All that talk yesterday about Christmas carols reminded me of when Kate was in elementary school, and how the Christmas choir concert would unfold. Mrs. DeCarlo always mixed the grade levels up, and the kindergarteners usually came in the second half of the program. One year, as the curtain rose on the assembled little ones, the man next to me slapped his palms together once and said, “Yeah! Now for the good stuff!” His child was not in kindergarten; he just knew what he was talking about.
Mrs. DeCarlo didn’t stint on the material, either — they always sang the most charming songs, frequently with hand gestures. My favorite was “Christmas is Coming” with new lyrics: Christmas is coming, and we are getting fat / ’cause we eat too much of this and that. It was so sweet it made your teeth hurt. A little boy in the first row began potty-dancing to such an urgent extent that the other music teacher helped him into the wings. He returned during the second number to scattered applause.
It was like that every year. K-1 are the rock stars of any school concert.
Folks, I’m hanging up the laptop for the rest of the week. Too much left to do, too little to say. (Obviously.) I might toss up some photos, but this will be it until Monday. I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas, and until then, here’s some bloggage to chew on:
An interview with the Christmas innkeeper, by John Scalzi:
The baby is born, right? And then these guys show up. And they say, we have brought gifts for the child. And I say, that’s nice, what did you bring. And they say, we have brought gold and frankincense and myrrh. And I say, you’ve got to be kidding.
What’s wrong with that?
Let me quote another Christmas song for you. “A child, a child, shivers in the cold, let us bring him silver and gold.” Really? Silver and gold? And not, oh, I don’t know, a blanket? An newborn infant is exhibiting signs of possible hypothermia and your response is to give him cold metal objects? Who ever wrote that song needs a smack upside the head.
A wonderful Detroitblog on the real Santa. He drives a sleigh — you really must see the picture, it’s a hoot — and he’s black. I’d love to see his naughty list.
Robin Givhan, the Washington Post fashion writer, is leaving the paper. Too bad. I’d love to see a compare-and-contrast piece between Michelle Obama and, oh, Jane Sullivan Roberts. I can’t believe we have a first lady who wears Marc Jacobs. I don’t know if the Obamas will be gone in two years or six, but when they go, I will miss ’em. They are the most photogenic First Family in…maybe ever.
Who have you showered with lately? Barney Frank schools a reporter from CNS. (You can tell CNS is a shoestring outfit, because they can’t afford a good microphone.
Roy has finally had enough of the war-on-Christmas nonsense. Note cleverly hidden racism in the Christmas card that poor National Review writer is allegedly forced to buy (“Whass Happenin’ on the Holidays?”). Yeah, that’s all that’s available where I shop, too. What a load.
Not to end on a sour note, but I’m off to the Eastern Market. List, checked twice: Ham, nuts, peppermint bark, whatever else tickles my fancy. Merry Christmas! The New Year comes later.