Thanks, Boss!

I've been trying to figure out how to write this for fourteen years now.  It initially started as a letter.  That didn't gel quite the way I wanted it to.  I've expressed it in a couple of different ways over the years.  I've never been satisfied with the end results and I'm not sure I will be now.

I've always hated symbolism. When I was in high school and college, my English teachers tended to focus on it a lot in the stories we would read. They would ask us what the author really meant when s/he said this or that. And of course my teachers, especially in high school, gave me the impression that theirs was the only correct answer. To add insult to injury, most of the time, the authors in question were dead and couldn't defend their works. My college professors were a little better inasmuch as they allowed for other people to have their own interpretations and opinions. Honestly, though, the whole thing kind of turned me off to reading for a long time. I still contend that the best thing I read in college was Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis and that's just because I took it at face value. I refused to look at it as anything more than a great science fiction story about a guy who turns into a bug.

The one thing that symbolism did spark in me was an interest in writing my own stuff (and if you're still reading it, thank you). I was particularly proud of a poem I wrote in high school. On the surface it was about a relationship between two people, based loosely on my relationship with my best friend at the time. I won't share it here because it's a pretty bad poem. What I took pride in was the fact that if you took the last word of every line it read "There is absolutely no! symbolism in this poem whatsoever--I'm just being a smart-ass." I was also quite fond of the exclamation point after the word "no."

Somewhere along the line, I discovered that symbolism is entirely subjective, not to mention personal. What you get out of something may be completely different from what I get out of it. And both of those interpretations may have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with what the author was trying to convey in the first place.

In retrospect, I may have actually discovered this around the same time I wrote that bad poem. It was during this time, that I was asked to give a report on the most recent movie I'd seen. The movie happened to be The Blues Brothers and I went into some b.s. about the religious and spiritual significance I had managed to glean from it (my English teacher liked to think she was actually teaching Sunday School). I highly doubt that's what Dan Aykroyd had in mind when he wrote the script for the film, but, after twenty-five years, I've reached the point where I actually believe my own line of b.s.

I came to the conclusion that symbolism is not something you should look for. If you are, any meaning you get out of it might ring a little hollow--at least it certainly does for me. As I said, it's subjective and personal. Instead, I think symbolism is something that should come to you organically. It could come to you gently or it could hit you upside the head like a ton of bricks.

For me, it was in the summer of 2002.  Not my best summer.  I was watching my best friend and the only woman I've ever truly loved prepare to marry someone else--for the second time in our adult lives (please refer to my post "Nice Guy Blues").  I was coming to the realization that I couldn't have her in my life without falling in love with her and I couldn't fall in love with her without getting hurt.  Frankly, I was tired of getting hurt.  I knew I had to walk out of her life as permanently as possible.  That was not the easiest thing to do given the fact that we had known each other since the age of five.

I had heard that Bruce Springsteen was releasing a new album.  It would be his first with the E Street Band since Born in the USA in 1984.  I was only beginning to realize the power of Springsteen's music (please refer to my post "Manual vs. Automatic Transmissions").  I heard the first single, "Lonesome Day," while stuck in traffic one afternoon and started to dig it immediately.  I decided I had to buy the album the day of its release.

So on July 30, 2002, I bought the deluxe edition of the Boss's new album, The Rising.  I took it home and listened to it.  I knew going in that much of the album was inspired by the tragedy that was September 11, 2001.  However, when I listened to the songs, they spoke to me in a way that had nothing to do with that horrible morning nearly a year earlier.  Most of the more somber songs seemed to sum up how I was feeling in the moment with all my personal drama.

Initially, I was just looking forward to a new album from an artist I liked, particularly when he was backed by one of the greatest bands in rock and roll history for the first time in eighteen years.  What I got was symbolism that I wasn't looking for hitting me upside the head like a ton of bricks.

The song that stands out the most to me (both personally as well as to prove my point about symbolism) is the album's closing track, "My City of Ruins."  Due to Springsteen's performance at a benefit concert after 9/11, the song came to symbolize New York after that day.  Personally, it symbolized my own broken heart in the wake of losing, quite possibly, the best friend I've ever had.  And yet, Springsteen wrote it about Asbury Park, New Jersey.  It's amazing how something can mean different things to different people.

In the intervening years, I've come to appreciate the Boss's music more than I ever had before.  After The Rising, I revisited 1978's Darkness on the Edge of Town, which became a staple in my late-night listening (and aimless driving) over the next year or so.  Every subsequent studio album he's recorded I've felt compelled to pick up the day of its release.  Each one seems to contain something that I can symbolically interpret to aid in my own current existence.  2012's "Wrecking Ball" has become something of an anthem--to the point that I actually want it played at my funeral (note:  this is "Wrecking Ball" by Bruce Springsteen--not Miley Cyrus... or Grace Slick, come to think of it).

I've just finished reading his memoir, Born To Run.  Aside from the Cubs winning the World Series, it stands for me as the only high point of an otherwise crappy year--it may even be as crappy as 2002.  While the reviews I've read seem to think he was a bit heavy-handed in his language, I have to admit that that was one of the things I loved about it.  As someone who loves language and the music of Bruce Springsteen, I can't recommend the book highly enough.

Ultimately this post (as well as its underwhelming predecessors) is meant to serve as a thank you letter to the man himself.  I doubt he will ever read this.  I'm sure he gets these sorts of things all the time.  But I want to take this opportunity to personally thank Bruce Springsteen for everything he's done over the last forty-five years.  His music (and now his literature) has meant so much to me, probably more than I can possibly explain here.  It's been a source of inspiration and a remedy for those things that make life almost unbearable.  Whenever I've been at my lowest, I can always come back to his work and feel a little better about my life and the things that trouble it.  For that I will always be grateful.

Thanks, Boss!

What the 2016 World Series Means to Me

This week has given me more than my fair share of opportunities to reflect on what it means to be a fan of the Chicago Cubs.  I've never really been a fan of sports in general.  However, the older I've gotten the more I enjoy the game of baseball and even that I've only been doing since my early- to mid-twenties.  But I've been a Cubs fan my whole life.

It's a hereditary affliction.  I get it from my dad who got it from my grandmother.  I've often said that the term "Chicago Cubs fan" is offensive and derogatory to the degree that only other Cubs fans can call each other Cubs fans.  I preferred to think of myself as a third generation "Masochistic-American."  When I told people this, I would be quick to point out that my American League team is the Cleveland Indians, which usually prompted statements along the lines of, "Boy, you really are a masochist, aren't you?"  Now it's no longer a laughing matter.

Some of the most important moments of my life, happy and sad, involve the Cubs.  When my grandmother died in 1989, my family was sitting around my grandparents' house.  It felt like a vacuum in that living room.  Someone suggested we do something.  The obvious question was what would she have done?  Someone (my aunt, I think) said that Grandma would turn on the TV and see how the Cubs were doing.  So we watched the rest of the game.  One got the impression that even they knew they had lost a fan that day.  The Atlanta Braves beat them 8-5.

At the age of 34, my father and I were asked to house- and dog-sit for my aunt while the women in our family took a trip to Holland.  Before I arrived, Dad suggested we go to a Cubs game.  I realized that this would be one of those great father/son moments that I would treasure the rest of my life and I jumped at the opportunity.  I wasn't wrong.  On 9 May, 2008, I attended my first Major League baseball game in the Friendly Confines of Wrigley Field.  I felt like a little kid walking around that place.  So much baseball history.  So much money spent on souvenirs and concessions.  Phrases like "You can't quiet The Riot" and "Fukudome is my Homie" entered my vocabulary and I became a fan of the music of Steve Goodman.  I had an amazing day with Dad that I wouldn't have traded for anything.  And to make it even better, the Cubs beat the Arizona Diamondbacks 3-1.

In the intervening years, I followed my favourite team.  I would watch as they would have a promising season only to blow it in the playoffs, if they even got there.  Dad even bought a hoodie with the Cubs logo that read "Never October."

The worst came last season.  Jon Stewart had New York Mets' pitcher Matt Harvey on his program.  I'd been a fan of Stewart's since before "The Daily Show" was even on the air.  But, as a Cubs fan, I was mildly annoyed by the fact that he was always complaining about how the Mets let him down year after year.  So I made a fake radio broadcast which I posted on YouTube.  In it, I gave him what for and pointed out that for all of his frustration and disappointment, things could be worse for him in the baseball department.  I doubt he ever saw the video.  But after the Mets swept my Cubbies in the National League Championship Series roughly six months later, I stood behind every word (you can check out what I said below.  I'm still proud of that video).

This year, however, the video, the hoodie, the term "Masochistic-American," curses involving billy goats... they're all outdated relics of a bygone era.  At about half-past midnight this past Thursday morning, the Chicago Cubs won their first World Series since 1908.  They beat, of all teams, my Cleveland Indians.

It was everything a baseball fan could hope for.  It was Game 7.  There was a lead-off home run, a three-run lead that was tied up in the eighth inning, and a rain delay before the tenth inning.  It was a nail-biter.  And in the end, the Cubs won 8-7.  Like a lot of fully grown adults, I was so excited I cried.  I cried partially because of the excitement at seeing my favourite team finally shed the image of "lovable losers," but also because Dad died in May and wasn't here to enjoy it with me.

I find it interesting that one of the last things he did was buy two large screen televisions so that he could watch the Cubs play even though he threatened every fall to stop rooting for them.  Mom and I figure the Cubs won it all because Dad was probably haunting Wrigley Field most of the season.  I remember texting my sister after they won the NLCS (I cried over that too).  She reminded me that Dad actually claimed that they would never win the World Series in his lifetime.

I've spent the last six months trying to get a handle on everything surrounding Dad's death--dealing with the house we just bought, the estate, legal hassles, even just simple mourning.  All of that was like the eighth inning.  You Cubs fans know what I'm talking about.  Aroldis Chapman took the mound with two outs already secured.  But his arm was overworked.  He couldn't throw like he had in previous games and proceeded to let the Indians tie it up.  The more superstitious and cynical among us (myself included) thought, "this is where we're finally going to choke."  We could see the wheels coming off.  But they held on into extra innings and finally managed to win.  After that, I finally got a sense that everything will eventually be okay.

Nice Guy Blues

ROYAL TENNENBAUM (Gene Hackman):  Can I say something to you, Henry?
HENRY SHERMAN (Danny Glover):  O.K. 
ROYAL:  I've always been considered an asshole for about as long as I can remember.  That's just my style.  But I'd really feel blue if I didn't think you were gonna forgive me. 
HENRY:  I don't think you're an asshole, Royal.  I just think you're kind of a son of a bitch. 
ROYAL:  Well, I really appreciate that.
--from the film The Royal Tennenbaums (written by Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson), 2001

A while back, I was asked an interesting question by a couple of female friends whose anonymity I've sworn to protect.  They asked me "Why are men jerks?"  At the time, I gave what I thought was a semi-educated, semi-scientific explanation into the male psyche (truthfully I just blamed testosterone).  But as the day progressed, the more the question gnawed at me and I realized that there were other elements involved and more questions raised.  What follows is my attempt to make sense of it (at least from a heterosexual male perspective).  I'm not saying that my conclusions are 100% correct, they are only based on my own personal observations over the last 25 years or so.

The first thing I have to do is correct two fallacies in the question itself.  First of all, men aren't jerks.  They're assholes.  And, as the film dialogue quote above hopefully pointed out, it's important to make these kinds of distinctions.  Personally, I've always found that jerks are easier to tolerate than assholes.  From least offensive to most offensive, the scale reads douchebag, jerk, dick, dickhead, prick, asshole.  It's hard for me to determine where sons of bitches fall in that spectrum--I've not met too many (nor have I met their mothers).

The second fallacy I need to correct is that not all men are assholes.  Granted, most of them are, which really sucks because it gives the rest of us a bad name.  And at the risk of sounding conceited, you read that last sentence correctly:  I do lump myself in with the minority of men who aren't assholes.  I will admit to having my moments (many of you, especially if you're related to me, I'm sure can verify this), but unlike most assholes, I can at least admit when I'm being one, which, in my book, puts me at an advantage over your everyday, run-of-the-mill, garden variety asshole.  I try not to be one as much as possible, but as my father once said about being an asshole, "sometimes it's necessary."  It's when "sometimes" becomes "all the time" that problems can arise and people can get hurt.

Which brings us to the newly revised question:  Why are most men assholes?  I do stand by my original statement that testosterone probably plays a big part in that.  But in my pondering of this question, I also realized an important truth.  Most men are assholes because they know that it will get them laid (a desire driven by testosterone).  Being an asshole, especially if you come by it naturally, is much more attractive to the opposite sex than being a "nice guy."  Those of you out there who are nice guys will probably back me up on this.  Even if you're lucky enough to be involved with, or even married to the most beautiful woman in the world (at least for you), you probably lost a lot of women in your day to complete and total assholes, am I right?

Which brings us to the much more important underlying question:  Why do otherwise intelligent women insist on dating assholes?  I asked this of my anonymous female friends (it almost sounds as if they're ashamed to admit they're my friends, doesn't it?).  While the response I got was less than satisfactory, it would appear that most nice guys have some kind of "quirky" quality (that was actually the word used) that keeps them from being attractive to most women.

Blindness (on the part of the woman) also seems to factor into the equation.  Because, let's be honest, when it comes to attracting women, assholes can put on the charm.  And the only one who doesn't see through it is the woman the asshole is trying to seduce.

Again--I'm speaking from experience here.  Most of the women I've been attracted to in my life (at least the ones I've had the courage to say something to), always went for the asshole for one reason or another.  The only time I remember losing out to a decent guy, it was only because he had an English accent.  Clearly there was no way I could compete against that (of course, what does that say about her?).

For all women who might be reading this, let me just go on record as saying that "nice guy" (or, even worse, "really nice guy") is the most backhanded compliment someone can give to a man.  It's just a euphemism for "boring."  You may as well just say, "You will never ever see me naked and I'm going to date morons and assholes and guys who treat me like shit and complain about them to you because their faults make them infinitely more interesting than you can ever hope to be."  That's what "nice guy" really means and anyone who says differently is.... well, frankly, a woman.  Sorry I cracked your code, ladies!

I know I sound somewhat bitter and resentful about this.  You know what?  I am!  I've spent the better part of my life watching women I care about (both romantically and platonically) get hurt by one asshole after another when there are plenty of decent guys out there who have to wear wristwatches because those women who are dating assholes refuse to give them the time of day.

But that's not even the worst part.  The worst part is when the newly heartbroken woman comes up to me (strictly as a friend, of course) and says something along the lines of, "Why can't I find a decent guy like you?"  And there's a small part of me that wants to suddenly become a (justified in this instance) asshole and say, "What the fuck?  I'm standing right in front of you!  You go all gushy over this downright pathetic excuse for not just a man but a human being, and when he inevitably hurts you (as I predicted he would), you say you want a guy like me?  And all the time I'm right here--and yet, I couldn't even get laid if I were an egg!"

Of course, I don't say that, because I try hard not to be an asshole (even when it's sometimes necessary).  And all I can do is put my arms around her and tell her it's not her fault and that she'll find her Prince Charming someday.  You know... a nice guy just like me... but not.

A word of warning--if any of you nice guys reading this think it's a good idea to adopt the persona of an asshole in an attempt to attract women, don't.  It doesn't work.  You have to have been born an asshole and/or work at it your whole life (with apologies to Fred "August" Campbell).  I've found that women are really only attracted to the genuine article.

And for all the ladies who insist on dating assholes, let me explain a few things to you (not that I expect you to listen, but I'm going to say it anyway).  First of all, you're not going to change him.  Again, he was likely born that way and probably worked at it his whole life.  Secondly, nice guys aren't necessarily boring.  Give one a chance.  You might be pleasantly surprised.  To reiterate, I don't expect anyone to listen to me on this, but I suppose hope springs eternal.

The Questionnaire

For years, I've enjoyed the television program "Inside the Actor's Studio."  I'm always impressed with the research that host James Lipton puts into each actor and I truly relish their responses.  I've even enjoyed those episodes featuring actors of whom I'm not particularly fond.

Like a lot of viewers, my favourite segment of the program is when Lipton asks his guests a series of questions that French television presenter Bernard Pivot asked his guests for many years.  The questionnaire itself goes back to Marcel Proust who answered such a questionnaire in 1890 (thank you, Wikipedia) and has been adapted by Pivot and Lipton in the intervening years.

The ultimate thrill for me would be to be a guest on "Inside the Actors Studio" just to be asked these questions by Mr. Lipton.  This fantasy of mine seems highly unlikely if, for no other reason, I'm not an actor.  And even if I were to drop everything tomorrow and pursue it as a profession (and don't think I haven't thought of it), by the time I paid my sufficient dues and became famous enough to be invited on the program, Mr. Lipton would either be retired or dead.

Consequently, I'm going to use this modern, everyman forum to answer those questions that I'm sure most of you have wondered about me for so long.  Please bear in mind that given my nature there may be more than one answer to some of them.

What is your favourite word?  My favourite noun is "wombat" and my favourite adjective is "groovy."  In fact I think "The Groovy Wombat" would be a great name for a bar.  I don't think I necessarily have a favourite word for any other part of speech.  They're both just so much fun to say.  Go on... try it.

What is your least favourite word?  This is a toss-up between two three-word phrases:  "fire at will" (for obvious reasons) and "really nice guy" (more on this in a later posting).

What turns you on?  There is a combination, and I don't know the proper proportions, but when mixed correctly, intelligence and a sense of humour are damn sexy!

What turns you off?  Dishonesty, deceitfulness... anything along those lines.

What sound or noise do you love?  The sound of laughter... particularly if I caused it.

What sound or noise do you hate?  I know it sounds trite, but I have to say it's fingernails on a blackboard.

What is your favourite curse word?  This is everyone's favourite question.  I've given this a lot of thought and I've realized (and this is something Russell Crowe also briefly touched on when he was on the program) that it's often not the word itself, but the emotion and the attitude we convey when we use it.  My feeling is that if you're going to curse, don't just curse--own it.  This is, admittedly, difficult to convey in print.

Two suggestions I often make are to string a bunch of them together (goddamncocksuckingassholelickingmotherfuckingturkeyassedsonofabitch!) or to make up your own (a friend of mine once coined the phrase "son of a Barbra Streisand" which is still a personal favourite).

But if I had to pick one word, I suppose it would be "asshole."  It's just a perfect insult.

What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?  Entertainer--preferably as an actor or musician.

What profession would you not like to attempt?  If the last twenty years have taught me anything, I would not like to work in retail or food service.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? This may sound weird, but I don't think I would like to be greeted by God.  Sure, I'd like to meet the Almighty, but I need to know that a) my uncle fixed the automatic pearly gate opener (long story), b) Grandma has a bowl of her macaroni and cheese in a pink plastic bowl waiting for me, and c) Dad and Gramps are in the next room playing chess and I get to play the winner.  After that, God can say to me anything s/he wants to say.  One must have his priorities in order.

I hope this has in some small way given you, dear reader, an insight into my psyche (I doubt you need any more).  Given the fact that this can now be read by anyone and potentially everyone, I would invite James Lipton and/or Bernard Pivot to answer these questions.  I've always been curious about their responses.

Do They Know What a Christmas Song Is At All?

"I met a man who lives in Tennessee and he was heading for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie.
From Pennsylvania folks are travelling down to Dixie's sunny shore.
From Atlantic to Pacific, gee, the traffic is terrific."
--from the song "(There's No Place) Like Home for the Holidays," by Al Stillman and Robert Allen

Unless you're completely oblivious to your surroundings or haven't looked at a calendar in a few months, you know it's the holiday season.  Consequently, everywhere you go, you hear holiday music.  The problem I have with Christmas music (aside from the fact that, since I work in retail, I'm often burned out on it by Veterans' Day), is that even though the songs may be performed by an artist I like, I've already heard that song countless times by a host of other artists.  At this point, there's nothing left for me to do but examine the lyrics.  And when you stop to really think about it, some of these lyrics just make you say, "huh?"
 

Some of these lyrics make no sense to me.  For example, ponder the lyric that I quoted at the top of this post.  I want to know what kind of traffic Stillman and Allen were driving through.  I've never travelled through "terrific" traffic, especially when I'm going anywhere for the holidays.  I dare anyone to try to drive out of Bloomington, Indiana, at 5:00 in the afternoon on any given day, let alone during a weekend or major holiday.  I guaran-friggin'-tee you the word "terrific" is not the first word that will pass your lips.  If you're anything like me, it will probably be a word (or three) that can't be said on network television.  From experience I can tell you that some of the traffic in Bloomington is so gridlocked it makes Congress look functional.  And I'm sure it's even worse in the big cities.  I promise you that no one in their right mind has ever sat behind fifteen other cars that don't appear to be moving and thought, "this is great!"  The only time I've ever been in terrific traffic is when mine is the only car on the road.

The other song that has really puzzled me lately is "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year," written by Edward Pola and George Wyle.  A question comes to mind.  Just out of curiosity... y'know... for my own edification--have you ever mistletoed?  I've never mistletoed.  I've never jingle belled either.  Do you know why?  BECAUSE THESE ARE NOT VERBS! 

 Something else about "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year" annoys me.  Every year I ask this question and no one has ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer, so I'll ask it again.  Aside from Charles Dickens and maybe Tim Burton who in the hell tells scary ghost stories at Christmas?  I have a theory that this must be some kind of weird German tradition kind of like the "Christmas Pickle."  Gotta love those crazy Germans.  Regardless, I believe that Pola and Wyle never worked retail.  If they had, this song would likely never have been written... or if it had, it would be much different.

Does anyone know when the song "When You Wish Upon a Star" became a Christmas song?  That's right, "When You Wish Upon a Star," written by Leigh Harline and Ned Washington, and first sung by Cliff Edwards in the 1940 animated Disney classic Pinocchio appeared two years ago on Rod Stewart's Christmas album.  ????????  I was willing to write that off as a UK thing.  After some of the things Susan Boyle put on her first Christmas album including (and I'm not making any of these up) Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over" and Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," I just assumed that those lovably nutty Brits had a different definition of "holiday music" than the rest of us.  In fact someone once told me that Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is the biggest selling Christmas song in the UK--even though it's not a Christmas song and was written by a Jewish Buddhist (Jewddhist?).  And, yes, Boyle included that on her holiday album as well.  As such, I was willing to forgive "Rod the Mod" for his inclusion of "When You Wish Upon a Star," until last year when Idina Menzel also put the song on her Christmas album.  Did I miss something?  I don't remember anything in the song relating to any holiday.  I don't even remember anything relating to the winter season.  Is wishing upon a star some sort of thing that non-Christian kids can do instead of writing letters to Santa Claus?  THIS IS NOT A CHRISTMAS SONG!!!!  I know I'm telling the truth about this because my nose didn't start growing when I wrote that last sentence.

I've also noticed certain thematic elements in songs.  A couple years ago, a friend of mine described the song "Baby It's Cold Outside" (which also has very little to do with Christmas itself) as "rapey"--if that even is a word.  The more I listen to it, I have to say it really is.  I found it amusing a year or so later when comedians Key and Peele said the same thing (even using the word "rapey") before presenting their own take on this holiday standard titled "Just Stay For the Night" (which you can view at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qc_F0zP9usU if you're so inclined).  Even my own sister once referred to "Baby It's Cold Outside" as a "rape anthem."  In retrospect, I suppose it's not as bad as the Crystals' 1962 (non-holiday) recording "He Hit Me (and It Felt Like a Kiss)," which I'm sure Carole King now regrets co-writing, but it's still something we might want to sing less and less as time progresses.

I'm also trying to figure out how I never noticed it before, but "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" is incredibly sad, isn't it?  It was originally written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blaine and introduced in the 1944 Judy Garland film Meet Me in St. Louis.  Over the years, I noticed that there are alternate, less depressing lyrics.  Depending on who is singing, you may hear it sung "Hang a shining star upon the highest bough."  This line was written at the request of Frank Sinatra who recorded the song in 1957 for his album A Jolly Christmas From Frank Sinatra.  The Chairman of the Ol' Blue Eyes felt that the original lyric, "Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow," wasn't exactly in the spirit of the title of the album and asked Hugh Martin if he could "jolly up that line."  Today, you can still hear both versions.

Further research indicates that the situation is worse than I originally thought.  According to Wikipedia, many of the song's original lyrics were thrown out before filming of Meet Me in St. Louis even began.  Originally the song opened with:

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas, it may be your last.
Next year may we all be living in the past.
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, pop that Champagne cork.
Next year may we all be living in New York."

Well, at least it rhymed.  Fortunately Judy Garland, her Meet Me in St. Louis co-star Tom Drake, and the film's director Vincente Minnelli, all agreed that this was too depressing and asked Martin to write something a bit more upbeat.  This has got to be rough on a songwriter.  You pour your heart and soul into the lyrics and the people you write the song for ask you to write something else.  After you've done that, someone comes up to you nearly a decade and a half later and asks you to make another alteration because it's not "jolly" enough.  If I were Hugh Martin, my first instinct would be to tell Frank to record another song if he didn't like it, possibly "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

This holiday season, before singing along with your favourite Christmas tunes, I beg of you don't just sing along because you know the words.  Think about the true meaning of the lyrics and whether the song you're singing is even fit for the holiday season.

Thank you and have a Happy Holiday Season!

Let's Begin at the Very Beginning...

I've been writing a story.  It's coming along in bits and pieces over time.  Rodgers and Hammerstein once said that the very beginning is "a very good place to start."  So here's the very beginning of my story and the only part of the story with which I'm completely happy and/or comfortable sharing here:

Prologue—1979

It was story time. Dustin was still trying to figure out what he was doing in this asylum. Why had his parents abandoned him to be with these other five-year-olds? The adult woman who seemed to be in charge led them to the center of the room where they were all told to sit “Indian style” on the floor. Dustin had no clue what that meant, but he saw a few of the other kids sit down and cross their legs under them, kind of like the girl on the butter box. He awkwardly tried to position himself the way the children around him had. He noticed the adult woman in charge seemed to have the presence of mind to sit in a chair. He wondered what made her so special that she didn't have to sit on the floor.

Dustin tried hard to concentrate on the story. It was a good story, but the tingling in his right leg was incredibly distracting. He began to wonder how Indians could abide sitting in this position for extended periods of time. Suddenly, the story that the adult woman was reading became irrelevant. As the tingling in his leg turned to numbness, further distracting him from the story, he looked around the room for something to distract him from the tingling and numbness.

His eyes landed on the little girl seated next to him. There was something about this girl. Dustin didn't know what it was. Had he been any older he might have worried that he was staring at her. Fortunately for Dustin, he was only five and most five-year-olds don't have the most developed sense of social etiquette. Consequently, he stared at the little girl. Even more fortunately for Dustin, the little girl didn't notice that he stared at her. Had he been any older, he might have interpreted that as a sign of things to come.

Dustin couldn't figure out why he was suddenly fascinated by her. Maybe it was her red hair. Maybe it was her glasses—she was the only person other than his sister and grandmother who wore bifocals. Maybe it was the fact that she seemed as disinterested in the story as he was. Staring at her had caused him to forget the numbness in his leg—maybe that's why he was entranced by her. He decided it was the bifocals and tried hard to resuscitate his leg.

The only thing he knew about her was that her name was Kathy...

Random Thoughts

Did you ever notice that, when you're walking down the street, drivers are some of the dumbest people on the planet?

Gloria Estefan freaks me out.  I spent many of my formative years living in fear that the rhythm was going to get me.

I've given this a lot of thought and, after much careful consideration, I've determined conclusively and unequivocally that we must bring back the flapper... as soon as possible... right now if we can.

I recently realized that all of my coat hangers are secretly gay and ashamed to admit it.  Although, personally, I think they belong in the closet and I'm really sorry I outed them here.

Every Christmas tree angel I've ever known seems to have a giant stick up her ass.

Did you ever notice that, when you're driving a car, pedestrians are some of the dumbest people on the planet?

I think it would have been really cool if Jesus had turned the water into wine as he walked across it.  Think of it--TWO miracles for the price of one!  Clearly efficiency is not a Christian value.

If history has taught me anything, it's taught me that if you're name is "Richard" and you go by "Dick," there's probably a good and justifiable reason for it.

Ever since I saw the movie A View to a Kill thirty years ago, I've been wondering where on the female anatomy the "Tchaikovsky" is.  If anyone knows, please contact me.  I think it would answer a lot of questions I have about women.

If an English person is gay and not open about it, is that person said to be "in the cupboard"?

Adjusted for inflation, how much would the Six Million Dollar Man cost if we were to rebuild him today?  Conversely, how much has the Six Million Dollar Man depreciated in value since 1974? 

I once saw a bumper sticker that read, "Try Jesus."  I gave it some serious thought, but then I realized that the Romans beat me to it.

I would rather actually sail away on the River Styx than listen to Styx sing "Come Sail Away."

I have a theory that those who don't pay attention in school to science, math, or history will one day grow up to become conservative political pundits.

I've always felt that Jesus Christ had a severe messianic complex.

If I Can't Believe It's Not Butter is now new and improved, does that mean that the original stuff actually was butter? Or does it mean that I now officially can believe it wasn't butter to begin with? Wow--this conundrum might keep me up at night.

The more I think about it, the more I firmly believe that Samantha should have ended up with Farmer Ted.

A treadmill is nothing more than the human equivalent of a hamster wheel.

I can't hear "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" without picturing Madeline Kahn brushing her hair.

One morning the sun rose and turned every vampire to dust.  From that day forward, no one was ever able to write another teenage romance novel ever again.  The End.