The more I see, the less I know, the more I like to let it go
It was eramundo’s birthday on Friday and I forgot to say anything, dammit. Happy late birthday, Lunar! You’re wonderful and MacGyver-like and in my top-ten list of people who could probably take over the world with three rubber bands, an empty Diet Coke can, and a few shiny rocks.
Anyway. So, New York is cold and windy much like Chicago.
This conference was actually kind of bizarre, because not only was I hanging out with Louise in my spare time, but my parents were along for the ride. My father and I work for the same medical society-I got my job through the glories of nepotism, thankya kindly, and also because I applied at roughly the same time the society was forming and they probably would have been willing to hire a semi-literate chimp as long as it kept the feces-throwing down to a minimum-but we do different things and go to different conferences.
Except this time, and so my mother decided it would be a smashing idea if she took the week off and went with us, and jaunted around New York at the same time. So, rather than flying or taking the train to New York, we drove. You can kind of see where this is going.
In general, I think New Yorkers get kind of a bad rap. For the most part I have found them to be fairly polite and helpful people, if somewhat hard to distinguish their accents at time. I mean, I’m sure there are your usual variety of assholes and weirdos out in New York, but I have never had a New Yorker suddenly stop in front of me and piss on a church’s steps or something. (Czech Republic, man. I forgot about that little occasion. I mean, I’m sure some New Yorkers do do that, but I haven’t had to see it yet.) And if the Spiderman movies have taught me anything, it is that New Yorkers will bond together in a heartwarming display of unity when one of their emblem superheroes is getting the everliving shit beaten out of him in front of them.
So, you know, for the most part I think New Yorkers are good people. It’s just when they get into cars that they turn into complete psychopaths.
The Lincoln tunnel was bad enough in its own right, because you’ve got buses on all sides of you and people trying to get into or out of lanes, and it’s hard to figure out where you’re supposed to be. And all the buses have advertisements on them that get old real fast. I had to spend, like, an hour staring at some advertisement for Fashion House and their Paris Hilton lookalike characters.
It did have the upside of germinating a seed of what I think might be a fun short story to write, but I would have to figure out how to keep it from copying Silent Hill too badly. And it would involve a lot of weird tunnel research. But hey, it’s always good to have these things for a rainy day.
So, it took a hell of a long time, but we finally got through the tunnel. Not five minutes after getting through the tunnel, I popped my New York finger-throwing cherry when a driver nearly T-boned us trying to get into our lane and beat the red light. I’m kind of proud of that, actually. I’m the least aggressive person I know when it comes to driving, and I was not sure of my ability to simultaneously panic, throw the bird, and yell, “Fuck you, you fuck!” It’s good to know that these things come instinctually.
Anyway, yeah, I give a big thumbs up to anyone who learned to drive in New York because you have stronger nerves than I do. After getting lost a bunch of times, we finally made it to the hotel uptown, tossed out suitcases in the lobby, and dashed out to catch a taxi to Chinatown to meet some of the society’s people for dinner.
Over the course of the trip, I hailed eleven taxis and used the subway on my own. Pelvic Thrusts of Victory all around!
The taxi drivers drive like maniacs, but that doesn’t bother me much. I dunno, as long as it’s them driving and not me, and it’s not my car, I have a hard time getting worried. We got to Chinatown fairly unscathed, dashed into the restaurant, and sat down in time for the fourth course. I wound up next to a radiologist from Florida who wanted to tell me all about what was wrong with cardiologists. This was useful, because the more agitated he got while talking, the less he noticed the food going around and I could swipe all the lychees without interference.
After dinner, we caught a taxi back up to the hotel. I looked around my parents’ hotel room (the hotel’s big selling point was that Beyonce had once stayed there) and evaluated toiletries (fair), heating system (working overtime), oddly situated mirrors (I think there’s something bizarre about putting a mirror so you can watch yourself on the crapper) and scenery (brick wall) before grabbing my own suitcase and hauling ass down to the curb for a taxi to Louise’s place. The taxi driver could not find her street and I had to have Louise direct me via cell phone to her apartment, even though I was pretty useless on that front.
(“What do you see in front of you?” she asked.
“An advertisement for the Flushed Away movie on a bus stop,” I said. “And a wino.”
“You want to take a right,” she said.)
Arrived at her swingin’ grad school pad, did not get a hug. This is notable only because Louise is one of my friends who Does Not Hug and I also visited a friend in New York who Really Likes To Hug, and I’m forever getting thrown off my hug/no hug groove when I have to hang with both of them at the same time. Louise let me into her room and I handed over the promised candy and foreign condoms; I had manfully resisted not opening the sleazy Czech Republic Train Station condoms , and we were delighted to learn there were two flavored condoms in there. Red and yellow, so whatever corresponding flavors go there.
We caught up on each other’s lives until about one in the morning. That included various conversational jewels like Louise describing her new coat-- "It's like being on the inside of a rabbit. A rabbit that's inside-out." There were also serious queries on my part along the lines of, "Well, is he ordinarily the sort of person who would deliberately piss on a cat?"
I like those bits of a friendship, all the stupidly hilarious comments that make no sense out of context, and generally make you sound even stupider when you try to explain them. I think that should be a meme of its own kind-list your top ten out of context jokes and see who manages to get them. You know, everyone has at least one incredibly tasteless thing they’ve laughed uncontrollably at. Usually it’s something really hard to explain out of context, too.
I’m not going anywhere with this, really. I’m just saying that hearing the words, "Sorry you’re dying. Have some pudding," will reliably make me crack up no matter what I’m doing. If they’re said in a South Park Cartman-esque voice, I can’t even function for the laughter.
And it’s derived from a really incredibly tasteless thing. I am a horrible person. But a laughing one. It even makes Louise laugh.
I rose at six, stumbled confusedly around Louise’s apartment in the dark, and eventually made it to the academy. The rest of the conference was business as usual, although the pastries were slightly nicer this time around. I actually managed to sit in on some of the lectures this time around which was enjoyable, if over my head. The best part about this conference was that everything basically took place in the morning, and I could spend the rest of the afternoons and evening doing fuck-all.
Of course, “doing fuck-all” actually translates to “doing whatever my mother thought we should do.” So, not so much with the freely roaming New York, but we saw the Rockettes, cruised along Fifth Avenue, browsed in the Rockefeller Plaza, saw the tree, and spent a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, all of which are things I would have wanted to do anyway. So that’s all right. Also, I ate street-vendor roasted chestnuts, which I think you’re legally obligated to do in New York at Christmas time.
The best part about the Rockettes was that there were actual camels involved in the show. And sheep. No goats, though.
Louise was lucky enough to land tickets to a taping of Jon Stewart’s “The Daily Show” while I was up there, so she went off to that and I took off on my own for one night. I ended up doing downtown on the subway to visit another friend, who works at an architecture firm in New York, and we had pizza and Italian sodas. I am not generally in the habit of putting whipped cream in my sodas, but I have come to accept that Italy puts whipped cream on nearly all food items, which is just fine by me.
Afterwards, she took me back to her apartment where we watched the conclusion of America’s Next top Model, despite my never having seen an episode before in my life, and discussed the hypothetical pilot of “The Vatican’s Next Top Pope.”
Eventually, I left and grabbed a cab back to Louise’s place. This was probably the most memorable cab ride, not only because the driver was in the habit of hauling serious ass for very short distances of street-we’re talking doing ninety for like twenty feet before having to jerk back to a halt-but also because he sang along with the radio very loudly while looking at a map. So there we went, the six-foot plus African-American driver and I, careening down Broadway while he enthusiastically warbled TLC’s No Scrubs in a baritone.
Good man. Good No Scrubs-singing man.
I figured it was a bad sign if the driver had to read the map while he was driving, but he got me to where I wanted to go and the fare wasn’t as bad as I expected and free entertainment along the way, you know? It did make me wonder though, why don’t more serial killers work as taxi drivers? I mean, c’mon, easiest way to obtain and transport potential victims ever.
The last night there, we took Louise out to dinner, and then she took me to her fancy grad school library, used someone else’s ID to illegally swipe me in, and let me sit there uncomfortably while she worked complicated mathematical equations. This all worked out in the end, because she introduced me to one of her good friends who had volunteered the ID, and he turned out to be quite nice, and we all went out to a bar afterwards and drank rum and Cokes until half past two in the morning.
The next day, I pried myself out of bed and made enough noise to get Louise up as well. Louise was a wonderful hostess who let me ooze into the bathroom first, and she even got dressed and came out into the freezing New York morning to bid me farewell. You have to appreciate someone who does that. Getting out of New York was easier than getting in, and now I just have to gear up to probably do the whole thing all over again in January. This time, I think I’m lobbying for the train.
I should have really put the music post up sooner, but I’m kind of lazy. Also, I do have cards/boxes of swag for various people, but you are probably going to get them the week after Christmas because again, I’m useless with this sort of thing. Anyway, have some music.
Mp3s for testing purposes only, delete after 24 hours or get a lump of coal shoved up your chimney by Santa, and by chimney I mean ass, and by Santa I mean the RIAA, and by coal I mean… well, you get where this is going.
George Winston - Carol of the Bells. Originally this was just going to be a post of all the different covers of Carol of the Bells that I have, which is kind of a lot. But I figured that would be rather boring after the third or fourth version, so we just have two versions. This one is an instrumental by George Winston, the same composer who did the music for “The Snowman” short tv/film adaptation. Watching the film and leafing through the book is my Christmas tradition.
I like this version because it’s so delicate. I’ve noticed that most versions of Carol of the Bells tend to be either very quiet and delicate, or massively loud and choir-overpowering.
John Williams - Carol of the Bells. And now, a version with the actual lyrics. I think this is actually the one that played in “Home Alone” which is kind of embarrassing to admit, but it sounds pretty enough. Carol of the Bells always reminds me of the last week of school before Christmas break in high school, because we would always have an assembly where the Madrigal choir would sing this song among others, and that was always good for missing at least one class.
Hark how the bells,
sweet silver bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away
Extreme Music - Sugar Plum Lairy. Electronica/techno remix of the Nutcracker’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” I try to see the Nutcracker every Christmas season, whether it’s at the Kennedy center (swank!) or the local community college (not as swank, but they let you take food into the theater, so just as good!) and I always enjoy it.
No lyrics.
The Electric Mayhem - Little Saint Nick. My other Christmas tradition is playing the John Denver & Muppets Christmas album for as long as I can until someone threatens to break the CD. Hey man, it’s the Muppets. I only get to listen to this CD and feel justified about it for one month out of the year. For some reason, the CD leaves out this song which was on the original album, and I don’t know why. It’s one of my favorites because it’s “The Electric Mayhem” playing, which is reason enough.
Just a little bobsled, calls it old Saint Nick,
But he sparks the buggy with a full speed stick.
He’s candy apple red with a ski for a wheel,
Then he gives gas and just watch him peel, yeah,
It’s the little Saint Nick, it’s the little Saint Nick.
John Denver - Noel, Christmas Eve, 1913. And another song off the same Muppet album, just John Denver on his own. This song is not so much with the wild drums and guitar solos, but I like it anyway. It’s sweet and plaintive and it makes me like John Denver more than I already do.
A frosty Christmas eve
When the stars were shining
I traveled for the lone
Where westward falls the hill
And for many, many a village
In the darkness of the valley
Distant music reached me
Peals of bells were ringing
The Harrison Sherwood Experience - O Holy Night. It’s kind of hard to describe this one. Twig had me download it last year. It’s “O Holy Night” done completely in bizarre sound effects, sped up to triple-time, and possibly on acid.
No lyrics, unless you count the "hyurk-hyurk" Goofy noises.
Jars of Clay - Christmas for Cowboys. Fuck off, I like cowboys. I think we have well established this particular fact by now. Anyway, it’s a cover of the original John Denver song, and it is one of the very few songs that Jars of Clay sing that is not actually about Jesus. Very quiet, very relaxed, I think I love the easy rhythm to it; it feels like an actual horse-gait.
Tall in the saddle we spend Christmas Day
Driving the cattle over snow-covered plains.
All of the good gifts given today
Ours is the sky and the wide open range.
It's Christmas for cowboys, wide open plains.
Blink182 - Happy Holidays, You Bastard. I really only wanted to include this one for the title, although it does give me a chuckle. I think I still prefer “I Won’t Be Home For Christmas” as the Blink182 holiday song of choice, but this one has an appeal.
It's Christmas Eve and I've only wrapped
two fucking presents
It's Christmas eve and I've only wrapped
two fucking presents
And I hate, hate, hate your guts
I hate, hate, hate your guts
And I'll never talk to you again
The Red Hot Chili Peppers - Snow (Hey Oh). Okay, so, not a Christmas song, but still one of my top five songs at the moment. It’s funny actually, because all the RHCP songs remind me of summer, and this one is no exception.
Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder where it's so white as snow,
Privately divided by a world so undecided and there’s nowhere to go
In between the cover of another perfect wonder where it’s so white as snow
Running through the field where all my tracks will be concealed and there's nowhere to go.
The Royal Guardmen - Snoopy’s Christmas. Who doesn’t like Snoopy? Seriously, man. There’s no one better to end the music post on. Plus, it’s such a jaunty song.
The news it came out in the First World War
The bloody Red Baron was flying once more
The Allied Command ignored all of its men
And called on Snoopy to do it again
Almost done. It’s just, there’s been something preying on my mind lately
Okay, I mentioned this to both Kadrin and Twig, and now I can’t un-notice it. Am I the only one who thinks Murdoc Nicalls from the virtual band, The Gorillaz, and Salad Fingers from-- uh, wherever it is Salad Fingers comes from-- share startling physical similarities? The rotten teeth, the greenish skin, the disproportionately long arms and torso, the red-pupiled eyes, the long fingers and... Okay, look for yourself.
Compared to--
Either they’re related or they’re meant to make sweet, sweet love. I don’t know which.
In that same vein, am I the only one who sees the horrifying similarities between Pyramid Head the Burger King King? Both are silent behemoths with oversized head-masks, both tend to appear out of nowhere, both are silent, both appear within videogames… Again, you wonder if they’re meant to be sleeping together or what. At the time Twig pointed out that the Burger King “King” really ought to be in Silent Hill, no one was running a writing meme, otherwise I would have totally asked someone for Pyramid Head/Burger “King” as my request.
I had a conversation with Kadrin once about how judgment is not possible except on a misty day, which he replied to with the suggestion that maybe I should judge him the day before a misty day, but only, like, ninety percent. Then on the misty day, I could perform the remains of the judgment. Which then branched into a discussion of whether it was possible on a foggy day, and how do you tell the difference anyway, and we never did reach a satisfactory conclusion.
I apologize to anyone I’ve gibbered at on AIM lately. I will hopefully be able to stop doing that soon. I’m just no good at waiting for news.
Anyway. So, New York is cold and windy much like Chicago.
This conference was actually kind of bizarre, because not only was I hanging out with Louise in my spare time, but my parents were along for the ride. My father and I work for the same medical society-I got my job through the glories of nepotism, thankya kindly, and also because I applied at roughly the same time the society was forming and they probably would have been willing to hire a semi-literate chimp as long as it kept the feces-throwing down to a minimum-but we do different things and go to different conferences.
Except this time, and so my mother decided it would be a smashing idea if she took the week off and went with us, and jaunted around New York at the same time. So, rather than flying or taking the train to New York, we drove. You can kind of see where this is going.
In general, I think New Yorkers get kind of a bad rap. For the most part I have found them to be fairly polite and helpful people, if somewhat hard to distinguish their accents at time. I mean, I’m sure there are your usual variety of assholes and weirdos out in New York, but I have never had a New Yorker suddenly stop in front of me and piss on a church’s steps or something. (Czech Republic, man. I forgot about that little occasion. I mean, I’m sure some New Yorkers do do that, but I haven’t had to see it yet.) And if the Spiderman movies have taught me anything, it is that New Yorkers will bond together in a heartwarming display of unity when one of their emblem superheroes is getting the everliving shit beaten out of him in front of them.
So, you know, for the most part I think New Yorkers are good people. It’s just when they get into cars that they turn into complete psychopaths.
The Lincoln tunnel was bad enough in its own right, because you’ve got buses on all sides of you and people trying to get into or out of lanes, and it’s hard to figure out where you’re supposed to be. And all the buses have advertisements on them that get old real fast. I had to spend, like, an hour staring at some advertisement for Fashion House and their Paris Hilton lookalike characters.
It did have the upside of germinating a seed of what I think might be a fun short story to write, but I would have to figure out how to keep it from copying Silent Hill too badly. And it would involve a lot of weird tunnel research. But hey, it’s always good to have these things for a rainy day.
So, it took a hell of a long time, but we finally got through the tunnel. Not five minutes after getting through the tunnel, I popped my New York finger-throwing cherry when a driver nearly T-boned us trying to get into our lane and beat the red light. I’m kind of proud of that, actually. I’m the least aggressive person I know when it comes to driving, and I was not sure of my ability to simultaneously panic, throw the bird, and yell, “Fuck you, you fuck!” It’s good to know that these things come instinctually.
Anyway, yeah, I give a big thumbs up to anyone who learned to drive in New York because you have stronger nerves than I do. After getting lost a bunch of times, we finally made it to the hotel uptown, tossed out suitcases in the lobby, and dashed out to catch a taxi to Chinatown to meet some of the society’s people for dinner.
Over the course of the trip, I hailed eleven taxis and used the subway on my own. Pelvic Thrusts of Victory all around!
The taxi drivers drive like maniacs, but that doesn’t bother me much. I dunno, as long as it’s them driving and not me, and it’s not my car, I have a hard time getting worried. We got to Chinatown fairly unscathed, dashed into the restaurant, and sat down in time for the fourth course. I wound up next to a radiologist from Florida who wanted to tell me all about what was wrong with cardiologists. This was useful, because the more agitated he got while talking, the less he noticed the food going around and I could swipe all the lychees without interference.
After dinner, we caught a taxi back up to the hotel. I looked around my parents’ hotel room (the hotel’s big selling point was that Beyonce had once stayed there) and evaluated toiletries (fair), heating system (working overtime), oddly situated mirrors (I think there’s something bizarre about putting a mirror so you can watch yourself on the crapper) and scenery (brick wall) before grabbing my own suitcase and hauling ass down to the curb for a taxi to Louise’s place. The taxi driver could not find her street and I had to have Louise direct me via cell phone to her apartment, even though I was pretty useless on that front.
(“What do you see in front of you?” she asked.
“An advertisement for the Flushed Away movie on a bus stop,” I said. “And a wino.”
“You want to take a right,” she said.)
Arrived at her swingin’ grad school pad, did not get a hug. This is notable only because Louise is one of my friends who Does Not Hug and I also visited a friend in New York who Really Likes To Hug, and I’m forever getting thrown off my hug/no hug groove when I have to hang with both of them at the same time. Louise let me into her room and I handed over the promised candy and foreign condoms; I had manfully resisted not opening the sleazy Czech Republic Train Station condoms , and we were delighted to learn there were two flavored condoms in there. Red and yellow, so whatever corresponding flavors go there.
We caught up on each other’s lives until about one in the morning. That included various conversational jewels like Louise describing her new coat-- "It's like being on the inside of a rabbit. A rabbit that's inside-out." There were also serious queries on my part along the lines of, "Well, is he ordinarily the sort of person who would deliberately piss on a cat?"
I like those bits of a friendship, all the stupidly hilarious comments that make no sense out of context, and generally make you sound even stupider when you try to explain them. I think that should be a meme of its own kind-list your top ten out of context jokes and see who manages to get them. You know, everyone has at least one incredibly tasteless thing they’ve laughed uncontrollably at. Usually it’s something really hard to explain out of context, too.
I’m not going anywhere with this, really. I’m just saying that hearing the words, "Sorry you’re dying. Have some pudding," will reliably make me crack up no matter what I’m doing. If they’re said in a South Park Cartman-esque voice, I can’t even function for the laughter.
And it’s derived from a really incredibly tasteless thing. I am a horrible person. But a laughing one. It even makes Louise laugh.
I rose at six, stumbled confusedly around Louise’s apartment in the dark, and eventually made it to the academy. The rest of the conference was business as usual, although the pastries were slightly nicer this time around. I actually managed to sit in on some of the lectures this time around which was enjoyable, if over my head. The best part about this conference was that everything basically took place in the morning, and I could spend the rest of the afternoons and evening doing fuck-all.
Of course, “doing fuck-all” actually translates to “doing whatever my mother thought we should do.” So, not so much with the freely roaming New York, but we saw the Rockettes, cruised along Fifth Avenue, browsed in the Rockefeller Plaza, saw the tree, and spent a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, all of which are things I would have wanted to do anyway. So that’s all right. Also, I ate street-vendor roasted chestnuts, which I think you’re legally obligated to do in New York at Christmas time.
The best part about the Rockettes was that there were actual camels involved in the show. And sheep. No goats, though.
Louise was lucky enough to land tickets to a taping of Jon Stewart’s “The Daily Show” while I was up there, so she went off to that and I took off on my own for one night. I ended up doing downtown on the subway to visit another friend, who works at an architecture firm in New York, and we had pizza and Italian sodas. I am not generally in the habit of putting whipped cream in my sodas, but I have come to accept that Italy puts whipped cream on nearly all food items, which is just fine by me.
Afterwards, she took me back to her apartment where we watched the conclusion of America’s Next top Model, despite my never having seen an episode before in my life, and discussed the hypothetical pilot of “The Vatican’s Next Top Pope.”
Eventually, I left and grabbed a cab back to Louise’s place. This was probably the most memorable cab ride, not only because the driver was in the habit of hauling serious ass for very short distances of street-we’re talking doing ninety for like twenty feet before having to jerk back to a halt-but also because he sang along with the radio very loudly while looking at a map. So there we went, the six-foot plus African-American driver and I, careening down Broadway while he enthusiastically warbled TLC’s No Scrubs in a baritone.
Good man. Good No Scrubs-singing man.
I figured it was a bad sign if the driver had to read the map while he was driving, but he got me to where I wanted to go and the fare wasn’t as bad as I expected and free entertainment along the way, you know? It did make me wonder though, why don’t more serial killers work as taxi drivers? I mean, c’mon, easiest way to obtain and transport potential victims ever.
The last night there, we took Louise out to dinner, and then she took me to her fancy grad school library, used someone else’s ID to illegally swipe me in, and let me sit there uncomfortably while she worked complicated mathematical equations. This all worked out in the end, because she introduced me to one of her good friends who had volunteered the ID, and he turned out to be quite nice, and we all went out to a bar afterwards and drank rum and Cokes until half past two in the morning.
The next day, I pried myself out of bed and made enough noise to get Louise up as well. Louise was a wonderful hostess who let me ooze into the bathroom first, and she even got dressed and came out into the freezing New York morning to bid me farewell. You have to appreciate someone who does that. Getting out of New York was easier than getting in, and now I just have to gear up to probably do the whole thing all over again in January. This time, I think I’m lobbying for the train.
I should have really put the music post up sooner, but I’m kind of lazy. Also, I do have cards/boxes of swag for various people, but you are probably going to get them the week after Christmas because again, I’m useless with this sort of thing. Anyway, have some music.
Mp3s for testing purposes only, delete after 24 hours or get a lump of coal shoved up your chimney by Santa, and by chimney I mean ass, and by Santa I mean the RIAA, and by coal I mean… well, you get where this is going.
George Winston - Carol of the Bells. Originally this was just going to be a post of all the different covers of Carol of the Bells that I have, which is kind of a lot. But I figured that would be rather boring after the third or fourth version, so we just have two versions. This one is an instrumental by George Winston, the same composer who did the music for “The Snowman” short tv/film adaptation. Watching the film and leafing through the book is my Christmas tradition.
I like this version because it’s so delicate. I’ve noticed that most versions of Carol of the Bells tend to be either very quiet and delicate, or massively loud and choir-overpowering.
John Williams - Carol of the Bells. And now, a version with the actual lyrics. I think this is actually the one that played in “Home Alone” which is kind of embarrassing to admit, but it sounds pretty enough. Carol of the Bells always reminds me of the last week of school before Christmas break in high school, because we would always have an assembly where the Madrigal choir would sing this song among others, and that was always good for missing at least one class.
Hark how the bells,
sweet silver bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away
Extreme Music - Sugar Plum Lairy. Electronica/techno remix of the Nutcracker’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.” I try to see the Nutcracker every Christmas season, whether it’s at the Kennedy center (swank!) or the local community college (not as swank, but they let you take food into the theater, so just as good!) and I always enjoy it.
No lyrics.
The Electric Mayhem - Little Saint Nick. My other Christmas tradition is playing the John Denver & Muppets Christmas album for as long as I can until someone threatens to break the CD. Hey man, it’s the Muppets. I only get to listen to this CD and feel justified about it for one month out of the year. For some reason, the CD leaves out this song which was on the original album, and I don’t know why. It’s one of my favorites because it’s “The Electric Mayhem” playing, which is reason enough.
Just a little bobsled, calls it old Saint Nick,
But he sparks the buggy with a full speed stick.
He’s candy apple red with a ski for a wheel,
Then he gives gas and just watch him peel, yeah,
It’s the little Saint Nick, it’s the little Saint Nick.
John Denver - Noel, Christmas Eve, 1913. And another song off the same Muppet album, just John Denver on his own. This song is not so much with the wild drums and guitar solos, but I like it anyway. It’s sweet and plaintive and it makes me like John Denver more than I already do.
A frosty Christmas eve
When the stars were shining
I traveled for the lone
Where westward falls the hill
And for many, many a village
In the darkness of the valley
Distant music reached me
Peals of bells were ringing
The Harrison Sherwood Experience - O Holy Night. It’s kind of hard to describe this one. Twig had me download it last year. It’s “O Holy Night” done completely in bizarre sound effects, sped up to triple-time, and possibly on acid.
No lyrics, unless you count the "hyurk-hyurk" Goofy noises.
Jars of Clay - Christmas for Cowboys. Fuck off, I like cowboys. I think we have well established this particular fact by now. Anyway, it’s a cover of the original John Denver song, and it is one of the very few songs that Jars of Clay sing that is not actually about Jesus. Very quiet, very relaxed, I think I love the easy rhythm to it; it feels like an actual horse-gait.
Tall in the saddle we spend Christmas Day
Driving the cattle over snow-covered plains.
All of the good gifts given today
Ours is the sky and the wide open range.
It's Christmas for cowboys, wide open plains.
Blink182 - Happy Holidays, You Bastard. I really only wanted to include this one for the title, although it does give me a chuckle. I think I still prefer “I Won’t Be Home For Christmas” as the Blink182 holiday song of choice, but this one has an appeal.
It's Christmas Eve and I've only wrapped
two fucking presents
It's Christmas eve and I've only wrapped
two fucking presents
And I hate, hate, hate your guts
I hate, hate, hate your guts
And I'll never talk to you again
The Red Hot Chili Peppers - Snow (Hey Oh). Okay, so, not a Christmas song, but still one of my top five songs at the moment. It’s funny actually, because all the RHCP songs remind me of summer, and this one is no exception.
Deep beneath the cover of another perfect wonder where it's so white as snow,
Privately divided by a world so undecided and there’s nowhere to go
In between the cover of another perfect wonder where it’s so white as snow
Running through the field where all my tracks will be concealed and there's nowhere to go.
The Royal Guardmen - Snoopy’s Christmas. Who doesn’t like Snoopy? Seriously, man. There’s no one better to end the music post on. Plus, it’s such a jaunty song.
The news it came out in the First World War
The bloody Red Baron was flying once more
The Allied Command ignored all of its men
And called on Snoopy to do it again
Almost done. It’s just, there’s been something preying on my mind lately
Okay, I mentioned this to both Kadrin and Twig, and now I can’t un-notice it. Am I the only one who thinks Murdoc Nicalls from the virtual band, The Gorillaz, and Salad Fingers from-- uh, wherever it is Salad Fingers comes from-- share startling physical similarities? The rotten teeth, the greenish skin, the disproportionately long arms and torso, the red-pupiled eyes, the long fingers and... Okay, look for yourself.
Compared to--
Either they’re related or they’re meant to make sweet, sweet love. I don’t know which.
In that same vein, am I the only one who sees the horrifying similarities between Pyramid Head the Burger King King? Both are silent behemoths with oversized head-masks, both tend to appear out of nowhere, both are silent, both appear within videogames… Again, you wonder if they’re meant to be sleeping together or what. At the time Twig pointed out that the Burger King “King” really ought to be in Silent Hill, no one was running a writing meme, otherwise I would have totally asked someone for Pyramid Head/Burger “King” as my request.
I had a conversation with Kadrin once about how judgment is not possible except on a misty day, which he replied to with the suggestion that maybe I should judge him the day before a misty day, but only, like, ninety percent. Then on the misty day, I could perform the remains of the judgment. Which then branched into a discussion of whether it was possible on a foggy day, and how do you tell the difference anyway, and we never did reach a satisfactory conclusion.
I apologize to anyone I’ve gibbered at on AIM lately. I will hopefully be able to stop doing that soon. I’m just no good at waiting for news.