Every year about this time, mrpeenee takes to the blog waves to complain about Christmas music. Not really complaining so much as loudly whining. “The enforced, albeit fake, good cheer…”, “The ludicrous prostitution of otherwise admirable musicians like Ella Fitzgerald and David Bowie…”, “GET OUT OF MY EARS…” Blah blah blah, you’ve heard it all before, it’s pretty much the sole content of mrpeenee’s Greatest Hits. That and my insistence that pornstars used to be much better looking.
Anyway, this year you’ll be spared my grouching because, for some unknown reason, this year I have been spared Christmas carols. That’s right, not a single drummer boy has crossed my path so far. It’s possible it’s because I have edited down my excursions to nothing more than my daily outing to Peet’s, my cafe of choice. In years past even that wasn’t safe since Peet’s would attempt to cover all bases by playing odd versions of Christmas music: Jazz and multi-ethnic and novelty choons. I have to assume that just annoys everyone equally, maybe that was their goal. But who actually would be longing for a Jamaican cover of “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In?”
Anyway, all I have to do is make it to a week from Saturday (this must be the time for my annual admission that, because of some odd holiday dyslexia thing, I can never remember the date of Christmas. Every year I have to look it up, often repeatedly. I have it nailed down to something like December 24, 25, or 26, but that’s as close as I can come. I just looked it up AGAIN and, spoiler alert, it’s December 25.) So, a week from Saturday. No matter how much jingle bells they manage to stuff in by then, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to tough it out.
Wise men with whom I wish I was in the stable.
It’s all about the dimples
And now, for our salute to photoshopping: