - of Bradley's seven siblings and 12 nieces and nephews, only one niece is still there, a member of Queen of the Rosary who lives with her family along Monongahela Avenue.
But there are other Mon-Yough ties for the bishop-elect, a member of boards of McKeesport's Auberle and its Pauline Auberle Foundation.
The president got a tad petulant when fielding questions on Social Security. His emphatic response to any and all queries about his position on the subject was an indignant, righteous refusal to answer: “You’re not going to get me to negotiate with myself,” he repeatedly told the perplexed reporters. “I know what you’re trying to get me to do. You’re trying to get me to answer ‘Why this,’ ‘why that,’ to take positions -- don’t bother to ask me.” (Sam Rosenfeld, The American Prospect)
The Christmakwanukah# lights in our neighborhood began to appear before Thanksgiving, but as of last weekend, it's been like living on the Vegas strip. One house literally has enough lights on it that you can read a newspaper classified section off of the glow at night. Another has a giant inflatable Chilly Willy the penguin. (At least it looks like Chilly Willy, sitting on his igloo and wearing a toque, although I don't see Maxie the Polar Bear anywhere, and frankly, most penguins look alike to me.)
Wal-Mart or Pool City must have had a sale on animated light-up choo-choo trains, because three houses have identical light-up choo-choo trains, "puffing" clouds of smoke (actually, blinking lights). Two houses that are next to one another, in fact, have those choo-choo trains, running at top speed all night long.
Wouldn't you think that one of those homeowners, when they realized that the people next door had the same animated train on their lawn, would have been embarrassed enough to return their choo-choo to the store and exchange it for something else? Isn't it something like showing up at a party in the exact same clothes as someone else? Or at the very least, couldn't they have pooled their resources and put the two choo-choos together to make a longer train?
In any event, my neighbors must think I'm a Communist, or at least the neighborhood atheist. I don't have a single light or ornament or red velvet bow or giant plastic candy cane or anything outside. Supposedly, the fellow from whom I bought the house left strings of lights for me up in the attic, but I've neither the time nor the strong inclination to go up and look for them.
And if I do have time before Christmas to find the lights and toss a few strings of twinkle lights outside, you can be darned sure I'm not outlining the whole house. A few lights in the bushes are sufficient. They're like sprinkles on a doughnut. Just as I don't want to sit down and eat an entire bowl of sprinkles, I don't want to drape my house in Christmakwanukah lights.
It's not that I'm against Christmakwanukah lights in general. I kind of like a little festive holiday decorating. But there's a fine line between "festive holiday decorating" and erecting the kind of light displays that change the habits of migratory birds.
It's gaudy. It's excessive. It's tacky. It's borderline profane.
In other words, I suppose it's quintessentially American.
The funny thing is that I don't remember anyone --- at least in my little part of the Mon-Yough area --- going this nuts with Christmakwanukah lights when I was a kid. There are probably a number of reasons for that. First, strings of lights have become much, much cheaper; and then again, I grew up just as the economy of the Mon Valley was collapsing, so people probably didn't have the money to spare on gaudy light displays.
But I also wonder if it's only a coincidence that the over-the-top light displays began to appear in earnest after "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" started to run on television. People, Clark Griswold's light display was funny was because it was so over-the-top --- it wasn't the baseline target to shoot for.
Of course, there are worse things to spend money on than holiday light displays, and more important things to complain about. If it makes you happy to run 14 kW of Christmakwanukah lights around your tract house, then by all means, do so.
In the meantime, I may just set mirrors up around my house to reflect the glow of the lights from the other houses. It will have much the same effect at a fraction of the cost and effort.
And while we're speaking of this season, when we celebrate the birth of Thomas Edison, who invented Christmakwanukah lights, I tend to agree with James Lileks:
There's this peculiar fear of Christmas that seems to get stronger every year, as if it's the season that dare not speak its name. Check out the U.S. Postal Service Web site: two different stamps for Kwanzaa. One for Eid, two for Hanukkah. Two for non-sectarian "Holiday," with pictures of Santa, reindeer, ornaments, that sort of thing. One for the Chinese New Year. One for those religiously inclined -- it features a Madonna and Child. But the Web site calls it "Holiday Traditional." The word "Christmas" doesn't appear on the site's description of the stamps. Eid, yes. Hanukkah, yes. Kwanzaa, yes. Christmas? No. It's Holiday Traditional.
...
Yes, "Merry Christmas" means different things to different people. To those disinclined to follow the creed it represents, it speaks to the cultural traditions of America; to those who take spiritual succor from the season, it means something else. Bottom line in either case: Be happy. And if you're about to throw down the paper and fire off an angry letter to the editor, stop: Think. I wish you a Merry Christmas. I really do. That's all there is to it.
My house in North Bittyburg, overlooking Our Fair City, came with a nifty flagpole. Instead of having a rope up the side, like a conventional flagpole, it's made in telescoping sections --- to raise and lower the colors, you collapse the sections, attach the flag, and raise the pole up again.
The fellow I bought the house from left the flag flying all day and night, in any weather, but I like to take it inside at night, or if it's raining or snowing. (Sorry, but the rules taught by the Boy Scout Handbook die hard.)
Alas, the combination of precipitation and last week's cold snap froze the flagpole solid. I finally freed it up on Saturday, but knowing that Sunday and Monday were supposed to be bitter cold, I figured I had better prevent a repeat occurence.
Needless to say, when someone asked me what I was doing Saturday afternoon, I told them I would be "outside, greasing my pole."
(Rimshot.)
We'll end on that lame note; the time and energy I otherwise use slapping together Almanac entries were spent profiling longtime Pittsburgh broadcaster Bob James for an extended piece at Pittsburgh Radio & TV Online.
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