My ten fave Christmas albums

Christmas is by far my favourite time of the year. Oh, sure, there are no white Christmases for me now that I live in Southwest Florida. And yes, Christmas happens to be only the third-most important Christian religious day of observance (Easter and Epiphany are first and second, respectively)... but everyone loves a birthday party, especially when everyone BUT the birthday boy gets gifts! And so, every year, for as long as I can remember, the family and I go crazy with Christmas music from Christmas Eve until Epiphany. Throughout the years, I've ended up with quite a few personal favourites. In honour of Christmas, then, here are my "Top Ten Christmas Albums."

The only rule: the albums must be easily available, so that if the fancy strikes you, you're not stuck special-ordering a long-lost import from Poland for upwards of $75 like I did for Mozart's last 6 symphonies with Chrissy VD and the Cleveland Orchestra (well worth it, by the way). And since the spirit o'Christmas dictates that I not be my usual lazy, uncaring self, I've added amazon.com links for each of the albums.

Boogie Woogie Christmas (The Brian Setzer Orchestra)
A very tough choice over Setzer's other groovy Christmas album, Dig That Crazy Christmas, but I went with "Boogie Woogie" solely on the strength of Setzer's phenomenal, infectiously snappy version of "Jingle Bells."

Christmas Spirit (Donna Summer)
Yes, Disco Donna. Never mind the crappy days of disco and their inevitable downfall -- Summer could always sing, and she really shines in this selection of Christmas songs. I can still remember watching her belt out "O Holy Night" live on an old 80's music show called "Solid Gold." Just awe-inspiring.

Jesus Christ Superstar: The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack Album (Andrew Lloyd Webber, composer)
I went to see this movie at the theatre when I was a little kid, I've owned LP, cassette, CD, and DVD versions of it, and was lucky enough to see a live revival with the original motion picture cast at the Blossom Music Festival back in the early 90's. The only goal left for me to accomplish with this musical is to actually take part in some local production of it. I know this bad boy by heart from start to finish, so any measly part will do...

Little Drummer Boy: Christmas Favourites by the World Renowned Vienna Boys' Choir
Very solid selection of songs, beautifully sung by Michael Jackson's fave musical act.

Messiah (George Frideric Handel, composer) -- Battle, Quivar, Aler, Ramey, soloists; The Toronto Symphony, Andrew Davis, conductor
This is but one of many excellent versions of Handel's Messiah. What sets it apart is Samuel Ramey's phenomenal rendition of "The Trumpet Shall Sound."

Rejoice, O Indestructible Fortress and Stronghold of Orthodoxy
A plethora of lovely Russian sacred songs... and the best album title ever.

Donadzar: New Year's and Christmas Songs in Armenian for Children and their Families (Nvair Kadian Beylerian)
And so, we segue from an imposing, regal album title to an awkward, goofy album title that's eerily reminiscent of Borat: Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan. But to hell with the Russkies. The Armenian Orthodox Apostolic Religion has the distinction of being the first nationally accepted and instituted Christian religion (301 AD -- read it and weep, bitches). As for the music in this album, it's a charming mix of traditional Armenian and Western European Christmas songs.

Classical Christmas (The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra)
Wonderful orchestral arrangements of many well-known Christmas classics, as well as some truly classical and grossly overlooked compositions, including my personal fave, Mozart's indescribably joyful "Sleigh Ride."

O Holy Night (Luciano Pavarotti)
Christmas 1981 was a memorable affair for me, and not because it was my first Christmas in the States, but because it was the first time I saw Luciano Pavarotti's epoch-making Christmas concert from the Notre Dame Cathedral (thank you, PBS!!!). Although no audio recordings of that live performance exist, at least to the best of my admittedly limited knowledge, Decca did get studio recordings of most of those Christmas and Sacred Oratorio songs, as well as some bizarre out-of-place selections ("Chè farò senza Euridice," while an absolutely wonderful aria, has absolutely zero bearing on Christmas). The album is solid from start to finish, and was thankfully recorded during Pavarotti's prime. In my humble opinion, no one has ever sung Schubert's "Ave Maria" and "Mille cherubini in coro" as well as the late Luciano. The requiem pieces are also noteworthy: Verdi's "Ingemisco" showcases Pavarotti's resplendent upper register, and Rossini's "Cujus animam" is capped off by a ringing high D. But for me, the highlight of the program is Pavarotti's sublime rendition of Alessandro Stradella's beautiful "Pietà, Signore."

Joy to the World (Joan Sutherland)
As phenomenal as Pavarotti's "O Holy Night" is, it comes in second to La Stupenda's astounding "Joy to the World." I haven't superlatives enough to describe this album, so I won't bother. The only negative, at least for me, is the fact that, as was the case throughout her entire singing career, Sutherland didn't exactly go to great lengths to enunciate every word clearly... but who gives a tin shit about diction when, with all apologies to Handel, the bright seraphim blows its loud, uplifted trumpet?

Merry Christmas, all !!!

It's been an up and down week

More like down, then up.

I finally gave up on the old washer and dryer, because it had gotten to the point where it took literally over four hours just to wash my customary two loads a week. Money, of course, is as tight as a nun's, er, habit, so this was an unwelcome expense. Bummer. Luckily, though, one of my friends had a practically new washer and dryer set that he wasn't using, and he was kind enough to sell it to me for a very low price. Nice.

While trying to unload the washer and dryer from the rampless U-Haul pick-up truck I ended up stuck with, I dislocated my left shoulder for the fourth time in ten years. Bummer. I guess the ligaments there are pretty loose by now, though, because it only took me one try to pop that sucker back in. Nice.

I was vacuuming the house last Saturday, when my gazillion-year old Hoover blew up. Bummer. That same afternoon, my AT&T rebate card arrived, giving me a much-needed scarole infusion that allowed me to purchase a replacement vacuum cleaner. Nice.


A series of events too bizarre and long-winded to recount here made it painfully clear to me that my career is going absolutely nowhere, and that all the sacrifices I made over the past three years while wrestling with graduate school will have ultimately been pointless. Bummer. Then again, I finally received my Certified Diver card, so I can at least benefit from my extensive but useless knowledge of marine geobiology when I go on my first open water dive. Nice.

On Disney, Scratch & Dent World, and tipping etiquette

My friend D-Wright still works at the same northeast Ohio technical translation company where we met some twelve years ago – at this rate, he’s only a couple of years away from tattooing a permanent “L” on his forehead. If it’s any consolation, I got my own “L” a few months ago when I realized I might as well have majored in Elizabethan poetry, for all the good my stellar college education is doing towards my train-wreck of a career… but I digress. Last month, the company sent him down to Orlando for a military gadgets and weaponry conference in the hopes of drumming up some translating business. The war-mongers conference, as D-Wright christened it, was held smack down in the middle of DisneyTown, or whatever the hell it’s called. I guess if I was a war profiteer looking for a good place to hold a weapons conference, I’d pick the Magic Kingdom, too!!!

Disney and weapons of mass destruction – a match made in Hades.

Since I’ve got a handful of vacation days left and have zero travel plans because I’ve resolved to finish my thesis before it goes into its fourth year of ineptitude and procrastination, I took a little time off from work and drove up to DisneyTown to hang out with D-Wright Warbucks. Getting up to Orlando wasn’t a problem, since I’ve driven up there quite a few times. Once in DisneyTown, however, finding my way was an absolute nightmare. I had detailed Mapquest instructions, but they were absolutely useless. Mapquest lists the streets by their supposed name (East 160^th, etc.), but DisneyTown ignores this and lists the streets with colourful but idiotic names like “Parking Lot 2: where the magic happens!” or “The Wild Kingdom.” After driving a complete circuit around DisneyTown, I finally did the unthinkable and stopped at a Hess gas station to ask for directions. The attendant there was kind enough to translate the Mapquest street names into DisneyTown lingo, and I was then able to find the hotel easily.

The hotel in question is The Coronado Resort, an utterly ridiculous hodgepodge of Conquistador/Mayan/Aztec décor and nomenclature. The buildings, for example, were referred to as “Casitas” and “Cabañas,” while the convention center was termed “El Centro.” Why Disney chose to glorify western Europe’s exploitation and subsequent near-annihilation of indigenous Americans is beyond me. Then again, I shouldn’t be overly critical, since I have a Chief Wahoo logo tattooed on my shoulder. I guess I have no point.

The pseudo-Aztec hotel room mirror – I would have checked to see whether it was real copper, but I didn’t have my Mohs hardness kit handy.

Disney did, thankfully, stick to native plants when landscaping the grounds. Here’s a beautiful flowering cluster of Sagittaria lancifolia bordering one of the ponds (yes, the college education can come in handy every now and then):

While channel-surfing in the hopes of finding TBS (the hotel didn’t have a channel guide – I guess since neither the Conquistadores nor the Aztecs had a channel guide, the powers-that-be decided hotel guests don’t need one either) so we could watch the Cavs, we came across a repeating loop of ads for something called Scratch & Dent World, featuring a trailer-trash spokeswoman with a plaid dress, a knee brace, a mullet, and an overly exuberant disposition. It’s difficult to describe the lunacy of these ads. Luckily, someone was kind enough to post a YouTube clip of the same ads for the Daytona branch:

As mesmerizing and inexplicably enjoyable as the Scratch & Dent World ads were (admit it: you want to watch them again!), the highlight of my two-day stay in DisneyTown was a Tarantinoesque discussion D-Wright and I had regarding the propriety of tipping a hotel chambermaid. We spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure this out – we really needed D-Wright’s better half to help us, but she was back in Hiram burning her bras. For me, the tipping issue is pretty simple. If the person providing whatever service is paid commensurately with the value of the service, no tip is needed. This is why, for example, tipping 20% when going to a restaurant here in the States is not only common but actually expected – if I get a $50 check after a meal, very little of that money goes to the waiters and waitresses that work at the restaurant, because their wages are laughable. In Europe and South America, on the other hand, tipping a waiter 20% is unheard of, because their wages are actually quite good. I use this criterion whenever I try to figure out whether to tip someone. Waiters and waitresses = yes; girl who cuts my hair = yes; nurse who fondles my bean bag while asking me to cough = no (she should pay ME for the “privilege”). My problem with the chambermaid tipping issue is that I have no idea how much chambermaids are paid. I explained this reasoning to D-Wright, and he promptly settled the problem by surmising that chambermaids made horrible wages because of, and I quote, “their highly probable non-legal immigrant status.” Man, I’m still laughing over that description. Oh-by-the-way, I ended up leaving a $10 tip.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

All hail The Sweater Vest

As one who lived through the all-too-painful John Cooper years, I haven't the words to describe my delight. Since The Sweater Vest took over the coaching reins at THE Ohio State University, we've won a National Championship (an outright championship, might I add, and not some pathetic, mythical, "shared" championship) and dominated The Greatest Rivalry In American Sports by going 6-1 versus the hated Michigan Wolverines. The Sweater Vest's run of success is nothing short of a-maize-ing, and next year's team promises to be ridiculously loaded. Michigan, on the other hand, can be thankful that neither Mike "I'll come back my senior year because I promise to beat the Buckeyes" Hart nor Chad "11-for-34 passing" Henne will be with the team next year.

Here's a little celebratory ditty by my fave Columbus band:

O...H...I...O !!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thirteen random things I've learned from watching the NFL

• Puffing cheeba is infinitely more rewarding than making millions of dollars for playing a game.

• Overweight coaching candidates need not bother applying for jobs.

• The Reid household is a den of drug-frenzied iniquity.

• The league's best coach is a homeless derelict.

• God loves Jon Kitna...

• ... and Turdell Owens.

• Motivational tactics involving heavy, sharp objects may backfire.

• Drowning and electrocuting dogs ain't no big thang...

• ... and neither is murder...

• ... but taping the opposing team's signals from a location different than the one prescribed by the rules is dastardly and inexcusable.

• A looming money laundering scandal could stink up the league...

• ... but letting Najeh Davenport anywhere near your laundry stinks infinitely worse.

• Public restrooms are nature's most powerful lesbian aphrodisiac.

A primer on the Boston Red Sox

So it's wait 'til next year, again, for yet another member of the Holy Quaternity... my favourite one, to tell the truth. Cleveland may be a football town, but I will always be a baseball guy. I adore all members of the Holy Quaternity, but I practically live and die with the Tribe. This year was especially rewarding, because a young, exciting, unheralded Indians team had an almost magical run when everything seemed to go right, culminating in their first postseason appearance since 2001 and their first postseason series win since 1998, against the "mighty" Yankees, no less! Alas, the overachieving greatness of my beloved Tribe came to a pathetic, whimpering end last night when they were clobbered by the Boston Red Sox in the deciding game of the ALCS.

But why be bitter? It's a new day, it's a new life, and even though I'm not really feelin' good, I'm going to do the unthinkable and actually be gracious in defeat. So, I won't rant and rave about how the Red Sox and their bitchy, PMS-suffering fan base whine about the Yankees being evil overspending douche bags who sully the game by fielding the best teams that money can buy, all the while conveniently ignoring the fact that the Sox are pretty much a less competent version of the Yankees (they spend a teensy weensy little less money but have only two championships over the past 80 or so years to show for their freewheeling assholishness -- I always think of the Sox as the "Yankees JV"). I'll also refrain from pointing out that everyone from New England sounds like a mentally retarded child trying to speak through a very large mouthful of peanut butter. Instead, I'll simply give a little primer on the Red Sox -- after all, they get so little coverage from the media, it's a wonder anyone knows anything at all about them.

• Like the Tribe, the Red Sox are a charter member of the American League. The team was founded in 1901 as the Boston Americans. The team's name was changed to Red Sox in 1908 to commemorate the following riddle: "How can you tell when a Boston woman is on her period? She's only wearing one sock!" Owner John Taylor wanted to pay tribute to the "missing" sock by changing the team's name to Orange/Red Sox, but decided that adding the requisite yellow shades of urine, yeast, and/or pus to the blood colour would be too expensive, so he forsook accuracy for dollars and shortened the name to Red Sox.

• Second baseman Dustin Pedroia has exceptional plate coverage. He achieves this by diving over the plate every time he swings at a pitch, then crying like a little bitch with a skinned knee every time an opposing pitcher has the gall to back him off the plate by throwing high and inside at him. The Indians should bean his faggoty ass at least once a game next season.

• First baseman Kevin Youkilis is frighteningly intense, sweats copiously during every at-bat, and exhibits more twitches and nervous ticks than a crack addict on the DTs... but you didn't hear the words "steroid rage ticking time-bomb" from me.

• Designated hitter David Ortiz goes by the nickname "Big Papi" in public. Behind closed doors, though, his teammates refer to him as "La Hormona."

• Left fielder Manny Ramirez is an exceptional hitter, but he may very well be the dumbest human being on the planet. How dumb is he? The Kids of Widney High offered him an honorary spot in their band, then rescinded it after meeting him on the grounds that he was "too much of a retard."

• Third baseman Mike Lowell is originally from Puerto Rico and looks like the villain in one of those cheesy Mexican soaps. He is currently under investigation for several fondling incidents during the past dozen Puerto Rican Day parades. He has denied the charges vehemently, insisting that "those bitches be lying."

• Right fielder J.D. Drew is a legitimate five-tool player whose career has been marred by his dispassionate, uninterested, lazy disposition. At the end of the 2006 seasons, the Dodgers let him walk, becoming the third team to give up on him. The Red Sox stepped in and promptly signed him to a $70 million contract. But no, it's the Yankees who are evil overspenders. Idiots.

• Catcher Jason Varitek is the team's captain and unquestioned leader. He earned the respect of his teammates by smacking Alex Rodriguez during a confrontation. Apparently, guys who beat up women automatically become folk heroes in Boston.

• Center fielder Coco Crisp was actually a likeable, hustling player when he broke in with the Tribe. Two seasons in Boston have turned him into an underachieving hot dog who dives during every catch, even when the ball is hit right to him. He also sports the ugliest, most uneven braids I've ever seen.

• Shortstop Julio Lugo does more crotch grabbing in one game than Jenna Jameson, Traci Lords and Marilyn Chambers managed over the course of their collective careers. Other than that, he's an unremarkable "stiff."

• Staff ace Josh Beckett was dating country whodat Danielle Peck, but dumped her when his sister became available. I guess if she was good enough for Josh Beckett, Sr., then... well, you know how the rest goes.

• Curt Schilling is mercifully nearing the end of his career, but that hasn't stopped him from bringing up his "I pitched with a broken foot," fake-blood-on-sock red paint bonanza "heroic" deed every chance he gets.
  

• Daisuke Matsuzaka was the hot commodity du jour going into the past offseason. In an effort to out-Yankee the Yankees, the Red Sox bid $51 million just for the right to negotiate with this fur-lined tool. Well done, Yankees JV.

• Tim Wakefield is a knuckleball junkmeister who has redefined the term "journeyman pitcher." He's also third in all-time Red Sox wins and strikeouts. What a glorious, storied franchise.

• Closer Jonathan Papelbon goes by the nickname "Pap Smear," but in an attempt to win over the female demographic, he has decided to develop a rising fastball and changing his nickname to "The Yeast Man."

The 2007 Boston Red Sox team photo:

I hope that little intro to the Red Sox was edifying. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put the last five minutes of "The Departed" on a loop so I can watch a half-dozen or so Boston retards get shot in the fucking face over, and over, and over...

Payback (sort of)

The Indians close out the Yankees and send their sorry arses packing... on Columbus Day! Fantastic irony. Too bad for the media, who were so looking forward to yet another Yankees-Red Sox series. Sorry, boyos, but those of us outside of New England are sick of the Evil Empire and the Evil Empire Junior Varsity. Time for some fresh blood, preferably from an organization that doesn't just field the best team that money can buy, but rather trots out an exciting, hard-nosed crop of homegrown youngsters.

F*ck the Yankees! F*ck the Red Sox!

Go Tribe!