Another Christmas Round-Up

December 18, 2013:  Needless to say, I’ve been neglecting my Christmas duty (which is not to be confused with my Hanukkah duty, which is completely different and involves greasy potato pancakes). Year after year, you lovable fools depend on me to offer my holiday assessments, and being that the big X is a mere week away, I thought I’d better get my tired and curvaceous bottom to it and offer these latest words of cheer.

I know many of you have enjoyed previous Blah-ugh! postings involving Christmas iconography – pieces on Johnny Mathis, Patrick Stewart’s Christmas Carol, and of course Johnny Mathis. This year I’ve decided to again focus on the music, which is of course what Christmas is all about (along with the presents and Lactose-Free egg nog), so I thought it might be of equal—if not inferior—value to share what I believe are some of the definitive Christmas song versions accessible on our burgeoning airwaves (and through telepathy if you’re really, really good).

For me it’s easy to start with Michael Buble (or is it Bubble? None of us are ever really sure) and his incomparable version of “Let It Snow.” (Please don’t make me write that three times!) I was so happy the first time I heard it, and I thought it was Bobby Darin, and it may have been Bobby Darin, or still be, for that matter, but it’s a really great jazzy version and he just sounds so happy singing it … the fool. I especially like that it climbs up a step, or half a step; there’s climbing involved. Just peachy stuff!

I’d be hard pressed to find a better version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” than that sung by the great Jimmy Dean (whoever he is. I just remember he had a sausage commercial when I was growing up). It’s a very good version and has that unsettling overly serious quality so particular to good seasonal music. And as my real fans know, I simply can’t resist anything with the word “ye” in it!

Probably my most favorite holiday performance comes from Celine Dion doing “O Holy Night,” which just floors me. She holds those last monster notes forever and simply doesn’t sound human. I even went out and bought her album after hearing it, but it kind of sucks, to be honest, so I don’t ever put it on, except when I want to hear that song, which I don’t do often now because I’ve become really good at impersonating her in the shower, and when I want to hear the song it motivates me to bathe.

“Sleigh Ride” is one of my very favorites, and of course the best version would have to be The Ronettes. There’s just nothing like it, nor like Ronnie Whateverthehellhernameis’s wonderful churlish lisping voice. But I must say I also love the terrific instrumental Leroy Anderson version, which many of you will recognize from those bizarre old WNEW station identification commercials, where some weird melonhead family members of some WNEW employee would come on and give a video Xmas greeting with a Bronx accent. (It may have been channel 9, but I think anyone growing up in the 1970’s in the tri-state area knows full-well what I’m talking about.)

Tammy Wynette clearly does the best version of “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear,” and it’s such a cold, icy version it just puts me right there outside, like I’m lurking in a pine clearing on a full-moon snow night, watching some Jesus star causing all sorts of trouble. I just love that.

Mitch Miller gets the vote for Silver Bells, as does Moe the Bartender, but that’s another random tangent I can’t get into now.

There’d be no Christmas were it not for the Andrew Sisters, so I have to give them both “Jingle Bells” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” Both brilliant hopping versions make subtle cameos in the great movie “A Christmas Story,” both feature that awesome Big Band orchestration so near to my heart and intestinal tract, and while we have to suffer a bit of Bing Crosby in each, it’s worth it to enjoy Laverne, Maxine and Patti at the top of their games.

The Chipmunks probably do the best “Rudolph” version, and feature Rudolph himself singing. But I have nothing that funny to say about it, so I’ll move on.

While I intended to leave him out, as in my mind he is Mr. Christmas, Johnny Mathis’s “Marshmallow World” is beyond compare. But so many of his versions trump others too, I don’t want to go down that road right now, in part because I’m getting really tired and want to get back to watching “Die Hard 2” for the 23^rd time.

And what would Xmas be without mentioning old Nat King Cole, that merry old soul, and his quintessential “Christmas Song” version. But he also has other great versions, such as “Caroling, Caroling” and “Hark! the Herald, etc.” so I wish you people wouldn’t pigeon hole him just because he’s black.

Finally, what song list would be complete without the mealy acknowledgement of Vince Guaraldi and his piano’ed stuff, including “O Christmas Tree,” which has come to represent so much Christmas paste to us all who thrive on the magic of Linus Van Pelt and “5” … (I’m betting that less than five of you will understand that reference, but trust me, it’s a vividly clever one!)

There are many other holiday favorites too, but some are not officially standards owing to the singular recording. Great examples include Paul’s “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time,” John’s “So This is Xmas (or whatever the hell it’s called)” and of course the Beach Boys’ “The Man with All the Toys.”

Of course, this wouldn’t be the Blah-ugh! if I didn’t focus on the negative, so it’s important to note some of the awfulest Christmas songs and albums as well, which include Madonna’s “Santa Baby” and that “Donde Est Santa Claus” debacle. Other surprising disappointments have been several albums I’ve bought and either returned, destroyed or given away to book sales, from artists I would have otherwise had faith in for holiday fulfillment who failed me miserably – Barbra Streisand, Barry Manilow and John Denver among them.

Anyway, I’m tired of all this nonsense and need to get back to filling my sleigh with nougat and my ears with wax. Please have a safe and happy holiday and if you’re a Jew, I’ll see you over at Chiu Fai Gardens on Christmas Eve …

Yes, We Need a Little Naked, Right This Very Minute

January 7, 2013:  Monday morning, and the remaining bounty of Christmas decorations demonstrates the continuing—dare I say growing—need for spiritual fulfillment in America (or at least my little corner of it). Yes, it turns out I’m not alone in the satisfaction I garner by way of the holiday season, and despite my heathen leanings, there are few joys in my world like the magic I project upon December.

No, I’m not alone, except I suspect many people don’t acknowledge their hunger. In fact, we as a nation—a world, perhaps, but I wouldn’t know—are starved for spiritual connections and fulfillment. But we’re too embarrassed to know what to do. Yes, I said embarrassed, because in my definitions of spirituality, it’s our own cloying discomfort with ourselves—everything from our outside appearance to the personal stench of our inner assholes—that keeps us from letting our guard down enough to allow spiritual satisfactions in.

Why so serious indeed? Simple. It’s just fear—fear of … well, everything! Fear originally cultivated in our respective demented families of origin, but blindly perpetuated by a demented society, drives us, controls us, and—to this point—prevents us from allowing ourselves to experience the pleasure of a free spirit.

You must understand—in fact, I insist, if you’re going to read my Blah-ugh!—you understand that spirituality is not synonymous with religion or religious practices—though these can offer a means to the valuable end—but more importantly describes—identifies, in fact—who we really, authentically are, despite what our thinking muscle keeps insisting. If you’re able to set your thoughts aside for a moment—a delightfully simple yet simultaneously hard motion—and allow yourself to fully wake up into the moment of this very moment—you may just understand in that instant that all that you are right now—that whole awareness and consciousness—is everything about spirit, and that spiritual relates to all those things that aren’t centered with your physical body or your calculating mind.

That said, getting in touch with your authentic self thus demands—at some point—that you honor that self by letting it be itself. (My god, even the grammar checker on this stupid computer couldn’t digest the heady tone of that line!) The problem is that, so often … too often … we’re constantly bombarded with societal messages that prevent us from risking being ourselves, mainly because we live in fear of what other people may think, or that exposure of being ourselves will somehow prevent us from getting something we think we need.

But let’s shift back to more Blah-ugh!-related inquiries and ideals, and so move the question of What of the Jews? While the Clausians continue an impotent attempt to prolong vague spiritual stirrings through light bulbs, the Hanukkoids are hunkered down in customary defense, waiting for the next uprising. Some smart Jews—like myself—make a big show of endorsing Christmas in order to thwart suspicion and keep the Nazis off the trail. It’s pretty sneaky, I know, but what do you expect from a Jew? The sneakiness is in our blood. (Boy, this computer doesn’t like anything I’m doing today!)

But all kidding aside—and I want the B’Nai Briss to know I’m kidding—we’re never going to come close to achieving that much-desired spiritual fulfillment as a society until we lighten up and start running around naked, even in the cold weather. The upside of tragic events like Newtown is that they provide people an excuse to fall apart. That’s why so many people tend to wallow in these kinds of events, if you will, because it affords an opportunity to be naked without fear of reprisal, because for that window everybody’s naked and they won’t be singled out. People hate to be singled out, even me; it’s just that some of us, through necessity, grow used to it.

I propose that starting this year people begin an informal competition of displaying the most outrageous lawn decorations they can imagine—no holds barred. I think this will be a good spiritual practice for a culture desperate to have the stick yanked out of its ass, but too self-conscious to even acknowledge that it’s there.

Vie Geht es Innen!

December 11, 2012:  Guten Tag ... Well, well, well! I'm back. I'm guessing you, like the Westport school board, thought you could get rid of me if you held your breath long enough, but alas, I'm still here, like gum in the exquisite treads of your high-performance running sneaker ...

Believe me, I wouldn't even consider returning to this insipid Blah-ugh! if it weren't for the outpouring of support and invasive questions I've received these past two months--ironically from most of the same people. That, along with the general guilt I carry with me on an ongoing basis, makes it now the right time to move forward with entry Number ... I don't know, 147 or so ... So let's proceed ...

For starters, Yes, I'm restraining myself quite gallantly as I continue to meet such unnecessary resistence and ineffectuality from Westport's unconscious headstrong school administration. It makes me wonder if and when I'll see it as time to make public a couple of rather dark--and sincerely disturbing--secrets I have on a couple of those people. I'm really hoping it won't come to that, because I'm honestly not out to embarrass anyone. But there comes a time when one man must take a stand on behalf of the myriad wretches who are too frightened or too cowardly to do likewise, if only to strengthen this man's unbearably fetching ego. And if traditional means don't serve the public to the level it deserves, a hissyfit may be in order, and some of you have seen firsthand what a vindictive twit I can be ... and I'm referring to my friends! ... So stay tuned ...

But let's talk of more important matters ... I wanted to share about my remarkable discovery of Lactaid eggnog, which has truly changed my life, at least insofar as it relates to the holiday months. Many of you loyal readers know my issues with intolerance--lactose and otherwise--so please rejoice for me, for I can once again enjoy the tantalizing joy of late-night eggnog without an enzyme of worry about what disturbing surprises might greet me all throughout the following day ... Yes, my appreciation goes out to the Lactaid people, and let me say I especially like their logo, which features an impressionist icon of a man dancing with a cow. I want to be that man, or at least that cow.

On another note, I'm working on a new novel, which some of you will find even better than SPACE CASE, which many of you despised, and the rest of you didn't even bother reading. (I'm talking to YOU, Michael N.) This one, however, should be more palitable for the mainstream, if not more palatible. (I still can't decide which.) I'll tell you what it's about as soon as I'M sure, then we'll talk about how you can purchase it without feeling that you're, in any way, supporting me or what I do ...

And what DO I do? Wouldn't YOU like to know! But I can't tell you, because that would spoil everything, or at least it would spoil my next Blah-ugh! entrance, which promises to be chockful of thrills and drama and all kinds of cool punctuation ...

Which reminds me, when are people going to stop confusing the dash and the hyphen? Some of you are, perhaps, wondering when they're going to START confusing them, and this is why things get confusing, because half the time whatever I type anyway gets automatically corrected by the computer, so there isn't much power I have left with these written words.

And speaking of written words, if you haven't read "The Wind in the Willows," you're a toad, and not like a fun, rich toad, like Toad, but a nasty, wart-ridden carbunkle with nay the aesthetic flavor of a breathmint. Gosh, I just love this book. I honestly don't think I could name a better written book today, except for SPACE CASE, but that's a modern AMERICAN book, so it's kind of hard to compare. But man and toad alive, this is just some exquisite artful writing ... (Which reminds me, I intended to do an essay on how Toad's devious escapades with motor car driving are a clear metaphor for drug and alcohol addiction; Badger, Mole and Rat even do an intervention on the poor wretch, but ultimately they're second level enablers, and they don't allow Toad to hit his bottom ... But anyway, now I'm too lazy.)

So read the book, or don't. I don't care anymore. I'm feeling like Phil Collins that way. I just want to drink Lactaid eggnog, or just pour it on the cats, and watch Christmas movies and Halloween movies, even though I'm mostly Jewish, and ask myself redundant questions so I know the answers ...

Isn't life great?! I think it is ...

My Novel On Amazon for Kindle, and other Xmas Thoughts

December 24, 2011: It's Xmas Eve, as Johnny Mathis sings, and I needed to file this folly before all my holiday insights became irrelevant.

For starters, let's understand that my novel SPACE CASE is now available as an e-book from Amazon. ( http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006N3KJJU ) If you enjoy this Blah-ugh! even in the least, you'll absolutely love SPACE CASE.

Further, I'm counting on you to not only purchase the thing, but let everyone in your contact list know about it ... I'm counting on you, now ... Don't let me down ... And if for some reason you DON'T have a Kindle, I expect you to work twice as hard networking on my behalf. (Ask yourself, what have you done for me lately?)

Either way, please visit the link immediately and read the first few pages for FREE. FREE! Free, I tell you! FREE!!

Now, I had a few points to make regarding my confusion with certain Christmas song lyrics. Of course, I still have no idea what "wassling" is (per my silly old video -- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEQCMQq4184 ) and I suspect I never will. But there are other references and lines which are equally as baffling, and I wanted to make reference.

In particular, what does "in sin and Arab pining" mean in O Holy Night? Is that a reference to 21st century terrorism, and how could the writer have been so prescient? Is it that the Arabs are sad because of Jesus? Why does Jesus make Arabs sad, anyway, and does that have to do with Allah or Abdul or whoever their Jesus is? Is the reference that Arabs are inheritantly sinful because of their un-Jesus sentiments? ... I'm very confused.

Another thing I don't understand is what Theodore is saying in the song "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth." It sounds like "Sittin' to the kitten on a thistle," but what does that mean? Again, are we supposed to read something into this. As a chipmunk, is he wishing bad upon the cat, and if so, what are we cat owners supposed to think -- not only about the Chipmunks, but Theodore in particular.

I wanted to explore this topic further, but I also wanted to make mention of how embarrassed and appalled I was by Robert Deniro getting someone pregnant at age 68. I mean, what the hell is that about?! Is there no limit to the selfishness of man -- especially celebrity man -- who doesn't seem capable of looking ahead 10 years to the poor kid he sired who's going to have a 900 year-old father (if even that, gahd f'bid!) ... Ridiculous. And worse are all the sycophants around people like DeNiro who enable his thoughtless behavior, rather than telling him outright, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you selfish bastard!" ... Well, believe me, I'll tell him the next time I see him ... and you know I will!

Happy Christmas, and for all you Jews and minorities (myself included), Happy Hanukkah! Let's make it a great one (for me, by plugging my ebook SPACE CASE -- http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006N3KJJU ) ...

More on Christmas Music

November 27, 2010: Gosh, there are so many things I want to talk about, but right now all I can think of is this amazing version of "Go Tell It On The Mountain" I just heard Jim Nabors singing ...

It's odd, for I've heard it many, many times, but I never knew it was him. I thought it was some old baritone black guy, in fact -- "Old Man River" kind of thing. But, no, this was Gomer Pyle. My God! I'm flabbergasted ...

On that note, it's great to have my Christmas music going once again. Johnny Mathis, of course, remains my favorite, but others continue to grow in importance -- the Beach Boys, for instance, and now Jim Nabors! (Actually, the Jim Nabors is off of this old Columbia House two-record album I've carried around since my childhood -- "The Best-Loved Music of Christmas" -- and am now happily playing again and again with that great turntable I got at Target. (You dedicated readers may remember something about this turntable from past entries; I hope you do, because I don't, but I know I said something -- probably something angry.) The records are all scorched and scratched, but that's not stopping me from playing them over and over. (Several of the tracks skip so much, they only last about six seconds, but it's all lovely music to my season-starved ears.)

Isn't it nice to know what you like, and what makes you happy? More accurately, isn't it nice that I know?!

I think I also praised Celine Dion last year as well, although that might have just been in an email to Lindsay. She somehow looks like her to me, although I only wish she had her money, then we'd be closer friends. But I digress. And Lindsay, as you're one of the only people who ever reads this, it won't do me good to offend you, certainly not before Christmas! (I won't make any promises for what I may or may not do after the new year.)

On a parallel note, I can't for the life of me understand why it's so hard for me to memorize Christmas lyrics. I'm something of a musician/singer after all, as many of you know, and fewer of you care. Certainly the catalogue of my brain contains literally hundreds of songs that I know the words to, backwards and forwards ... But despite my annual over-indulgence in holiday tunes, I can't ever seem to retain but the most rudimentary parts of most of the songs. Why, I even go to Midnight Mass some years just to sing along, but I never know the words. Instead, I often have to phonetically fake them, like the singers in Abba, or Celine Dion.

Did you know that every year (for at least the past 20) I buy at least one new X-mas album? (For that matter, did you know I keep my underwear in the vegetable crisper?) This year I have my sites set on finding a good Robert Goulet compilation. There are two of his numbers on this record, and he's just a champ. He does this one called "Penis Angelicus" that's just remarkable, and not at all dirty, as the title might suggest.

Last year ... or was it the year before ... I went to see a whole choral production of the Hallelujah Choir. (It's called something -- the whole piece -- but I can't remember what. The Epistle? The Stovepipe? Something-or-other! I think it's by Handel ... or Handle, who came centuries later ... ) Anyway, they had this castrato singing, and it was remarkably embarrassing! He was beyond woman's-voice high, he was like a chipmunk, and we all had to sit there trying not to laugh, and if you closed your eyes he sounded like Ethel Merman hitting high notes ... But I just can't remember what that thing was called ... The Mendelsohn! Something like that ...

Anyway, I like Christmas music, even though I'm Jewish. That's the good thing about being the kind of Jew I am -- I don't take Hanukkah all seriously, like Sammy Davis Jr.

I'll Jog Tomorrow

October 14, 2010: Well, I've just come back from an invigorating jog around town, and even though I'll probably develop a rash if I don't shower presently, I wanted to take a moment to file my latest report.

You see, as I jogged by the river and became aware of the Christmas lights they keep in the trees year-round, it suddenly occurred to me that Jews should really get more into the spirit of Christmas.

Now you understand, I'm half Jewish, so I'm very comfortable bashing the whole race and stereotyping. (You'll also remember how vigorously I worked to try and ban the Nazi flag in Connecticut -- an effort I abandoned when I saw how the least amount of support came from the Jewish community, including the Anti-Defamation League (lousy Jews!).

No, but I jest. I jest because I love. And I also know that my tiny Blah-ugh! readership is solely composed of three anti-Semites, so it really doesn't matter what I write.

The point is, however, that these lovely white lights are just that, and while all the associations for me stem from picturesque homespun Christmas celebrations in my youth -- (Who am I kidding? My parents were drunk half the time!) -- I don't really see what difference it makes what religious holiday we're celebrating, as long as the lights are pretty. I myself could care less about Jesus (if that is his real name!). He means little to me, except he always looks so depressed in those church pictures. Mind you, I have nothing against him as Messiahs go, I only think he gets too much superfluous media attention, especially around the holidays.

All of this reminds me that Halloween is coming, and as you know I vehemently subscribe to the belief that it's really our most social holiday. (See last year's entry if you don't believe me ... you lousy skeptics!) People are even getting into the spirit with orange lights in recent years, and who can say anything bad about that. And the leaves are changing, as do the seasons, and so do I, and you need not wonder why.

I'm starting to itch now, so I've got to go. Try to keep an open mind as Halloween approaches this year, especially if you're Jewish or some extreme Christian who poo-poos the lessons demon worship can teach you.

A Tribute to Johnny Mathis

December 13, 2009: Despite the exquisite joy that Christmas music brings me, I still get very uncomfortable whenever a black person sings "White Christmas." They'll sing, "May all your Christmases be white," and the disturbing racist implications for someone like me -- someone who is, if not necessarily overly sensitive out of kindness, certainly suffering under the shame-based yoke of dysfunctional hyper-awareness -- can be alarming.

But I didn't want to take that tangent today. Instead, I hoped to devote a gentle column of celebration to the remarkable Christmas work of Johnny Mathis, who is neither black nor white, but a kind of seasonal caramel cafe' au lait -- a toasted chestnut, best tasted at the holidays.

Our family prides four of Johnny Mathis's Christmas albums, and each is better than the last. For me, Johnny's vaguely nasal heartfelt melodic enthusiasm perfectly captures all that I love about this glorious season. (And let's be clear -- it has evolved into a season -- a positive celebratory season of good vibrations and comradeship, assuming one chooses to look at it that way. The lingering religiosity is, to me, a quaint, vaguely amusing archaic vestige of mankind's nervous past, but the spirit that it's based in is an ideal one, one which I welcome and celebrate.)

(How odd it was to even see in the story "A Christmas Carol" a subtle challenge to that religiosity, when Scrooge frankly (and not unkindly) questions the Ghost of Christmas Present as to why his "kind" insists on quelling the Christmas-like joy of community by making shops and restaurants and everything close every seventh day. No one ever leaves those lines in in any of the movie versions, but they're certainly striking ones!)

But we were talking about Johnny Mathis, and I did want to point out how silly he sounds pronouncing "Baby Yay-soo" in The Little Drummer Boy song, and isn't that wording itself just ridiculous! Yay-soo indeed! But better still, how much more flamingly flambuoyant could Johnny get than in Sleigh Ride, when he notes that friends are calling "Yoo Hoo!" Gads, you've got to love his unfettered fagginess! ("Gone away is a new bird. Here to stay is a (gay) bird.") The freedom that comes with his heartfelt spirited songs of voices, openly proclaiming words of love and joy and fun. It just makes me want to get up and prance, and not care who sees me. (Woe that more of us don't invest time prancing, especially at the holidays ... But I'll analyze the fatuous ninniness of homophobia another time ...)

So that's my Johnny Mathis -- the great gay (and I mean here in the happy sense) glorious voice of the holidays. What better light to shine upon our blessed heads this joyful season, and what better man than this to pronounce in Voices the Word of wonder and hope and peace that is our lovely Christmas time!

Next Week: A detailed essay on why I hate Ashton Kutcher so much.