Monday, December 29, 2003

HOLIDAY ROAD, PART 3

GreenTuna here, reporting in again (quickly) from Prince Frederick. Tomorrow we leave the tropical state of Maryland and return to the mitten state complete with rain, snow and/or something in between. It has been a successful couple of days, with all of the visiting now over, and one final night of lounging around ahead. I don't have much time to chit chat since everybody and their brother keeps walking in here saying, "what are you doing?" Ugh. Privacy isn't happening these days.



Wishing all of you a pleasant Monday evening. I'm going to go watch the Tuna boys give it their best shot in the Alamo-Mastercard-*YOUR AD HERE*- Holiday Christmas Kwanzaa Boxing Day Bowl extravaganza.



Go Tunas!

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HOLIDAY ROAD, PART 3
GreenTuna here, reporting in again (quickly) from Prince Frederick. Tomorrow we leave the tropical state of Maryland and return to the mitten state complete with rain, snow and/or something in between. It has been a successful couple of days, with all of the visiting now over, and one final night of lounging around ahead. I don't have much time to chit chat since everybody and their brother keeps walking in here saying, "what are you doing?" Ugh. Privacy isn't happening these days.

Wishing all of you a pleasant Monday evening. I'm going to go watch the Tuna boys give it their best shot in the Alamo-Mastercard-*YOUR AD HERE*- Holiday Christmas Kwanzaa Boxing Day Bowl extravaganza.

Go Tunas!
Sign My Guestbook!

Saturday, December 27, 2003

HOLIDAY ROAD, PART 2

GreenTuna here, reporting in from Prince Frederick, Maryland. I am in post-holiday party mode, which means I'm lounging in pajama sweatpants and a comfy shirt while I check my mail, read the news and blog. Heaven.



The party is always a great time -- too much food, lots of drink, and catching up with the relatives you only get to see once or twice a year. I'm always amazed to see my cousin. My little bitty cousin. My little bitty cousin who is now six-foot-two, and built like a tree. What happened? Well, no matter what, he will always be my little bitty cousin with blond hair who rode in the back of a pickup truck on the way to Hatteras singing "The Farmer in the Dell" for about 90 minutes straight. Hee! Memories that warm the heart and provide fodder for embarassing stories are the best.



The weather here is spectacular. If it were TunaU, the students would be laying out in bikinis right now. It hardly seems Christmas, or even winter, but I'm not complaining. Tomorrow the plan is Christmas event #3 at TinyTuna's Grandpa's House. Aside from presents and visiting, TinyTuna is especially looking forward to the light show. It's a drive-through type event and it's absolutely enormous. Even better, the cost of admission is canned goods for a local food bank, so we can have fun and help the community at the same time.



I spent considerable time this morning plowing through the web looking for details on the Pennsylvania Turnpike debacle from yesterday. Nothing. No news. No information. No bodies. Nothing. I'm seriously wondering if in the name of national security they decided to close down a portion of the turnpike which included the tunnel through the Allegheny Mountains. I'm a conspiracy theory kind of Tuna.



Speaking of conspiracy theory, the Washington DC beltway also wants me to report suspicious activity. I'd love to be a good American, or at least a helpful human, but it's a little hard to peer into cars when they are passing you at 95 mph. I'm too busy making sure we don't get killed, thank you very much.



I'm off for a little more holiday gnoshing. I think there is some suspicious activity happening over by that plate of shrimp...

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HOLIDAY ROAD, PART 2
GreenTuna here, reporting in from Prince Frederick, Maryland. I am in post-holiday party mode, which means I'm lounging in pajama sweatpants and a comfy shirt while I check my mail, read the news and blog. Heaven.

The party is always a great time -- too much food, lots of drink, and catching up with the relatives you only get to see once or twice a year. I'm always amazed to see my cousin. My little bitty cousin. My little bitty cousin who is now six-foot-two, and built like a tree. What happened? Well, no matter what, he will always be my little bitty cousin with blond hair who rode in the back of a pickup truck on the way to Hatteras singing "The Farmer in the Dell" for about 90 minutes straight. Hee! Memories that warm the heart and provide fodder for embarassing stories are the best.

The weather here is spectacular. If it were TunaU, the students would be laying out in bikinis right now. It hardly seems Christmas, or even winter, but I'm not complaining. Tomorrow the plan is Christmas event #3 at TinyTuna's Grandpa's House. Aside from presents and visiting, TinyTuna is especially looking forward to the light show. It's a drive-through type event and it's absolutely enormous. Even better, the cost of admission is canned goods for a local food bank, so we can have fun and help the community at the same time.

I spent considerable time this morning plowing through the web looking for details on the Pennsylvania Turnpike debacle from yesterday. Nothing. No news. No information. No bodies. Nothing. I'm seriously wondering if in the name of national security they decided to close down a portion of the turnpike which included the tunnel through the Allegheny Mountains. I'm a conspiracy theory kind of Tuna.

Speaking of conspiracy theory, the Washington DC beltway also wants me to report suspicious activity. I'd love to be a good American, or at least a helpful human, but it's a little hard to peer into cars when they are passing you at 95 mph. I'm too busy making sure we don't get killed, thank you very much.

I'm off for a little more holiday gnoshing. I think there is some suspicious activity happening over by that plate of shrimp...
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HOLIDAY ROAD

GreenTuna here, reporting in from Alexandria, Virginia. Or maybe Arlington, Virginia. I honestly don't remember, because everytime my little brother moves across the street he changes city. Really. But I do think it's Alexandria, in case anybody is frantic for details. I'm typing on a laptop with a wireless connection. Wireless? Super cool! Laptop? Tiny keys mean I have to be really careful. Plus I have no real clue about the alleged mouse movement with the big red dot in the middle, so I'm constantly hitting twenty keys trying to scroll down the page. And then there are all the Japanese characters....



And yet, I'm dying for a laptop. Someday. Hopefully sooner than later, because this typing on my lap in an easy chair? Super smooth, man.



Anyway. We are here. In Virginia. As we crossed the border, I heard several brain cells spontaneously combust and I started saying "y'all" and "ain't" alot. I swear. The trip out here, well...how do I say this? SUCKED. Sucked wind. Sucked giant enormous gas. Sucked. Bit. Blew. It was awful, and then some.



Good parts included dry roads. It was sunny which was better than snowy or rainy, but worse than cloudy, which is the best driving weather of all. I decided not to complain about the sun. It was freaking freezing as we left the mitten state. Ohio was Ohio. Nothing to tell. Still flat. No offense please, my geographical neighbors. Cedar Point still makes Ohio one pretty sweet place, so it isn't all that bad. Plus a few of y'all actually live there, so I won't be too harsh. We made good time in Ohio. No complaints.



Pennsylvania. The first thing I miss about Pennsylvania are the signs. First you would have the big splashy "Welcome to Pennsylvania" sign. Then, ten feet later would be this enormous black and white sign with a big finger pointing at you. The sign proceded to threaten you, listing how much you would have to pay for driving infractions. Welcome to Pennsylvania! Piss us off? Fifty bucks. Drive two miles over the speed limit? ninety bucks. Piss us off AND drive two miles over the speed limit? Forget it pal, you're going to the clink. Oh, and thanks for visiting. We always cracked up at those signs. Unfortunately, the Pennsylvania congeniality committee must have had them removed. It's kind of a bummer.



Anyway. Pennsylvania is usually a big plus to drive because you have mountains. Which is a pleasant change of pace after two and a half hours of airplane landing strips. Hooray! A Hill! So we're driving driving driving and then. Then. A flashing sign says the turnpike is closed from New Stanton all the way until Breezewood. Traffic will be rerouted. Well, ok. What are you going to do? Well, what you're going to do is SIT on the turnpike for the next 2.5 hours to travel 3 miles to exit. Oh man. I don't have words. But I do have words for those people who decided to pass on the right shoulder while the rest of us sat there and waited our turn. Hell is all warmed up for you folks. Enjoy yourselves. Middle finger up.



We finally get off the turnpike and drive for about five minutes until we hit the town of Bursting Bladderville. Because I also chose not to get up close and personal with the flora and fauna along the turnpike, I was damn near ready to explode. We raced into the closest McDonalds and YEEESH! It was so cold in that bathroom, levitation was required. I thought I was in the UP of the Mitten. Brrrrrrrrrrrr......



We grabbed some food and continued on our detour filled way. Now we are driving on Highway 40, followed by Highway 68 which are very old scenic highways. Not so scenic in the dark, I'm afraid, but I imagined it would be quite a beautiful drive if you could see anything. The mountain road was incredibly steep and curvy, and we were usually stuck behind a truck who was alternating ripping his engine to shreds or burning rubber. Mmmmmm fun.



Two best signs along the road:



GIFT SALE ROAD SALT

and

POLISH MOUNTAIN ALTITUDE 1246 FEET



The gift of road salt was mildly humorous, but I really cracked up over the Polish Mountain sign. Upon repeating the sign to GramTuna, I said "It would have been funnier if it said negative 1246 feet. Har de Har Har.



Ok, maybe not so funny, but I'd been in the car one heck of a long time.



Aside from that, the day was uneventful as it could be. We made it safely to our first destination. Tomorrow, we will be travelling to Prince Frederick, Maryland, for a Christmas gathering of sorts. Let's hope there aren't any more delays.



Signing off before this electronic beasties fizzles out and takes my post with it.



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HOLIDAY ROAD
GreenTuna here, reporting in from Alexandria, Virginia. Or maybe Arlington, Virginia. I honestly don't remember, because everytime my little brother moves across the street he changes city. Really. But I do think it's Alexandria, in case anybody is frantic for details. I'm typing on a laptop with a wireless connection. Wireless? Super cool! Laptop? Tiny keys mean I have to be really careful. Plus I have no real clue about the alleged mouse movement with the big red dot in the middle, so I'm constantly hitting twenty keys trying to scroll down the page. And then there are all the Japanese characters....

And yet, I'm dying for a laptop. Someday. Hopefully sooner than later, because this typing on my lap in an easy chair? Super smooth, man.

Anyway. We are here. In Virginia. As we crossed the border, I heard several brain cells spontaneously combust and I started saying "y'all" and "ain't" alot. I swear. The trip out here, well...how do I say this? SUCKED. Sucked wind. Sucked giant enormous gas. Sucked. Bit. Blew. It was awful, and then some.

Good parts included dry roads. It was sunny which was better than snowy or rainy, but worse than cloudy, which is the best driving weather of all. I decided not to complain about the sun. It was freaking freezing as we left the mitten state. Ohio was Ohio. Nothing to tell. Still flat. No offense please, my geographical neighbors. Cedar Point still makes Ohio one pretty sweet place, so it isn't all that bad. Plus a few of y'all actually live there, so I won't be too harsh. We made good time in Ohio. No complaints.

Pennsylvania. The first thing I miss about Pennsylvania are the signs. First you would have the big splashy "Welcome to Pennsylvania" sign. Then, ten feet later would be this enormous black and white sign with a big finger pointing at you. The sign proceded to threaten you, listing how much you would have to pay for driving infractions. Welcome to Pennsylvania! Piss us off? Fifty bucks. Drive two miles over the speed limit? ninety bucks. Piss us off AND drive two miles over the speed limit? Forget it pal, you're going to the clink. Oh, and thanks for visiting. We always cracked up at those signs. Unfortunately, the Pennsylvania congeniality committee must have had them removed. It's kind of a bummer.

Anyway. Pennsylvania is usually a big plus to drive because you have mountains. Which is a pleasant change of pace after two and a half hours of airplane landing strips. Hooray! A Hill! So we're driving driving driving and then. Then. A flashing sign says the turnpike is closed from New Stanton all the way until Breezewood. Traffic will be rerouted. Well, ok. What are you going to do? Well, what you're going to do is SIT on the turnpike for the next 2.5 hours to travel 3 miles to exit. Oh man. I don't have words. But I do have words for those people who decided to pass on the right shoulder while the rest of us sat there and waited our turn. Hell is all warmed up for you folks. Enjoy yourselves. Middle finger up.

We finally get off the turnpike and drive for about five minutes until we hit the town of Bursting Bladderville. Because I also chose not to get up close and personal with the flora and fauna along the turnpike, I was damn near ready to explode. We raced into the closest McDonalds and YEEESH! It was so cold in that bathroom, levitation was required. I thought I was in the UP of the Mitten. Brrrrrrrrrrrr......

We grabbed some food and continued on our detour filled way. Now we are driving on Highway 40, followed by Highway 68 which are very old scenic highways. Not so scenic in the dark, I'm afraid, but I imagined it would be quite a beautiful drive if you could see anything. The mountain road was incredibly steep and curvy, and we were usually stuck behind a truck who was alternating ripping his engine to shreds or burning rubber. Mmmmmm fun.

Two best signs along the road:

GIFT SALE ROAD SALT
and
POLISH MOUNTAIN ALTITUDE 1246 FEET

The gift of road salt was mildly humorous, but I really cracked up over the Polish Mountain sign. Upon repeating the sign to GramTuna, I said "It would have been funnier if it said negative 1246 feet. Har de Har Har.

Ok, maybe not so funny, but I'd been in the car one heck of a long time.

Aside from that, the day was uneventful as it could be. We made it safely to our first destination. Tomorrow, we will be travelling to Prince Frederick, Maryland, for a Christmas gathering of sorts. Let's hope there aren't any more delays.

Signing off before this electronic beasties fizzles out and takes my post with it.

Sign My Guestbook!

Thursday, December 25, 2003

FELIZ NAVIBLAB

Merry December the 25th. I hope everybody got exactly what they wanted, whether that be Christmas presents, Hannukah Geld, A good seat at the movies or some extra sleep. Personally I'm severely deficient in the sleep department. The bags under my eyes have bags. Too many nights of four hours sleep.



Woke up this morning (actually went to bed last night) to snow on the ground. Yes, the mitten state came through with a white Christmas. Being a mitten state type person, I'm supposed to jump up and down and clap like a ninny at the sight of snow on Christmas eve. Whatever. My biggest thrill was discovering my neighbor (my NICE neighbor, not Mrs. Cranky to the west or the Clampetts to the upper north) took the snowblower to our driveway. I immediately packed up Christmas cookies and sent GramTuna running across the driveway.



So, TinyTuna. What was I supposed to remember? Tooth -- Stocking -- Star. Well, let me tell you. At 2:15 am I managed to financially cover the dental drama, and the stocking was never in danger of being forgotten. The star, however, went AWOL, so it didn't climb back onto the tree. For those of you playing at home, TinyTuna never mentioned it this morning. But back to the tooth. I was a little annoyed. Granted, her tooth was loose. But it wasn't that loose, and my darling moocher decided to rip it out of her mouth at 2 minutes before church. DOH. I shouldn't have to be checking for dollars on Christmas Eve. Tooth fairy and Santa? What a greedy Gus.



Overall, Christmas was fine. No major injuries, shouting, crying or pouting fits -- and the kids behaved pretty darn well, too. Over the next several days I'll be reporting in from the eastern side of the country and regaling you with holiday tales south of the Mason-Dixon line. Friendly warning: expect to see a lot more "y'all" type writing. When in Rome....



To my family and friends here at home, thank you for a very merry Christmas. To everybody out there who reads and encourages me and my chronicle of life in the trenches, thank you. You're so much more than virtual friends. You're real friends that I just haven't met yet. Warmest wishes to each and every one of you.



Last thought--Why is Kirstie Allie STILL on my TV?

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FELIZ NAVIBLAB
Merry December the 25th. I hope everybody got exactly what they wanted, whether that be Christmas presents, Hannukah Geld, A good seat at the movies or some extra sleep. Personally I'm severely deficient in the sleep department. The bags under my eyes have bags. Too many nights of four hours sleep.

Woke up this morning (actually went to bed last night) to snow on the ground. Yes, the mitten state came through with a white Christmas. Being a mitten state type person, I'm supposed to jump up and down and clap like a ninny at the sight of snow on Christmas eve. Whatever. My biggest thrill was discovering my neighbor (my NICE neighbor, not Mrs. Cranky to the west or the Clampetts to the upper north) took the snowblower to our driveway. I immediately packed up Christmas cookies and sent GramTuna running across the driveway.

So, TinyTuna. What was I supposed to remember? Tooth -- Stocking -- Star. Well, let me tell you. At 2:15 am I managed to financially cover the dental drama, and the stocking was never in danger of being forgotten. The star, however, went AWOL, so it didn't climb back onto the tree. For those of you playing at home, TinyTuna never mentioned it this morning. But back to the tooth. I was a little annoyed. Granted, her tooth was loose. But it wasn't that loose, and my darling moocher decided to rip it out of her mouth at 2 minutes before church. DOH. I shouldn't have to be checking for dollars on Christmas Eve. Tooth fairy and Santa? What a greedy Gus.

Overall, Christmas was fine. No major injuries, shouting, crying or pouting fits -- and the kids behaved pretty darn well, too. Over the next several days I'll be reporting in from the eastern side of the country and regaling you with holiday tales south of the Mason-Dixon line. Friendly warning: expect to see a lot more "y'all" type writing. When in Rome....

To my family and friends here at home, thank you for a very merry Christmas. To everybody out there who reads and encourages me and my chronicle of life in the trenches, thank you. You're so much more than virtual friends. You're real friends that I just haven't met yet. Warmest wishes to each and every one of you.

Last thought--Why is Kirstie Allie STILL on my TV?
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Wednesday, December 24, 2003

THE FIRST NOEL ~~ A FaLaLaLaLas Celebration of Holiday Stories and Songs





Christmas Eve, 2003



You’ve been gone for over twenty years. And still, I miss you.



I had known you since I was about ten years old. You were an enormous man in both stature and character. You were very tall and broad, with a long full face and gigantic hands. Your deep bass voice filled the room when you spoke. Your laugh was a cacophony of sound that came from deep within you, and when you sang, the notes rang full and strong. You had a passion for music. This is how I remember you.



I had the chance to sing with the adult choir. I felt small and a bit overwhelmed, but I loved it so. People made a big deal out of the fact that you were the oldest and I was the youngest. This didn’t embarrass me at all. I felt proud to be mentioned with you in the same breath. I felt special and lucky that I had this chance to sing with you. I got to be with the grownups and sing important music. I got to laugh with your jokes, especially the never-ending “what page was that again?” This is how I remember you.



You were my Grandpa -- but not really. You were my little brother’s Grandpa -- but not really. You were everybody’s Grandpa who wanted one. And lots of us did. I didn’t feel jealous, because you made each one of us feel special and loved. This is how I remember you.



The years passed, I grew up, but I still remember us being close. You were a musician. I was a musician. There was an unspoken understanding we shared about our mutual love of music and the indefinable, unbreakable force it held in our lives. Even though your voice was strong and mine was weak and just beginning to grow, I felt like we shared this musical and philosophical space together. This is how I remember us.



You had bone cancer. You, this enormous man of stature and character were being attacked by something that started with one microscopic cell. Your very existence was forever altered by a miniscule change, a tiny cellular mutation. Your voice got weaker and mine continued to grow, but I didn’t really seem to notice. Not at first. I don’t remember why.



The choir was preparing portions of the marvelous oratorio, Elijah by Mendelssohn. You were going to sing the title role of Elijah, but pulled out at the last minute because you were too weak. I wasn’t sad. I was secretly glad. Elijah has to sing, “It is enough, Oh Lord Now Take Away My Life.” I didn’t think you should sing that. I didn’t think you should even think that – even if you were only singing a role. Some people thought it would be poignant or touching or bittersweet for you to sing that – mostly likely for one last time. I thought it was the wrong.



You grew weaker. I remember going to your house when you were quite ill. My mother and I played two-handed Christmas Music. Although the piano was in a different room from where your bed was set up, you could hear us down the hall and around the corner. You loved our impromptu concert so much -- I was so proud and excited to be able to bring you some happiness. It was as if the very notes melted away your pain and we all leapt from our mortal places and danced together, full of love, life and music. I will never forget that day. I will never forget your gratitude.



You died on Christmas Eve. I don’t have words that even come close to describing my sadness. My heart burst into a billion grief-stricken shards. I was told that your final words were “…beautiful…beautiful…” and I think this was told to me to somehow make me feel better. I took a little comfort in this idea, but was soon overwhelmed once more by the thought that you were no longer here.



You died on Christmas Eve, and I had to sing that night. My solo was a portion of “The First Noel” sung over the entire choir.



The first noel the angel did say was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay-

in fields where they lay keeping their sheep, on a cold winter's night that was so deep.



Noel, noel! Noel, noel! Born is the King of Israel!



They looked up and saw a star shining in the east, beyond them far;

and to the earth it gave great light, and so it continued both day and night.



Noel, noel! Noel, noel! Born is the King of Israel!




I felt lost and alone, and yet here I was, singing about stars that gave direction and hope to the world. Although I felt small, my voice grew fuller and stronger. Although I felt sad and afraid, I put my trust in those things that gave me strength and hope. Ultimately, I made it through my solo without falling apart. What carried me? I don’t know for sure. All I know is that you died on Christmas Eve and I sang “Noel” -- a French word originating from Latin meaning "birthday." You were gone, but life and music continued on in its own beautiful dance.



I have never and will never forget you. Your kindness, your humor, your wit and your incredible musical abilities have influenced my life and inspired my heart. I think of you often, and I make selfish wishes that you were here now. As I sing in church I smile, thinking about my voice sharing the same space and filling the room the way yours did, passionate and strong.



A part of me is sad because you are gone.

A part of me is quiet because your voice is still.

But as I look at your life and all it has meant to me and so many others, I can only say

“…beautiful…beautiful…”



Merry Christmas.



Lyrics and background information on the hymn “The First Noel” can be found here.

All lyrics are the property and copyright of their respective owners.

All lyrics are provided for educational purposes and personal use only.




Other FaLaLaLaLa Offerings of 2003

~~ The Tale of the Flaming Pig ~~

~~ Fifty Angry Men ~~

~~ The Tale of the Bloody Keys ~~



Sign My Guestbook!
THE FIRST NOEL ~~ A FaLaLaLaLas Celebration of Holiday Stories and Songs


Christmas Eve, 2003

You’ve been gone for over twenty years. And still, I miss you.

I had known you since I was about ten years old. You were an enormous man in both stature and character. You were very tall and broad, with a long full face and gigantic hands. Your deep bass voice filled the room when you spoke. Your laugh was a cacophony of sound that came from deep within you, and when you sang, the notes rang full and strong. You had a passion for music. This is how I remember you.

I had the chance to sing with the adult choir. I felt small and a bit overwhelmed, but I loved it so. People made a big deal out of the fact that you were the oldest and I was the youngest. This didn’t embarrass me at all. I felt proud to be mentioned with you in the same breath. I felt special and lucky that I had this chance to sing with you. I got to be with the grownups and sing important music. I got to laugh with your jokes, especially the never-ending “what page was that again?” This is how I remember you.

You were my Grandpa -- but not really. You were my little brother’s Grandpa -- but not really. You were everybody’s Grandpa who wanted one. And lots of us did. I didn’t feel jealous, because you made each one of us feel special and loved. This is how I remember you.

The years passed, I grew up, but I still remember us being close. You were a musician. I was a musician. There was an unspoken understanding we shared about our mutual love of music and the indefinable, unbreakable force it held in our lives. Even though your voice was strong and mine was weak and just beginning to grow, I felt like we shared this musical and philosophical space together. This is how I remember us.

You had bone cancer. You, this enormous man of stature and character were being attacked by something that started with one microscopic cell. Your very existence was forever altered by a miniscule change, a tiny cellular mutation. Your voice got weaker and mine continued to grow, but I didn’t really seem to notice. Not at first. I don’t remember why.

The choir was preparing portions of the marvelous oratorio, Elijah by Mendelssohn. You were going to sing the title role of Elijah, but pulled out at the last minute because you were too weak. I wasn’t sad. I was secretly glad. Elijah has to sing, “It is enough, Oh Lord Now Take Away My Life.” I didn’t think you should sing that. I didn’t think you should even think that – even if you were only singing a role. Some people thought it would be poignant or touching or bittersweet for you to sing that – mostly likely for one last time. I thought it was the wrong.

You grew weaker. I remember going to your house when you were quite ill. My mother and I played two-handed Christmas Music. Although the piano was in a different room from where your bed was set up, you could hear us down the hall and around the corner. You loved our impromptu concert so much -- I was so proud and excited to be able to bring you some happiness. It was as if the very notes melted away your pain and we all leapt from our mortal places and danced together, full of love, life and music. I will never forget that day. I will never forget your gratitude.

You died on Christmas Eve. I don’t have words that even come close to describing my sadness. My heart burst into a billion grief-stricken shards. I was told that your final words were “…beautiful…beautiful…” and I think this was told to me to somehow make me feel better. I took a little comfort in this idea, but was soon overwhelmed once more by the thought that you were no longer here.

You died on Christmas Eve, and I had to sing that night. My solo was a portion of “The First Noel” sung over the entire choir.

The first noel the angel did say was to certain poor shepherds in fields as they lay-
in fields where they lay keeping their sheep, on a cold winter's night that was so deep.

Noel, noel! Noel, noel! Born is the King of Israel!

They looked up and saw a star shining in the east, beyond them far;
and to the earth it gave great light, and so it continued both day and night.

Noel, noel! Noel, noel! Born is the King of Israel!


I felt lost and alone, and yet here I was, singing about stars that gave direction and hope to the world. Although I felt small, my voice grew fuller and stronger. Although I felt sad and afraid, I put my trust in those things that gave me strength and hope. Ultimately, I made it through my solo without falling apart. What carried me? I don’t know for sure. All I know is that you died on Christmas Eve and I sang “Noel” -- a French word originating from Latin meaning "birthday." You were gone, but life and music continued on in its own beautiful dance.

I have never and will never forget you. Your kindness, your humor, your wit and your incredible musical abilities have influenced my life and inspired my heart. I think of you often, and I make selfish wishes that you were here now. As I sing in church I smile, thinking about my voice sharing the same space and filling the room the way yours did, passionate and strong.

A part of me is sad because you are gone.
A part of me is quiet because your voice is still.
But as I look at your life and all it has meant to me and so many others, I can only say
“…beautiful…beautiful…”

Merry Christmas.

Lyrics and background information on the hymn “The First Noel” can be found here.
All lyrics are the property and copyright of their respective owners.
All lyrics are provided for educational purposes and personal use only.


Other FaLaLaLaLa Offerings of 2003
~~ The Tale of the Flaming Pig ~~
~~ Fifty Angry Men ~~
~~ The Tale of the Bloody Keys ~~

Sign My Guestbook!

Tuesday, December 23, 2003

PAT THE TUNA

I am so proud of me. First of all, I think (THINK, mind you) that my shopping is completed. I just hope I don't wake up out of a dead sleep at 5:00 am tomorrow morning in a panic when I realize I've forgotten that special something for Aunt Gertrude.



Lucky for me, I don't have an Aunt Gertrude.



The best thing is that somehow I managed to remember to buy something for the afternoon "family service" tomorrow. There is nothing worse than running into a drug store at 3:57pm yelling, "I need diapers for the Baby Jesus!!!" It's like yelling "nails", except that nobody wants to help you in a drugstore unless you need hemorrhoid medicine.



Or so I might assume.



Last year I forgot the family service gift and was madly rummaging through my basement in the hopes of stumbling across something appropriate. I was this close (fingers smooooshed together) to giving the baby Jesus a beach ball. Pretty sweet, huh? I mean, even the Kings didn't think of anything that cool.



Of course, I thought better of my plan, and ran into the drugstore yelling, "diapers!"



This year, I am prepared. The baby Jesus will get a bib set and a cool Noah's ark squishy teething thing. Maybe I'll just hide the beach ball in the basket and call it Christmas.

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PAT THE TUNA
I am so proud of me. First of all, I think (THINK, mind you) that my shopping is completed. I just hope I don't wake up out of a dead sleep at 5:00 am tomorrow morning in a panic when I realize I've forgotten that special something for Aunt Gertrude.

Lucky for me, I don't have an Aunt Gertrude.

The best thing is that somehow I managed to remember to buy something for the afternoon "family service" tomorrow. There is nothing worse than running into a drug store at 3:57pm yelling, "I need diapers for the Baby Jesus!!!" It's like yelling "nails", except that nobody wants to help you in a drugstore unless you need hemorrhoid medicine.

Or so I might assume.

Last year I forgot the family service gift and was madly rummaging through my basement in the hopes of stumbling across something appropriate. I was this close (fingers smooooshed together) to giving the baby Jesus a beach ball. Pretty sweet, huh? I mean, even the Kings didn't think of anything that cool.

Of course, I thought better of my plan, and ran into the drugstore yelling, "diapers!"

This year, I am prepared. The baby Jesus will get a bib set and a cool Noah's ark squishy teething thing. Maybe I'll just hide the beach ball in the basket and call it Christmas.
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EVIL TREES

Curiouser and curiouser. Check out these recent news items:



Fallen Christmas tree hurts four in Prague (Dec. 6, 2003)



PRAGUE (Reuters) - A 31-metre (100 feet) tall Christmas tree has crashed to the ground during a windstorm at a market filled with holiday shoppers in Prague's ancient Old Town Square injuring four people.



* * * * *



GreenTuna's Tree Takes a Header (Dec. 19th, 2003)

The Tuna family was saddened to find their Christmas Tree splayed all over the living room floor.

"I didn't do it!!!" TinyTuna exclaimed multiple times.

The tree was righted several days later after some cussing, crying, and grumbling.



* * * * *



Downtown Christmas tree comes down early

By Suzanne Colonna -- MPG Newspapers



PLYMOUTH (Dec. 20) - It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, until high winds and rain Wednesday night claimed the town's Christmas tree for the second time this year.



"It snapped right at the base," parks, forestry, recreation and cemetery superintendent Ted Bubbins said Friday.

Bubbins said the tree department got a call Wednesday night around 8:30 p.m. that the tree was on the ground along North Street.




Coincidence? I think not. We'd better start searching out the Tannenbaums of mass-destruction. And while we're at it, we should call the Crayola people so they can come up with an appropriate National Security Advisory color. Poisonous Pine? Falling Fir 'n Flesh? Destructive Douglas Drab? Sabotage Spruce Sienna?

Sign My Guestbook!
EVIL TREES
Curiouser and curiouser. Check out these recent news items:

Fallen Christmas tree hurts four in Prague (Dec. 6, 2003)

PRAGUE (Reuters) - A 31-metre (100 feet) tall Christmas tree has crashed to the ground during a windstorm at a market filled with holiday shoppers in Prague's ancient Old Town Square injuring four people.

* * * * *

GreenTuna's Tree Takes a Header (Dec. 19th, 2003)
The Tuna family was saddened to find their Christmas Tree splayed all over the living room floor.
"I didn't do it!!!" TinyTuna exclaimed multiple times.
The tree was righted several days later after some cussing, crying, and grumbling.

* * * * *

Downtown Christmas tree comes down early
By Suzanne Colonna -- MPG Newspapers

PLYMOUTH (Dec. 20) - It was beginning to look a lot like Christmas, until high winds and rain Wednesday night claimed the town's Christmas tree for the second time this year.

"It snapped right at the base," parks, forestry, recreation and cemetery superintendent Ted Bubbins said Friday.
Bubbins said the tree department got a call Wednesday night around 8:30 p.m. that the tree was on the ground along North Street.


Coincidence? I think not. We'd better start searching out the Tannenbaums of mass-destruction. And while we're at it, we should call the Crayola people so they can come up with an appropriate National Security Advisory color. Poisonous Pine? Falling Fir 'n Flesh? Destructive Douglas Drab? Sabotage Spruce Sienna?
Sign My Guestbook!
AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS

What ever happened to the Santa that rode around on a Norelco shaver? Even though it's annoying and stupid, I haven't seen it on TV to remind me how annoying and stupid it is. And why would Santa ride on an electric shaver, anyway? If he's got a beard that's long and white, wouldn't Santa be staying away from facial skin shavers?



While I'm at it, somebody should throw the old Coca-Cola commercial on TV. You know, the one from the 70's where we would like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. That's a Christmas commercial, isn't it?



Maybe I'm not watching much TV this holiday season, but one thing I haven't seen (and don't miss) are the eighty-billion cell phone commercials. Santa on a cell phone. Elves on a cell phone. Reindeer on a cell phone. Wouldn't you like to own a cell phone too? (Be a Pepper, Drink Dr. Pepper...) Anyway. Maybe everybody has one now, so cellphones are old news.



Holiday commercial that makes me laugh -- The guy who is trying not to make the same mistake he did last year when he bought his wife a treadmill. She opened it up, shot him the look of death and said, "So, you think I'm FAT?" Heh.



I'm anxiously awaiting Super Bowl ads. It's half the reason I watch the game to begin with. Plus, I can't wait to see my first Survivor All-Star ad. It's like robins in springtime. I'm hoping they will feed us Survivor in February-March, Amazing Race in May-June and Big Brother in July-September. Reality crack. That's what it is.



More later. Work calls.

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AND NOW, A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS
What ever happened to the Santa that rode around on a Norelco shaver? Even though it's annoying and stupid, I haven't seen it on TV to remind me how annoying and stupid it is. And why would Santa ride on an electric shaver, anyway? If he's got a beard that's long and white, wouldn't Santa be staying away from facial skin shavers?

While I'm at it, somebody should throw the old Coca-Cola commercial on TV. You know, the one from the 70's where we would like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. That's a Christmas commercial, isn't it?

Maybe I'm not watching much TV this holiday season, but one thing I haven't seen (and don't miss) are the eighty-billion cell phone commercials. Santa on a cell phone. Elves on a cell phone. Reindeer on a cell phone. Wouldn't you like to own a cell phone too? (Be a Pepper, Drink Dr. Pepper...) Anyway. Maybe everybody has one now, so cellphones are old news.

Holiday commercial that makes me laugh -- The guy who is trying not to make the same mistake he did last year when he bought his wife a treadmill. She opened it up, shot him the look of death and said, "So, you think I'm FAT?" Heh.

I'm anxiously awaiting Super Bowl ads. It's half the reason I watch the game to begin with. Plus, I can't wait to see my first Survivor All-Star ad. It's like robins in springtime. I'm hoping they will feed us Survivor in February-March, Amazing Race in May-June and Big Brother in July-September. Reality crack. That's what it is.

More later. Work calls.
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Monday, December 22, 2003

A NIGHT AT THE OPERA

Don’t you love the idea of a mulligan? That opportunity to pick up the ball, go back to the beginning and try again? What a great rule. The first one didn’t count. Go ahead and have a do over.



Unfortunately, a do-over seems to be reserved for errors and miscalculations. We don’t usually get the chance or the opportunity to have a do-over when it’s something good. Essentially, the do-over is nothing more than a punishment/redemption combo plate. And that’s really a shame.



The problem is in the do-over itself. A do-over is an egocentric activity where a person is returned to GO, and all the elements are set in orbit once again around you. Can you learn from you previous mistake? If so, then you’ve passed the test. If not, well, nice going, idiot. You’ve blown it now not once, but twice. It can be very discouraging.



What’s great is a happy do-over. Happy as in “that was so wonderful, lets do it again”! I wish for these a lot, but they rarely happen. And when they do, they aren’t the same. Somehow it’s not as good; it’s not magical. It feels strangely sad and empty.



The problem here is that in reality, the wish isn’t for a do-over, it’s for an instant replay, and that doesn’t happen in life. A do-over requires all the elements to be forced into action. Chaos theory says it is possible to get random results from normal equations, so exact duplication isn’t going to happen. This is why any result that differs from the original tends to be a disappointment.



I just finished having the do-over of a lifetime. And for once it wasn’t punishment. And for once it wasn’t a letdown. Instead, it was a marvelously rich, rewarding experience. It was different from the first time. Not better and not worse, just different. Each was a success in its own right. Why did this do-over work, when so many others failed?



It wasn’t about me.



Unknowingly, unwittingly, unconsciously, I realigned my thinking and my role in the do-over. Instead of placing myself in the center of the universe and like Mickey Mouse, commanding the elements to orbit and perform at my command, I threw myself into the orbit as well. I became a part of the process rather than a static observer and a critic of the end result. I became a verb – I became an action – I became a force.



My do-over was an opera. Twenty-five years ago I sang the role of the mother, and my little brother sang the role of my child. Two days ago I sang the same role, and TinyTuna sang the role of my child. Because my maternal instincts overrode my Soprano instincts (where we are always and forever the center of all universes, world without end, Amen), I was focused on TinyTuna and her experience, rather than my own. But my reward was an experience and a performance that has its own life and its own stories to tell. I finally had a successful do-over.



The more I thought about this, the more it made sense. How often have I re-read a book and discovered new meanings? How often have a performed a musical work and found new beauty and truth in something I thought I knew so well? It is the constant. I am the element of change. I am a living breathing Chaos Theory, and when I allow the music, or the book, or the work of art to become the focus instead of myself, I am able to reap the rewards of a do-over time and time again.



Now that the opera is finished, I am racing head first into the do-over brick wall known as the holiday season. With three days to go, I can see the “nice going, idiot” handwriting on the wall. I’m behind, frantic and stressed, just like every other year. Even my Christmas tree fell over in sympathetic suicide.



Is it too late? Can I realign my thinking and recognize that Christmas isn’t about me? Can I leave the center of my own pre-conceived universe and become a part of the process? I’m tired of being a critic of Christmas past. I want to be a verb – an action – a force, and celebrate Christmas present, in whatever form it takes.



I’m ready.

Do-Over.

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A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
Don’t you love the idea of a mulligan? That opportunity to pick up the ball, go back to the beginning and try again? What a great rule. The first one didn’t count. Go ahead and have a do over.

Unfortunately, a do-over seems to be reserved for errors and miscalculations. We don’t usually get the chance or the opportunity to have a do-over when it’s something good. Essentially, the do-over is nothing more than a punishment/redemption combo plate. And that’s really a shame.

The problem is in the do-over itself. A do-over is an egocentric activity where a person is returned to GO, and all the elements are set in orbit once again around you. Can you learn from you previous mistake? If so, then you’ve passed the test. If not, well, nice going, idiot. You’ve blown it now not once, but twice. It can be very discouraging.

What’s great is a happy do-over. Happy as in “that was so wonderful, lets do it again”! I wish for these a lot, but they rarely happen. And when they do, they aren’t the same. Somehow it’s not as good; it’s not magical. It feels strangely sad and empty.

The problem here is that in reality, the wish isn’t for a do-over, it’s for an instant replay, and that doesn’t happen in life. A do-over requires all the elements to be forced into action. Chaos theory says it is possible to get random results from normal equations, so exact duplication isn’t going to happen. This is why any result that differs from the original tends to be a disappointment.

I just finished having the do-over of a lifetime. And for once it wasn’t punishment. And for once it wasn’t a letdown. Instead, it was a marvelously rich, rewarding experience. It was different from the first time. Not better and not worse, just different. Each was a success in its own right. Why did this do-over work, when so many others failed?

It wasn’t about me.

Unknowingly, unwittingly, unconsciously, I realigned my thinking and my role in the do-over. Instead of placing myself in the center of the universe and like Mickey Mouse, commanding the elements to orbit and perform at my command, I threw myself into the orbit as well. I became a part of the process rather than a static observer and a critic of the end result. I became a verb – I became an action – I became a force.

My do-over was an opera. Twenty-five years ago I sang the role of the mother, and my little brother sang the role of my child. Two days ago I sang the same role, and TinyTuna sang the role of my child. Because my maternal instincts overrode my Soprano instincts (where we are always and forever the center of all universes, world without end, Amen), I was focused on TinyTuna and her experience, rather than my own. But my reward was an experience and a performance that has its own life and its own stories to tell. I finally had a successful do-over.

The more I thought about this, the more it made sense. How often have I re-read a book and discovered new meanings? How often have a performed a musical work and found new beauty and truth in something I thought I knew so well? It is the constant. I am the element of change. I am a living breathing Chaos Theory, and when I allow the music, or the book, or the work of art to become the focus instead of myself, I am able to reap the rewards of a do-over time and time again.

Now that the opera is finished, I am racing head first into the do-over brick wall known as the holiday season. With three days to go, I can see the “nice going, idiot” handwriting on the wall. I’m behind, frantic and stressed, just like every other year. Even my Christmas tree fell over in sympathetic suicide.

Is it too late? Can I realign my thinking and recognize that Christmas isn’t about me? Can I leave the center of my own pre-conceived universe and become a part of the process? I’m tired of being a critic of Christmas past. I want to be a verb – an action – a force, and celebrate Christmas present, in whatever form it takes.

I’m ready.
Do-Over.
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OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

First. The most important news of the day, is the Christmas Tree Status. Well, it's back up. Thanks to A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and some unnamed Barney travesty, the tipsy tree is standing on its own once again. Who would have thought that VHS tapes were so versatile? This had better work, because if it falls again, I'm going to haul it outside and let the birds play in it for awhile. Which isn't a bad idea in and of itself.



Second. I see that the Garanimal National Security defense system has upgraded to Orange. This is not good. Orange clashes with the general holiday decor. Get with the program Mr. Homeland Security. Green and Red, maybe a little bit of white. But Orange? No. Orange is Halloween, and my calendar says I don't have to do that again for another ten months.



Third. In the land of holiday shopping, we're getting down to the wire. I had planned to sit down last night and figure out where I was and what I had left to do. Due to Christmas Tree obligations, big church, a white elephant brunch and post-opera recovery, it just wasn't going to happen last night. So tonight I'm going to sit down and figure out where I am and what I have left to do. I know I'm not done, but I'm thinking I'm close. At this point, I pray I'm not hallucinating.



Much more later.

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OH, CHRISTMAS TREE
First. The most important news of the day, is the Christmas Tree Status. Well, it's back up. Thanks to A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving and some unnamed Barney travesty, the tipsy tree is standing on its own once again. Who would have thought that VHS tapes were so versatile? This had better work, because if it falls again, I'm going to haul it outside and let the birds play in it for awhile. Which isn't a bad idea in and of itself.

Second. I see that the Garanimal National Security defense system has upgraded to Orange. This is not good. Orange clashes with the general holiday decor. Get with the program Mr. Homeland Security. Green and Red, maybe a little bit of white. But Orange? No. Orange is Halloween, and my calendar says I don't have to do that again for another ten months.

Third. In the land of holiday shopping, we're getting down to the wire. I had planned to sit down last night and figure out where I was and what I had left to do. Due to Christmas Tree obligations, big church, a white elephant brunch and post-opera recovery, it just wasn't going to happen last night. So tonight I'm going to sit down and figure out where I am and what I have left to do. I know I'm not done, but I'm thinking I'm close. At this point, I pray I'm not hallucinating.

Much more later.
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Sunday, December 21, 2003

COMING ATTRACTIONS

It was one very, very long weekend for the Tuna clan. I'm too tired to put fingers to keyboard, so I'll just tempt you with upcoming topics of conversation--



1. Oh Christmas Tree

2. A Night at the Opera

3. Another Fa La La La La Entry

And much, much more!

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COMING ATTRACTIONS
It was one very, very long weekend for the Tuna clan. I'm too tired to put fingers to keyboard, so I'll just tempt you with upcoming topics of conversation--

1. Oh Christmas Tree
2. A Night at the Opera
3. Another Fa La La La La Entry
And much, much more!
Sign My Guestbook!

Friday, December 19, 2003

ODE TO DOUGLAS

I do not own a cat

and I do not own a dog.

I do not own a bird

and I do not own a frog.

I cannot comprehend the scene that's set in front of me --

On the floor and horizontal, is my fricking Christmas Tree.



Apparently, in the hopes of landing the coveted role of "Killer Holiday Evergreen" in the remake of The Poseidon Adventure my Douglas Fir has taken a header directly into the middle of my living room. If ever there was a sign, this would be it. What am I doing about it? At the moment, not a darn thing. I have to go sing an opera tonight about Christmas miracles. Maybe when I get home I'll sing a chorus of "Wahoo Doray" in a minor key.



Yep. That sounds good.

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ODE TO DOUGLAS
I do not own a cat
and I do not own a dog.
I do not own a bird
and I do not own a frog.
I cannot comprehend the scene that's set in front of me --
On the floor and horizontal, is my fricking Christmas Tree.

Apparently, in the hopes of landing the coveted role of "Killer Holiday Evergreen" in the remake of The Poseidon Adventure my Douglas Fir has taken a header directly into the middle of my living room. If ever there was a sign, this would be it. What am I doing about it? At the moment, not a darn thing. I have to go sing an opera tonight about Christmas miracles. Maybe when I get home I'll sing a chorus of "Wahoo Doray" in a minor key.

Yep. That sounds good.
Sign My Guestbook!
BB HOLIDAY SING-A-LONG

On the first day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

A pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the second day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the third day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the fourth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the fifth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the sixth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the seventh day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Seven chairs a flinging,

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the eighth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Eight PB lunches,

Seven chairs a-flinging,

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the ninth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Nine noses picking,

Eight PB lunches,

Seven chairs a-flinging,

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the tenth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Ten weeks of rehash,

Nine noses picking,

Eight PB lunches,

Seven chairs a-flinging,

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the eleventh day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Eleven mimes a-miming,

Ten weeks of rehash,

Nine noses picking,

Eight PB lunches,

Seven chairs a-flinging,

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



On the twelfth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me

Twelve Front-of-Houses,

Eleven mimes a-miming,

Ten weeks of rehash,

Nine noses picking,

Eight PB lunches,

Seven chairs a-flinging,

Six buzzard crotches,

Five Hundred Grand!

Four Goodyear Blimps,

Three clueless stooges,

Two golden vetoes,

And a pink hat we thought was fugly.



With apologies to partridges, turtle-doves, swans, milking-maids, drummers, dancers, Lords and Ladies.

Sign My Guestbook!
BB HOLIDAY SING-A-LONG
On the first day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
A pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the second day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the third day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the fourth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the fifth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the sixth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the seventh day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Seven chairs a flinging,
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the eighth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Eight PB lunches,
Seven chairs a-flinging,
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the ninth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Nine noses picking,
Eight PB lunches,
Seven chairs a-flinging,
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the tenth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Ten weeks of rehash,
Nine noses picking,
Eight PB lunches,
Seven chairs a-flinging,
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Eleven mimes a-miming,
Ten weeks of rehash,
Nine noses picking,
Eight PB lunches,
Seven chairs a-flinging,
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, Big Brother gave to me
Twelve Front-of-Houses,
Eleven mimes a-miming,
Ten weeks of rehash,
Nine noses picking,
Eight PB lunches,
Seven chairs a-flinging,
Six buzzard crotches,
Five Hundred Grand!
Four Goodyear Blimps,
Three clueless stooges,
Two golden vetoes,
And a pink hat we thought was fugly.

With apologies to partridges, turtle-doves, swans, milking-maids, drummers, dancers, Lords and Ladies.
Sign My Guestbook!

Thursday, December 18, 2003

IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE TOONCES

Look who I found!! After wading through three CDs of Sound of Music and I Remember Mama pictures, I stumbled across a little Christmas cheer. Finally, a cat picture I can share!



(Drumroll, Please) ...... TinyTuna is proud to present

The one, the only, the ever famous star of stage and .... well, stage ....







TOONCES! The Acting Cat!







Sweet.

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IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE TOONCES
Look who I found!! After wading through three CDs of Sound of Music and I Remember Mama pictures, I stumbled across a little Christmas cheer. Finally, a cat picture I can share!

(Drumroll, Please) ...... TinyTuna is proud to present
The one, the only, the ever famous star of stage and .... well, stage ....



TOONCES! The Acting Cat!



Sweet.
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SILENT NIGHT ~~ A FaLaLaLaLas Celebration of Holiday Stories and Songs







Silent Night, Holy Night

All is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin, mother and child

Holy infant so tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace.



All lyrics are the property and copyright of their respective owners.

All lyrics are provided for educational purposes and personal use only.




You would think that a story based on the Christmas carol “Silent Night” would be a warm and fuzzy affair, full of hot chocolate, handholding and humming “Wahoo-Doray” around the Christmas tree. If not a Norman Rockwell or Seussian affair, then perhaps you might expect to be reading about Christmas in faraway land, with thoughtful insights, deep lonely skies and a single brilliant star, accompanied by plaintive oboes and antique brass finger cymbals.



This isn’t any of those things.



It should hardly be surprising. After all, "Silent Night" has had a troubled, checkered path (You can read all about it, see the original lyrics and hear snippets of the tune here ) Its true origins and history have been obscured by time and fanciful myth. Did Mohr scribble the lyrics at the last moment, or had he written them a full year earlier? Who really wrote the music for this most favorite Christmas tune? For decades the true identity of the composer lay in obscurity. Did a pair of adorable Disney-esque mice sabotage the church organ, nibbling at its bellows, leaving it broken so composer Gruber no choice but to accompany the carol on his guitar, or had that been the intent all along? The legendary story of this carol is perfect. It is infused with hardships and insurmountable odds, yet in the final frame we are served a steaming portion of goodness set against the backdrop of a small church in a snow-encrusted village, its spire soaring deep into the crisp starlit night. Sleep in heavenly peace. Fade to black.



It would make a great movie. If only.



If you take a stroll with the International Movie Database and toss in a search of Silent Night, the vast majority of results are neither calm nor bright.



Silent Night, Bloody Night (aka Death House)

The mansion... the madness... the maniac... no escape



Silent Night, Deadly Night (aka Slayride)

You've made it through Halloween, now try and survive Christmas



Silent Night, Deadly Night, Part 2

The nightmare is about to begin … again!



Silent Night, Deadly Night, 3: You better watch out!

When your nightmare ends, the real terror begins!



Silent Night, Deadly Night 4: Initiation

And if I die before I wake, thank you



Silent Night, Deadly Night 5: The Toymaker

He’s home … but he’s not alone



I don’t think we’re in Bethlehem anymore, Toto. I can’t begin to understand the morbid combination of slasher films with a Christmas theme because admittedly, I jumped off the horror express a long, long time ago. And yet, this is my tale. A tale of despair at that most blessed of times. Much to my chagrin it is a true story. I know -- I was there. And I live to tell the tale once again as a warning to those who may follow.



~~ The Tale of the Bloody Keys ~~



It was Christmas-time again. The snow was falling, the carolers were caroling and the marshmallows were bobbing merrily in the hot chocolate. There was not a Mince Pie Face (MPF) to be found for all was lovely and perfection. A young girl sat at the piano practicing diligently. Through the house the faint strains of “Silent Night” could be heard amidst the shouts of “Mom, make her stop!” Undeterred, she continued her playing. She wanted it to be perfect. Today was the big day.



The young girl had been invited to play the organ and accompany the small children as they sang with freshly scrubbed faces and rosy complexions (maybe there was too much scrubbing?) for the Christmas Eve family service. She felt so proud to have been asked to play for the children, and the fact that she was going to be allowed to play the organ nearly sent her over the edge. She was ready. She wanted this. Bad.



As the time grew near, she bundled herself up and hopped in the banana yellow Chevy Vega. Those were some stylin’ times. Over the river and through the woods she and her mother drove until they reached the church. The girl felt her heart beat stronger. It was getting closer and closer to her big moment. She could hardly contain her excitement.



She dashed inside, took off her coat and blew into her hands, trying to warm them up. Her mother shook her head and asked her, “Why don’t you ever wear a hat and mittens?” Like every other of the billions of times she had this conversation, she shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. I don’t like hats. I don’t wear them. Ever!” And with that, she skipped off to find the choir director.



“I’m here!” She sing-songed as she skipped down the hall.



“Great!” He replied. “Will you please go to the back of the church and get some bulletins?”



“Sure!” She said happily. And off she went.



The church was dressed in Christmas splendor. There were wreaths on the pillars, candles on every windowsill and a bank of small Christmas trees up by the altar. It was beautiful. The girl could hardly contain her excitement as she imagined herself sitting at the organ, fingers poised over the keys, waiting for her big moment. It was perfect. This was a perfect day.



She reached the back of the church and saw the pile of bulletins. She wondered if her name was printed inside. She excitedly grabbed a handful and opened one up to take a peek.



AIEEEE



A thousand violins shrieked chords of horror in the crisp air. The cellos played a pedal-point of doom and a lonely bassoon tootled its mournful wail in the distance.



AIEEEEEEEEEEEE



Louder and louder the noise grew, as the horror of the moment made itself painfully aware.



A paper cut. An enormous, king-sized (3 kings-sized) paper cut right across her fingertip. And not just any finger. Her right index finger. The most important organ-playing finger of them all. A million thoughts raced through her mind as the blood seeped out and spread. What was she going to do? She had to play. She had practiced. This was going to be perfect and beautiful. It was her moment.



She considered asking for a Band-Aid. She dismissed that idea, fearing that if there were no bandages at the inn, she would be denied her big moment. She wasn’t going to let that happen. Not a chance.



With lightning speed she dashed into the choir room, deposited the bulletins on the counter and raced out. Safe! Now what? Thinking quickly, she dashed into the bathroom and turned on the cold water as hard as it would go. She stood there, sliced finger under the tap, for as long as she could stand it. Perhaps the frigid water would miraculously heal the cut, or at least stop the bleeding long enough for her to play. When she could stand it no more, she turned off the tap and grabbed a handful of paper towels. She wrapped one tightly around her finger -- as tight as it would go – and prayed with all her might that this would work.



Church started. The girl stood on the steps in the hallway, next to the organ. The telltale finger, still wrapped tightly in a paper towel, throbbed in time to the hymns. The girl tried to calm herself down. “It will be ok… it will be ok…. It will be ok…” she repeated to herself over and over.



The time came. Smiling, the choir director said, “ok” to the girl as he slid off the organ bench. The girl nodded and climbed onto the bench, ready. While the choir director was busy arranging the younger singers on the church steps, the girl carefully unwrapped the paper towel from around her finger. It was quite an impressive paper cut, as wounds of this nature go. The offending bulletin had managed somehow to slice her entire fingertip from side to side. It was much whiter than the rest of her hand. Maybe all the blood had run out or maybe it was in shock from the cold water and the tightly bound paper towel. Filled with trepidation, the girl carefully examined her finger. Amazingly – no, miraculously – the finger had stopped bleeding. The girl’s eyes lit up, and she smiled a slightly evil smile as she stuffed the used paper towel into her dress pocket. It worked. Her plan had worked. Now everything was going to be beautiful and perfect.



With music in place and hands poised over the keyboard, the girl looked at the choir director, and together they began. The director conducted the cherubic singers, his mouth going into grotesque contortions as he fed them each and every word. The parents ooohed and ahhhed appropriately. The girl played and played. Beautifully. Perfectly. And Ambiviously. She never heard the return of the thousand horror-shrieking violins, the doom-filled cellos and the lone distant bassoon of sorrow.



It was the final phrase. Blissfully happy at her performance, the girl looked down at her perfectly poised fingers on the bloody keys. Yes, the beautiful organ keyboard was a smeary, bloody mess. All that was missing was a chalk outline of a body. The girl panicked. The violins played louder. The girl could feel her heart both leap out of her body and sink to the bottom of her stomach at the same time. The choir director came back, smiling at the lovely performance, and the girl returned his glace with utter despair. His face fell. His brow furrowed and his eyes grew dark and stormy.



“I’m sorry,” mumbled the girl pathetically.



“Go get some wet paper towel NOW,” he hissed.



And away she ran. Back and forth and back and forth to the bathroom she raced, bringing gifts of wet paper towels and dry paper towels until the carnage was cleared away. Sensing the horror was over and the credits were rolling, the violins, cellos and bassoon packed up their instruments in search of the next disaster. To their utter delight, they heard tell of a medieval feast, complete with a flaming boar’s head. This would be beautiful. This would be perfect.



Other FaLaLaLaLa Offerings of 2003

~~ The Tale of the Flaming Pig ~~

~~ Fifty Angry Men ~~

~~ The First Noel ~~



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SILENT NIGHT ~~ A FaLaLaLaLas Celebration of Holiday Stories and Songs



Silent Night, Holy Night
All is calm, all is bright
Round yon virgin, mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace.

All lyrics are the property and copyright of their respective owners.
All lyrics are provided for educational purposes and personal use only.


You would think that a story based on the Christmas carol “Silent Night” would be a warm and fuzzy affair, full of hot chocolate, handholding and humming “Wahoo-Doray” around the Christmas tree. If not a Norman Rockwell or Seussian affair, then perhaps you might expect to be reading about Christmas in faraway land, with thoughtful insights, deep lonely skies and a single brilliant star, accompanied by plaintive oboes and antique brass finger cymbals.

This isn’t any of those things.

It should hardly be surprising. After all, "Silent Night" has had a troubled, checkered path (You can read all about it, see the original lyrics and hear snippets of the tune here ) Its true origins and history have been obscured by time and fanciful myth. Did Mohr scribble the lyrics at the last moment, or had he written them a full year earlier? Who really wrote the music for this most favorite Christmas tune? For decades the true identity of the composer lay in obscurity. Did a pair of adorable Disney-esque mice sabotage the church organ, nibbling at its bellows, leaving it broken so composer Gruber no choice but to accompany the carol on his guitar, or had that been the intent all along? The legendary story of this carol is perfect. It is infused with hardships and insurmountable odds, yet in the final frame we are served a steaming portion of goodness set against the backdrop of a small church in a snow-encrusted village, its spire soaring deep into the crisp starlit night. Sleep in heavenly peace. Fade to black.

It would make a great movie. If only.

If you take a stroll with the International Movie Database and toss in a search of Silent Night, the vast majority of results are neither calm nor bright.

Silent Night, Bloody Night (aka Death House)
The mansion... the madness... the maniac... no escape

Silent Night, Deadly Night (aka Slayride)
You've made it through Halloween, now try and survive Christmas

Silent Night, Deadly Night, Part 2
The nightmare is about to begin … again!

Silent Night, Deadly Night, 3: You better watch out!
When your nightmare ends, the real terror begins!

Silent Night, Deadly Night 4: Initiation
And if I die before I wake, thank you

Silent Night, Deadly Night 5: The Toymaker
He’s home … but he’s not alone

I don’t think we’re in Bethlehem anymore, Toto. I can’t begin to understand the morbid combination of slasher films with a Christmas theme because admittedly, I jumped off the horror express a long, long time ago. And yet, this is my tale. A tale of despair at that most blessed of times. Much to my chagrin it is a true story. I know -- I was there. And I live to tell the tale once again as a warning to those who may follow.

~~ The Tale of the Bloody Keys ~~

It was Christmas-time again. The snow was falling, the carolers were caroling and the marshmallows were bobbing merrily in the hot chocolate. There was not a Mince Pie Face (MPF) to be found for all was lovely and perfection. A young girl sat at the piano practicing diligently. Through the house the faint strains of “Silent Night” could be heard amidst the shouts of “Mom, make her stop!” Undeterred, she continued her playing. She wanted it to be perfect. Today was the big day.

The young girl had been invited to play the organ and accompany the small children as they sang with freshly scrubbed faces and rosy complexions (maybe there was too much scrubbing?) for the Christmas Eve family service. She felt so proud to have been asked to play for the children, and the fact that she was going to be allowed to play the organ nearly sent her over the edge. She was ready. She wanted this. Bad.

As the time grew near, she bundled herself up and hopped in the banana yellow Chevy Vega. Those were some stylin’ times. Over the river and through the woods she and her mother drove until they reached the church. The girl felt her heart beat stronger. It was getting closer and closer to her big moment. She could hardly contain her excitement.

She dashed inside, took off her coat and blew into her hands, trying to warm them up. Her mother shook her head and asked her, “Why don’t you ever wear a hat and mittens?” Like every other of the billions of times she had this conversation, she shrugged and replied, “I don’t know. I don’t like hats. I don’t wear them. Ever!” And with that, she skipped off to find the choir director.

“I’m here!” She sing-songed as she skipped down the hall.

“Great!” He replied. “Will you please go to the back of the church and get some bulletins?”

“Sure!” She said happily. And off she went.

The church was dressed in Christmas splendor. There were wreaths on the pillars, candles on every windowsill and a bank of small Christmas trees up by the altar. It was beautiful. The girl could hardly contain her excitement as she imagined herself sitting at the organ, fingers poised over the keys, waiting for her big moment. It was perfect. This was a perfect day.

She reached the back of the church and saw the pile of bulletins. She wondered if her name was printed inside. She excitedly grabbed a handful and opened one up to take a peek.

AIEEEE

A thousand violins shrieked chords of horror in the crisp air. The cellos played a pedal-point of doom and a lonely bassoon tootled its mournful wail in the distance.

AIEEEEEEEEEEEE

Louder and louder the noise grew, as the horror of the moment made itself painfully aware.

A paper cut. An enormous, king-sized (3 kings-sized) paper cut right across her fingertip. And not just any finger. Her right index finger. The most important organ-playing finger of them all. A million thoughts raced through her mind as the blood seeped out and spread. What was she going to do? She had to play. She had practiced. This was going to be perfect and beautiful. It was her moment.

She considered asking for a Band-Aid. She dismissed that idea, fearing that if there were no bandages at the inn, she would be denied her big moment. She wasn’t going to let that happen. Not a chance.

With lightning speed she dashed into the choir room, deposited the bulletins on the counter and raced out. Safe! Now what? Thinking quickly, she dashed into the bathroom and turned on the cold water as hard as it would go. She stood there, sliced finger under the tap, for as long as she could stand it. Perhaps the frigid water would miraculously heal the cut, or at least stop the bleeding long enough for her to play. When she could stand it no more, she turned off the tap and grabbed a handful of paper towels. She wrapped one tightly around her finger -- as tight as it would go – and prayed with all her might that this would work.

Church started. The girl stood on the steps in the hallway, next to the organ. The telltale finger, still wrapped tightly in a paper towel, throbbed in time to the hymns. The girl tried to calm herself down. “It will be ok… it will be ok…. It will be ok…” she repeated to herself over and over.

The time came. Smiling, the choir director said, “ok” to the girl as he slid off the organ bench. The girl nodded and climbed onto the bench, ready. While the choir director was busy arranging the younger singers on the church steps, the girl carefully unwrapped the paper towel from around her finger. It was quite an impressive paper cut, as wounds of this nature go. The offending bulletin had managed somehow to slice her entire fingertip from side to side. It was much whiter than the rest of her hand. Maybe all the blood had run out or maybe it was in shock from the cold water and the tightly bound paper towel. Filled with trepidation, the girl carefully examined her finger. Amazingly – no, miraculously – the finger had stopped bleeding. The girl’s eyes lit up, and she smiled a slightly evil smile as she stuffed the used paper towel into her dress pocket. It worked. Her plan had worked. Now everything was going to be beautiful and perfect.

With music in place and hands poised over the keyboard, the girl looked at the choir director, and together they began. The director conducted the cherubic singers, his mouth going into grotesque contortions as he fed them each and every word. The parents ooohed and ahhhed appropriately. The girl played and played. Beautifully. Perfectly. And Ambiviously. She never heard the return of the thousand horror-shrieking violins, the doom-filled cellos and the lone distant bassoon of sorrow.

It was the final phrase. Blissfully happy at her performance, the girl looked down at her perfectly poised fingers on the bloody keys. Yes, the beautiful organ keyboard was a smeary, bloody mess. All that was missing was a chalk outline of a body. The girl panicked. The violins played louder. The girl could feel her heart both leap out of her body and sink to the bottom of her stomach at the same time. The choir director came back, smiling at the lovely performance, and the girl returned his glace with utter despair. His face fell. His brow furrowed and his eyes grew dark and stormy.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled the girl pathetically.

“Go get some wet paper towel NOW,” he hissed.

And away she ran. Back and forth and back and forth to the bathroom she raced, bringing gifts of wet paper towels and dry paper towels until the carnage was cleared away. Sensing the horror was over and the credits were rolling, the violins, cellos and bassoon packed up their instruments in search of the next disaster. To their utter delight, they heard tell of a medieval feast, complete with a flaming boar’s head. This would be beautiful. This would be perfect.

Other FaLaLaLaLa Offerings of 2003
~~ The Tale of the Flaming Pig ~~
~~ Fifty Angry Men ~~
~~ The First Noel ~~

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Wednesday, December 17, 2003

OH CANADA!

There are not enough words to adequately express my love for South Park. Tonight it was "Christmas In Canada" -- a complete Wizard of Oz parody -- as Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Cartman go to Canada to try to talk to the new Prime Minister. Along the way they meet a Mountie, a Newfie, and a French-Canadian MIME! Oh Mime, how we've missed you....Gah, this totally made my night.

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OH CANADA!
There are not enough words to adequately express my love for South Park. Tonight it was "Christmas In Canada" -- a complete Wizard of Oz parody -- as Kyle, Stan, Kenny and Cartman go to Canada to try to talk to the new Prime Minister. Along the way they meet a Mountie, a Newfie, and a French-Canadian MIME! Oh Mime, how we've missed you....Gah, this totally made my night.
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ANYBODY? ANYBODY?

The Time: Wednesday Morning. 11 am.

The Place: Office of slavitude

The Crime: Boredom in the first degree



Nobody is posting today. Everybody in the world either has office parties, or days off, or anything better to do than to write and entertain me. Even Uber-Auntie Tuna is having a more exciting day than I am -- and she just made corn. I'm going to pout and eat worms. Except I can't. Because the worms have wisely gone underground. It sucks to be an early bird. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed.



I have an office full of things to do, and I don't want to do a single one of them. New scores? Bleah. New CDs? Bleah. Old problems? Not on your life. Shifting? Nope. Shelving? NopeNope. Straightening? NopeNopeNope. What's a Tuna to do?



I feel like the little kid who whines "I'm bored" and then declines the next forty-six suggestions of something to do. I'm suffering from adult-onset ennui, coupled with acute motivational depletion and general holiday fatigue. I whine that I want to go home, but honestly, if I went home I'd either rock in my coma-chair and flip through channels or lay down and snooze for a bit.



TinyTuna and I managed to get our tree a week ago, but didn't put anything on it until last night. As a reward for mathematical excellence on her multiplication test (She aced it baby! 100 questions in 3 minutes) I promised her we would decorate the tree. It took everything I had to get the lights on, and once that was done, I let her go to town. She did most of it by herself, and I did the ornaments up high. Because she is chock-full of the holiday ho-ho-ho's, her tree decorating was accompanied non-stop by her own special spontaneous poetry



Oh look, it is a lovely star,

That we can see from near and far,

I shall put it on the tree

and it will shine for you and me....




Keep in mind, this is normal for her. She sings to herself and recites poetry to herself all the time. The horrible, too-tired, grinchy adult wanted the anvil of shut-up to stun her temporarily. However, the mom in me took over, and I let her entertain herself in her own holly jolly kind of way. After all, who am I to crush her inner Ralph Waldo Emerson? And who knows. Maybe some of that enthusiasm will rub off.

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ANYBODY? ANYBODY?
The Time: Wednesday Morning. 11 am.
The Place: Office of slavitude
The Crime: Boredom in the first degree

Nobody is posting today. Everybody in the world either has office parties, or days off, or anything better to do than to write and entertain me. Even Uber-Auntie Tuna is having a more exciting day than I am -- and she just made corn. I'm going to pout and eat worms. Except I can't. Because the worms have wisely gone underground. It sucks to be an early bird. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get out of bed.

I have an office full of things to do, and I don't want to do a single one of them. New scores? Bleah. New CDs? Bleah. Old problems? Not on your life. Shifting? Nope. Shelving? NopeNope. Straightening? NopeNopeNope. What's a Tuna to do?

I feel like the little kid who whines "I'm bored" and then declines the next forty-six suggestions of something to do. I'm suffering from adult-onset ennui, coupled with acute motivational depletion and general holiday fatigue. I whine that I want to go home, but honestly, if I went home I'd either rock in my coma-chair and flip through channels or lay down and snooze for a bit.

TinyTuna and I managed to get our tree a week ago, but didn't put anything on it until last night. As a reward for mathematical excellence on her multiplication test (She aced it baby! 100 questions in 3 minutes) I promised her we would decorate the tree. It took everything I had to get the lights on, and once that was done, I let her go to town. She did most of it by herself, and I did the ornaments up high. Because she is chock-full of the holiday ho-ho-ho's, her tree decorating was accompanied non-stop by her own special spontaneous poetry

Oh look, it is a lovely star,
That we can see from near and far,
I shall put it on the tree
and it will shine for you and me....


Keep in mind, this is normal for her. She sings to herself and recites poetry to herself all the time. The horrible, too-tired, grinchy adult wanted the anvil of shut-up to stun her temporarily. However, the mom in me took over, and I let her entertain herself in her own holly jolly kind of way. After all, who am I to crush her inner Ralph Waldo Emerson? And who knows. Maybe some of that enthusiasm will rub off.
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I SAW MOMMY KISSING SANTA CLAUS ~~ A FaLaLaLaLas Celebration of Holiday Stories and Songs







(Lyrics by T. Connor)



I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night.

She didn’t hear me creep down the stairs to have a peep.

She thought that I was tucked up in my bedroom fast asleep.



Then I saw Mommy tickle Santa Claus underneath his beard so snow white.

Oh what a laugh it would have been, if Daddy had only seen

Mommy kissing Santa Claus last night.



All lyrics are the property and copyright of their respective owners.

All lyrics are provided for educational purposes and personal use only.




~~ FIFTY ANGRY MEN ~~



When I was a little GreenTuna, The Sears Mediterranean-style stereo console always got a big workout during the holiday season. I played two albums ad nauseum. The first was “Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians. It had several holiday classics with lyrical mixed-choir singing and tight vocal harmonies. The title song – the entire 1822 Clement Clarke Moore poem – had a little of everything: slow parts, fast parts, sultry parts and upbeat jazzy parts. The entire story was played out in song before your eyes, or more specifically, your ears. This album was really slick.



The other album I loved was “Holiday Sing Along with Mitch”. This 1972 classic was one of several albums Mitch Miller released with his sing-along “gang”. Listening to this album, it was evident that his gang consisted of fifty angry men, singing – nay, shouting -- songs at the top of their lungs, and all in the name of holiday cheer. Being a two-record set, this album was loaded with two styles of Christmas songs: SLOW SHOUTED songs or FAST SHOUTED songs. That was it. Who needed more variety than that? It was a sing-along, after all.



I don’t know why I loved that album so much. But I think a part of it had to do with that innate sense of torture each child feels compelled to force upon parents and siblings alike. If mom hates it? Then you betcha, I LOVE it! Does it drive my brother crazy? Play it again, Sam! Err, Mitch! Sing it, angry guys, and I’ll sing along, just like you. Really. Damn. Loud.



And being a kid, it should be no surprise that the louder I sang, the funnier it got...to me. Of course, I had the volume on the Mediterranean-style stereo console cranked, because what is funny at level seven is pee-your-pants tear-flowing, side-hurting can’t-breathe hysterical at level eleven. Predictably and sadly, my family found absolutely no humor in my screamissimo renderings of Christmas standards. Those Scrooges just never understood that peace on earth would just have to wait until Mitch, his gang and I had finished our holiday shouting.



Now, with some songs, especially of the sing-a-long variety, the screech version makes total sense. Nothing says “come join in the seasonal sacrifice of the vocal chords” like fifty angry men blasting away at the top of their lungs:



WHO’S GOT A BEARD THAT’S LONG AND WHITE???!!!

SANTA’S GOT A BEARD THAT’S LONG AND WHITE!!!!!



SEVEN SWANS A-SWIMMING, SIX GEESE A-LAYING,

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FIVE ------- GOLD -------- RINGS !!!!!!!!!!!!!!



The song that always cracked me up was the tender ballad “I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus.” It was perfection in poetry because it had two key elements: Santa Claus and kids sneaking out of bed. I never cared about the mistletoe part, or the kissing part, or the fact that if Daddy had been a witness to Mommy’s dalliances with the Jolly Old Elf, she’d be busy finding herself a lawyer. Fortunately Mitch and His Gang didn’t give a damn either, because they hollered that song with the same gusto they hollered every other one. And if it was good enough for the fifty angry men, then dad gum, it was good enough for me.



In the meantime, I think I may look into getting myself a CD copy of this “Holiday Sing Along”. I'm happy to report that it has been rereleased for your listening pleasure, and you can catch a sample here -- just be sure to play it really, really loud. Now you too can join forces with Mitch and his gang.



And in case you’re wondering if what goes around has returned to come around again, the answer is yes. TinyTuna has her favorite, and my torture is Alvin and the Chipmunks. Me, I want a hula-hoop? No. Me, I want a shotgun. But I let her have her fun and make her own Christmas memories. I just wish it wasn’t so Really. Damn. Loud.





Make yourself at home Santa, while I put on

some holiday favorites to get us in the mood.

You're going to love the Chipmunks......




Other FaLaLaLaLa Offerings of 2003

~~ The Tale of the Flaming Pig ~~

~~ The Tale of the Bloody Keys ~~

~~ The First Noel ~~



Sign My Guestbook!