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truepennyWhen 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.
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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.