The big news this week was that the radio (finally) started playing Christmas music. With the exception of the much-hated Christmas Shoes song, Kenny Rogers’ Mary Did You Know and the possibly-rapey Baby It’s Cold Outside, I love Christmas music. It sets my feet a-tapping and my heart a-singing. Quite simply, it is Christmas. When Josh Groban sings O Holy Night, I weep. When Gayla Peevey announces I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, I’m a six year-old girl with pigtails (again). And when Michael Buble sings anything, I change the station.
More than frosted sugar cookies. More than a perfectly decorated tree. More than presents. It is the music. Christmas music is a universal language we all speak. It says, Now is the time of year when we will be good people.
This week I discovered that several people I am currently friends with (or have been friends with in the past) have multiple Facebook pages. Apparently it’s not enough to be dull in one profile, now you have to be boring in parallel timelines.
John Smith 5:57 pm I just made the best dinner!
John A. Smith 6:27 pm I just ate the best dinner!
John Smith 7:12 pm I just had my last cigarette. Ever. #smokefree
John A. Smith 7:14 pm Buying cigarettes — at Tobacco Outlet
John Smith 8:34 pm is in a relationship.
John A. Smith 8:38 pm is single.
I will never understand some people.
Also of note this week on the ‘book was the news that Charles Manson had applied for and been granted a marriage license. This was a rally call to single people across the land to elicit sympathy from their coupled friends by posting desperate Facebook statuses that declared, “Even Charles Manson can get a date! What’s wrong with me?” Umm, well you post Facebook statuses like that for starters. My favorites though were from allies of the LGBTQ(XYZ) community who said they didn’t want to live in a country where that awful killer Charles Manson could get married and not their gay friends, who some people noted were neither awful nor killers. But the best comment came from a young woman who stated that she would not get married until every gay person in the world was given marriage equality. It’s a nice sentiment but, oh honey, after visiting your Facebook page it’s very clear that if anyone were to put a ring on it you would be at the courthouse faster than I could arrange an interracial three-way (very fast).
This week also saw the Great Homework Showdown of 2014 with reigning champion Chris going up against challengers Team Dad. Chris was at his little bitch best but ultimately proved no match for Team Dad, specifically co-captain Todd who — after extra innings, overtime and an extended penalty phase — brought home a win for the visiting team.
I’m not going to lie, I need to be half in the bag before I can even consider helping Chris with his homework. It was sometime during Act II of Chris’s five act opera (titled, You’re the Worst Parents in the World Stop Being Mean to Me) that I retreated to my bedroom with the cat and promptly locked the door, cracked open a beer and turned on my Christmas music. As Todd battled one of the less-cooperative of Chris’s many personalities, I was being carried away to a winter wonderland populated by talking snowmen, flying red-nosed reindeer and my good friend Perry Como.
If you have ever had the misfortune of finding your radio dial stuck on some conservative talk show or, worse, your TV inexplicably tuned to Fox News, then you have probably heard some blowhard babbling on about The War on Christmas. Now I’m not sure about the specifics of this particular war as it doesn’t involve 9/11 American-hating terrorists or red-and-green plaid awareness ribbons, but from what I can gather based upon the two-and-a-half minutes of research I did on Wikipedia, it has something to do with putting the Christ back in Christmas.
These fringe lunatics like to speechify about how wishing you Seasons Greetings is an unconstitutional affront to your God-given American-right to be wished Merry Christmas. They argue that the tree on display at the public courthouse where the manger used to be is a big old anti-American (possibly homosexual) kick in your Christian groin. But that, friends, is a lie. Oh, I’m not saying The War on Christmas isn’t real. It is real. As real as Kim Kardashian’s humanity. But this war has nothing to do with Christ or Kardashian. This war is about one thing and one thing only: The Christmas Shoes.
For those of you not in the know, The Christmas Shoes is a “song” about a little boy who wants to buy his soon-to-be dead mother a new pair of shoes so that she can avoid embarrassment when she meets Jesus later that night. The details are sketchy, but the implication is that Jesus either has a footwear fetish or he’s just been named Joan Rivers’ replacement on Fashion Police. (It’s also possible that the line when mama meets Jesus tonight hints at a clandestine Jesus-Mother rendezvous, but I rather doubt that.)
Anyway I’m never quite sure why the boy doesn’t just go to the Salvation Army and buy her a used pair of Doc Martens or at least try Famous Footwear for a pair of knock-off Christian Louboutins, I mean, do you even need shoes in heaven? Whatever the case may be, it’s up to an educated wealthy white guy to save the day. It’s basically the plot of The Blind Side, except the black kid is a white boy and Sandra Bullock is Rob Lowe (or at least was in the Lifetime movie version of the song).
The “song” is written and performed by some “singing group” called New Song. Now I don’t know who these New Song people are — although a quick Google image search suggests that New Song might actually be Christian music-speak for closeted homosexual — but let me just say this: New Song is dangerous and they must be stopped.
They and their saccharine-sweet lyrics and their nonsensical narratives and their bland optimisms and their lazy rhyming (time/line, out/about if you’re Canadian). Understand that New Song, and New Song alone, is the real enemy to Christmas. Not the clerk at Rite-Aid who had the politically-correct audacity to wish you A Happy Holidays even though she knows you to be a Merry Christmas-loving Christian and not some Hanukkah-celebrating Jew or, worse, a 9/11 American-hating terrorist.
New Song should offend us. When they sing, I knew I’d caught a glimpse of heaven’s love as he thanked me and ran out/I knew that God had sent me that little boy to remind me what Christmas is all about, we should all stab out our eyes in collective protest. I don’t care how not cynical you are, I don’t believe for one minute anyone truly buys into this pre-fab feelgoodery.