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When I was young and malleable and eager-to-please, I was in chorus. Junior high chorus, high school chorus, the Oak Ridge Children's Showchoir for its first performance, which was, in fact, a Christmas concert.
This means that I know a lot--I mean, a metric fuckload lot--of commercial Christmas music. Words and music. (I think I've forgotten all the choreography, which I do indeed count among my blessings.) Most of the year, this is no big deal. But come December, vengeance comes back upon me ten-fold.
For starters, listening to bad versions of the old reliables is almost physically painful. Mirrorthaw and I went out for dinner last night, and were subjected to two staggeringly bad renditions of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," both being sung (aside from the swoops and sentimentalism and the guy singing through his nose) at the tempo of a funeral dirge. And since in my head, I hear it at its proper tempo, this leads to some jarring mental disharmonies, and jaw-clenched aggravation, and that jerky little circular gesture that conductors use to tell their singers that they're lagging behind.
Doubtless the waitstaff thought I was demented.
And then there's the earworms. Because I know the songs, and because once upon a time in rehearsals I sang them over and over and over again, they get stuck like hippopotami in a revolving door. And since, in general, I hate commercial Christmas music (with a special exemption for anything from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and, yes, I do know all the words to "Holly Jolly Christmas"), the resulting mental atmosphere is anything but appropriate to the season of peace on earth, goodwill towards men.
Mirrorthaw and I were talking about this in the car on the way home, and he very obligingly taught me the words to the "Colonel Bogey March." I am happy to report that that obscene little ditty mows down Christmas music like it wasn't even there.
Of course, it's also pretty inappropriate to the season of peace on earth, goodwill towards men, but I think I can live with that.
Sure as fuck beats the alternatives.
This means that I know a lot--I mean, a metric fuckload lot--of commercial Christmas music. Words and music. (I think I've forgotten all the choreography, which I do indeed count among my blessings.) Most of the year, this is no big deal. But come December, vengeance comes back upon me ten-fold.
For starters, listening to bad versions of the old reliables is almost physically painful. Mirrorthaw and I went out for dinner last night, and were subjected to two staggeringly bad renditions of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," both being sung (aside from the swoops and sentimentalism and the guy singing through his nose) at the tempo of a funeral dirge. And since in my head, I hear it at its proper tempo, this leads to some jarring mental disharmonies, and jaw-clenched aggravation, and that jerky little circular gesture that conductors use to tell their singers that they're lagging behind.
Doubtless the waitstaff thought I was demented.
And then there's the earworms. Because I know the songs, and because once upon a time in rehearsals I sang them over and over and over again, they get stuck like hippopotami in a revolving door. And since, in general, I hate commercial Christmas music (with a special exemption for anything from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and, yes, I do know all the words to "Holly Jolly Christmas"), the resulting mental atmosphere is anything but appropriate to the season of peace on earth, goodwill towards men.
Mirrorthaw and I were talking about this in the car on the way home, and he very obligingly taught me the words to the "Colonel Bogey March." I am happy to report that that obscene little ditty mows down Christmas music like it wasn't even there.
Of course, it's also pretty inappropriate to the season of peace on earth, goodwill towards men, but I think I can live with that.
Sure as fuck beats the alternatives.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 10:17 am (UTC)I have Spinal Tap's "Christmas with the Devil". I have "Roadkill Wonderland" somewhere. I think I have the one whose title escapes me, the one with the very sweet-voiced little girl singing about how wonderful it is and how unexpectedly many presents she's got in which it gradually becomes clear that Santa's had a coronary and his body is stuck in the chimney, and these are all the presents for the rest of the world. Any other nominees ?
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 10:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 11:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 10:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 11:00 am (UTC)I'm taking today off (barring occasionaly browsing for missed bugs), and I've been enjoying catching up on lj. Yes. Anyhow. Focus on Bogey.
*G*
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 11:03 am (UTC)I go around this time of year humming the alto line to Tomas Luis de Victoria's "O magnum mysterium" to myself. Sang it in high school. Vast, vast improvement over the dreck you've got clogging up your system.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 11:25 am (UTC)This is probably the same reason I can quote Ghostbusters, The Princess Bride, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but not Hamlet. The retention banks are only interested in the popculture end of the spectrum
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 11:30 am (UTC)Oh. Wait. Maybe that's why you can't. Never mind.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 11:15 am (UTC)---L.
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Date: 2004-12-01 12:43 pm (UTC)Would that I could learn to ignore all of Streisand's holiday songs (especially "Jingle Bell Rock" - is there a theme here?) as easily.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 12:55 pm (UTC)And it takes almost nothing to trigger it, too.
::humming "Col. Bogey March" as hard as I can::
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Date: 2004-12-01 03:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-01 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-02 06:33 am (UTC)There's no more of that particular story, but Booth appears in:
::hunts up bibliography, because I can't remember all this stuff in my own head any more::
"Bringing Helena Back." All Hallows: The Journal of the Ghost Story Society 35 (February 2004): 92-100.
"Drowning Palmer." All Hallows: The Journal of the Ghost Story Society (in press).
"The Green Glass Paperweight." Tales of the Unanticipated 25 (August 2004-July 2005): 86-90.
"The Inheritance of Barnabas Wilcox." Lovecraft's Weird Mysteries 7 (May 2004): 14-22.
"Wait for Me (http://www.nakedsnakepress.com/waitformemain.htm)." Naked Snake Online (September-December 2004).
and, of course,
"The Wall of Clouds." Alchemy 1 (December 2003): 45-82.
Also two other finished stories, which are currently at New Genre and TotU respectively. And several ideas for stories, if and when the particular widget in my brain that writes Booth decides to click back into the on-position.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-17 01:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-12-04 08:59 am (UTC)