Do You Hear What I Hear? That Depends on What You're Listening To...

Now, I love me some Christmas carols.  You play "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" within a five mile radius of where I'm sitting, and I will start weeping uncontrollably.  Ditto for "White Christmas," and "I'll be Home for Christmas," and...well sweet tap-dancing birthday boy, how is it the most wonderful, joyous time of the year has all of this music designed solely to depress the listener?  What the hell?

It's even worse at work. Someone in Latte-land's Mother Ship must have decided that any song with the word "Hallelujah" in the title must be a Christmas song, because that's the only reason I can conceive of for having nation-wide mixes that play three different versions of that oh-so-draining Leonard Cohen ditty.  Really, how did that conversation at corporate go?

--scene--
"Hey, did you know suicides spike at Christmas time?  The rates increase, like twenty-five percent."
"Wow, man, that's some heavy shit...what do we have for the in-store mix come December?"
"Three different covers of the most depressing song of all time - and one of the covers is by a dead guy!"
"PERFECT.  Let's go snort some espresso beans."
"Nah, this time let's boot it in our eyeballs like black-tar heroin."
--end scene--

And three words to continue my therapy bills well into the next decade: Joni Mitchell's "River."  That shit's just not right.

Anyways, it seems like Christmas music only has two speeds - the why-don't-I-just-end-it-now-when-it's-too-cold-to-feel-my-PAAAAAAAAAAIN speed, and the uber-joyful, sugary-sweet, cracked-out whiz-bam-fest as exemplified by one Mister Johnny Mathis.  All it takes is the opening bars of "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," and I begin to resemble one of our favorite men of the Arctic.  No, not Santa Claus; I'm thinking more those Vikings who used to go beserk (from the word beserkergang - thanks, Age of Empires!) and get filled with the blood-rage, hacking everything in arm's reach to bits with a harpoon of narwhal tusk or something.

(True story: This is how we ended up with lutefisk.)

But then...there are the songs that try to fall somewhere in between, the songs that try to be inspirational, but just end up irking me with their utter lack of sense.

Like with "Do You Hear What I Hear?"  Firstly, the title is problematic.  Let us not mock the differently-abled, shall we?  Stop asking if he can hear you; after time three, it's just rude.  Secondly...let's just deal with this little lyric, shall we?

A child, a child, shivers in the cold;
Let us bring him silver and gold!
Let us bring him silver and gold.

Ummm...come again?

A child, a child -

I HEARD YOU.

Let's look at this, shall we?  You've got a baby, lying in a manger out of which the cattle gather their snacks, there is no room at the inn  (and after those freaking taxes levied by Augustus, do you really think Joe could spring for them if they were?), oh and the kid happens to be THE SON OF GOD and you...show up with shiny rocks?  This isn't a party on Diddy's yacht; this is making sure that SAVIOR OF MANKIND doesn't freeze his tuckus off before he has a chance to, you know, revolutionize modern civilization.  He's dying for our sins, not because of frostbite.  Get with the program. 

...Seriously, no-one threw a blanket in the pack?  Not even a light wrap?  Shepherds, you're failing me here - you tend sheep, for the love of...that kid!  WEAVE SOMETHING, DAMMIT!  And angels we have heard on high, you're not getting off scot-free either; sure, you can bring the word of God, but no one thought to grab a pashmina (I hear it's so soft that it's...heavenly).

"But Ann!" you cry out in Reader-ville, "Gold was surely valuable!  They could have purchased the blankets and such!  It was a very thoughtful gift!"

Put yourself in this scenario, dear reader: It is the middle of the night in December.  You're loved one has just given birth in a barn (did Mary and Joseph ever try that line? "Jesus, please take your elbows off the table, and don't chew with your mouth open.  You weren't born in a barn." "Actually..."), surrounded by lowing cattle and a bunch of guys who have been using sheep for pillows.  Suddenly, three toffs show up at your door with smelly rocks and some gold.  Is your first inclination to dash out to the Super Wal-Mart of Israel for some Pampers and a throw?  NO! Your first inclination is take a deep long sleep, and not wake up until sometime in June.  Oh, and even if you DID run out for a late-night shopping jaunt, try finding a money changer at that late hour (You could try the temple steps, but your son's gonna put a stop to that in about thirty years, so grab those low interest rates while you can). Oh, and while those three kings are kneeling about, maybe one of them could get up long enough to pop for the Wedding Suite at the Bethlehem Bed and Breakfast so your kid doesn't have to sleep in a pile of straw that's been drooled upon by cows.  Just a thought.

And don't even get me STARTED on "Little Drummer Boy." If I had just given birth without anesthesia, and a five-year-old showed up with percussion, there is not a court in the world that would convict me of child abuse for whapping said tot over the head with his drumsticks.

Sigh.  This is probably why I'm not allowed to make the eggnog anymore.  Fa la la la la indeed.

**Please note that I am not attempting to disparage anyone's religion, merely the music that comes about.  Someday I'll tell you why Leona Lewis is ruining the world.  Those sans-humor, please sheathe your narwhal-tusk harpoons and go about your merry way.  Just don't play Perry Como in my general direction.**