No sooner had I departed the Internet and put down my headphones as a CD finished playing than I heard a sound thundering through the none-too-solid walls of my pad. I recognized it instantly.
Bing Crosby. Singing "White Christmas."
On December First.
I don't know whether some misbegotten TV network is jumping right into the alleged "spirit of the season" or my neighbors have a DVD of the movie. And I don't care.
It's too early.
I've seen lights in front of some houses, know people have already put up their trees and are sending out cards, buying gifts, and getting all warm and fuzzy about something that is still 24 days away.
Gimme a break.
You might be getting set for a white Christmas and all the good stuff that surrounds it, but I'm not. I don't want to hear the songs, see the decorations, be bombarded with the advertising.
I know what my Christmas will be like, and it has nothing to do with all that heartwarming stuff you see in "White Christmas," "Holiday Inn," "It's a Wonderful Life," and all the rest of the movies full of happy, optimistic people singing Christmas carols and exchanging gifts in front of some bigass tree.
Mine has never been like that, and is less so with each passing year.
I can dig Mel Torme's "Christmas Song." It's got a great, great melody, and if he'd hung lyrics about about Valentine's Day on it, it would have been just as cool. I can listen to that over and over.
But hearing "Bingu Kurusubi" (as he was known in postwar Japan) singing about some damn white Christmas -- just like the ones he used to know, but I never have known -- doesn't cut it for me.
I fervently hope I'm alone in reacting this way. I'd love to see everyone else being inundated with love, gifts and gallon jugs of home-made (and well-spiked) eggnog. I hope the treetops glisten, and children listen to hear sleighbells in the snow. Especially the kids; I want nothing more than to think that every child who's hoping for a well-filled stocking and digs the idea of the season will come away enchanted and happy.
The way this is going, I'd better start looking for a cave to hide in until, say, January 5th.
If I were to end up on that bridge over the icy river while everyone else is home indulging in Christmas Cheer, you can bet everything you have on there being no damn angel to keep me from going for that chilly Last Swim.
Am I bitter? Count on it, Jim.
I've always loved giving better than receiving. But I have yet to get comfortable with the notion of having what I want and need taken away. And this season does nothing but remind me of how much has been given and then coldly yanked away during the last year.
Ignore me. I'll be back to normal eventually. Some time after the 25th.
3 hours ago