Stuck in Our Heads - Vol. 21 - December 2008
As I type this, I'm watching what I am sure is only the first of this season's many many viewings of A Christmas Story.
Yes, the holiday season is officially upon us. I know, I know. The real officials declared it open this past Friday when countless retail outlets opened their doors to bilk from us what dollars they could in this less than promising consumer climate, but I've always had a problem with authority. The holidays are no exception.
Given my iconoclasm, which is really just simple contrarianism, I suppose it may seem odd that I have such a pronounced affinity for something that, with the possible exception of National Lampoon's Vegas Vacation, is the most overaired movie of all time. Who can possibly think it's okay to run a single film - back-to-back-to-back - for 24 hours at a stretch, much less to do so at least once a year for nearly as long as I can remember? I even get sick of watermelon Jolly Ranchers somewhere around the sixth one in a sitting. I, for one, don't think such a programming choice is okay. Despite all that, there's a soft spot in my heart for A Christmas Story.
"Why?" you ask.
Because that movie, unlike Vegan Vacation - that was a typo I don't want to correct. How long do you think it will be before Chevy Chase's career has descended to the point of signing on for that project? Or, perhaps, it has already slid past it.- rather, unlike Vegas Vacation, led me directly to countenancing my own complicity in the base human drive toward senseless, lumbering destruction.
When I was about ten years old, I was one of those obnoxious and obnoxiously lucky kids who begged and tantrumed my parents into buying me a Red Ryder BB Gun for Christmas. (To be fair, my older brother brought his considerable powers of persuasion to bear on the matter, as well.) That's right. The one with the compass and sundial in the stock. (By the way, the peg on the sundial was so painfully inconvenient that it lasted almost 45 seconds before I broke it off and pinned my time-telling hopes to the digital number strapped to my wrist.) In scenes you may recognize from the movie under discussion here, much of that particular Christmas day was spent gleefully hurling small copper pellets at various targets, mostly the formidable loblolly pines in our back yard.
It didn't take long for my fascination with shooting trees to wear off, and I, ever the high-achiever, cast my eye about for more challenging targets. Thus did I start setting my sights on the neverending stream of small woodland creatures that made those trees their home. Shooting squirrels was pretty entertaining. The spring-loaded air rifle didn't pack enough punch to break skin, particularly not at the range my youthful stalking skills permitted me to approach anything alive. No, the BB would smack them in their squirrel ass and send them bolting up a tree, which provided a brief spate of moving-target practice. (I never got enough of that to get any good.) But, then there was the fateful day when there was no squirrel around to terrorize and my eye lit on what turned out to be a young blue jay perched on a low branch about halfway across the yard. I put the bird directly in my sights and hesitated a few long minutes before pulling the trigger. In a final second of misgiving, I raised the barrel just a bit, thinking my shot would consequently startle the little guy and inspire him to fly off, thereby satisfying my urge to disturb whatever living creature happened to be in the area.
Alas, I hadn't quite gotten a grasp on the whole concept of how gravity affects projectiles. (Damn you, Professor Perry! You were a decade late!) My shot hit the mark I thought I had avoided, and the little bird erratically fluttered to the ground where it continued to flail until I sped my sudden sinking feeling by putting it out of its misery with a handful of mercy BBs. I buried it a few minutes later in the vacant lot next door and lived a one-boy version of The Telltale Heart for several days while waiting for my parents to discover the crime.
(They never did, although there's a good chance my mother is getting in the car right now to drive up here and slap me in the mouth.)
That event still makes me a little sick to my stomach when I think of it, which I do fairly frequently, particularly when TNT starts running its A Christmas Story marathons and mini-marathons.
But, how do the sparrows know?
Title - Artist
Big Balls - AC/DC
Jessica - The Allman Brothers Band
Whipping Post - The Allman Brothers Band
The Internet is for Porn - Avenue Q
Dear Grandma - Bear and Tutter
Blackbird - The Beatles
Spent on Rainy Days - Bright Eyes
You'll Never Catch Him - Buffalo Tom
Christmas Island - Jimmy Buffett
White Christmas - Bing Crosby
Rockin' Robin - Bobby Day
Never Ending Song of Love - Delaney & Bonnie
Meheadsoon - Digital Underground
Imagine Santa - DJ BC
Elmo's Song - Elmo
A Message to you Santa Claus - FAROFF
Song #1 - Fugazi
The '59 Sound - The Gaslight Anthem
Do They Know It's Christmas - Bob Geldof and the Band-Aid Gang
Cry - Godley & Crème
Mind Left Body Jam - Grateful Dead
Ah, Leah - Donnie Iris
Human - The Killers
Complicated - Avril Lavigne
Hollywood - Los Lonely Boys
Toby, Toby - Mega Mindy
Butterfly - Jason Mraz
Computer Blue - Prince and the Revolution
Intimate Secretary - The Raconteurs
Level - The Raconteurs
Baby, It's Cold Outside - Leon Redbone and Zooey Deschanel
I'll Be Home With Bells On - Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton
Hljómalind - Sigur Rós
Í Gær - Sigur Rós
Titty Bangin' - Bob Schneider
Womanizer - Britney Spears
Bad Girlfriend - The Theory of a Deadman
A New York City Christmas - Rob Thomas
Live Your Life - TI
Spires - Umphrey's McGee
Break My Stride - Matthew Wilder
Father Christmas
FreeCreditReport.com jingle
