I could’ve sworn there was a “Happy Honda Days” commercial a long time back to the tune of “Happy Holidays.” But I can’t find it anywhere, so I must’ve imagined it.
Anyway, winner of Worst Christmas Song of All-Time, for the 50th year in a row (for me, anyway): *Any* song where they change the words to try and sell you shit.
Best Christmas Song of All-Time is not a song, but the Fleet Foxes self-titled album. None of them are true Christmas songs, but the entire album 1) sounds like a Minnesota Northwoods winter, 2) isn’t trying to sell you a Honda, and 3) is the most re-listenable album of all-time, no bad songs, none I get bored with.
Second most listenable album of all-time is Lyle Lovett’s Road to Ensenada.
I showed my wife The Asphalt Jungle for the first time last night. It’s one of my all-time noir faves, with the most heartbreaking ending, as all the men in the caper fall one-by-one due to their own desires, until Sterling Hayden collapses while stumbling towards his boyhood farm. So close! Seriously, I want all of my novel ending to feel like that punch in the gut. My wife, however, said she had trouble telling all the men apart because they all dressed the same.
Kind of on a writing break until the New Year. Kind of. I can’t stop thinking about what I’m going to do when I open the files again, but I’m not currently doing it. It’s that quiet time of the year between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve that obsessive writers call Hell.
Ha ha ha.
I like my Christmas and NYE quiet. Judging from TV, radio, Twitter, big box stores, and movies, no one else does.
If they say they do, they’re lying.
Except me. I’m not.
Merry and Happy, folks. I can already feel the coal burning in my stocking.
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