Rain King

Frank Sinatra, “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”

Christmas music elicits one of three reactions from me:

1. Irritation/revulsion/disdain/etc.
2. Warm waves of nostalgia
3. Total, unrelenting sadness

The first is usually brought on by more recently recorded renditions, especially that awful updated crap that sounds like it was recorded in 1995, even if it was recorded in 2005. How awful that dreck is.

The second is less common, usually brought on by the really traditional, cheery-sounding stuff. It makes me think of decorating the tree with my mother and brother in Massachusetts.

The third happens about as often, but with the more somber songs, especially the schmaltzy versions from the 50’s and 60’s. I mean, I love schmaltzy 50’s/60’s music, but something about the orchestras and the crooning and the songs themselves is fucking depressing.

Sinatra agreed, as far as the above song went. Even with the altered lyrics, though, that melancholy still seeps through every chord, every note. I was recently eating at a restaurant located in a chi chi outdoor mall that always has the crooners of yestercentury playing; this song came on and then, suddenly, everything tasted like ashes.

I’ve wondered what I’d have playing if I ever decided to take the emergency exit (oh, please, like you haven’t). I think the bar’s already been set pretty high for Benningtonians. After hearing this yuletide requiem last weekend, my answer became clear.

If that time ever comes, when I prepare a warm bath and, like an archaeologist, perform a series of excavations in my forearms with an x-acto knife, the unlucky bastard who comes to check on me will be clued in on what went down in apartment 3 when he or she hears this song booming on repeat upstairs.