[One of the paltry number of my co-workers who subscribes to my newsletter accosted me after last month’s missive. He said, “Sometimes I like the newsletter, and sometimes I don’t. But I have no idea at all who wrote the last one.” Apparently, at least to him, as a softie I’m essentially unrecognizable. So this one’s for you, Scott.]
I have not seen the room, but I know it must exist. Deep in the bowels of the headquarters – evil headquarters – of the International Cabal of Retailers. Just past the lab where they design those little plastic fastener thingies that break off when you press them too hard. Just past the mounted bust of the mad scientist who invented the hard plastic “clamshell” packaging. There’s a room where they schedule the Christmas music, and it’s that room, my friends, that will drive me mad.
I hate Christmas music. All the songs I despise, brought to you by all the artists I loathe. Celine Dion sings “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. It’s Frank Sinatra, and his reggae version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”. And let’s not forget the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s toe-tapping rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock”. I hate them, all of them.
Who had this idea of forcing us to listen to themed music for a month and a half? (Yes, I know, it starts before Halloween nowadays – I’m just being nostalgic.) Imagine if we had to listen to, oh, Lee Greenwood for six weeks before the Fourth of July, and the stirring patriotism of his anthem “Screw the Middle East” or whatever it’s called. Sure, you might dream of looking forward to hearing some Sousa marches, but they wouldn’t be on the radio – dead people can’t bribe DJs.
Perhaps the worst part about Christmas songs is that they keep writing more of them. Just in case you hadn’t already needed your insulin shots for the mawkish sentimentality of “The Little Drummer Boy”, you’ll be sure to run screaming from Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You”. And if you’ve somehow managed not to rip out your eyeballs during the umpteenth repetition of “Feliz Navidad”, you’ll be sure to find your eardrums bleeding when Whitney Houston cranks up “Do You Hear What I Hear?”.
It’s not like there isn’t any good Christmas music; it’s just that no one ever plays it. “Christmas in Japan in July”, by the Young Adults, is one of the most delightful pop songs of its generation, but I’m pretty sure I’m never going to hear it in the hosiery department at Macy’s. “The Grinch Song” defined my childhood, pretty much – explains a lot, doesn’t it? – but not only isn’t it in the rotation in my podiatrist’s waiting room, they don’t even play the whole song anymore when they show the TV special. We get half the Grinch song, so we can see a few more commercials for all that crap you should know never to buy because it’s only advertised for Christmas.
Certainly, it doesn’t help that I hate this time of year. The stretch from Halloween to New Year’s, as the daylight bottoms out and the air starts to threaten, and then belch, snow – very little makes me angrier. But the idea that in addition to enduring the awful weather and the paltry sunlight, I have to put up with these pandering, inane offenses to my craft – well, you just have to draw the line somewhere.
Merry Christmas.