I know we live in interesting times, which dictate that we hate those whose politics differ from our own -- especially if they're president -- but I say you just can't hate a man who puts this out as the White House Christmas card. This is because there's at least a spark of good in anyone who loves a dog. Particularly when he puts that dog -- in this case, Bo the First Dog -- on a Christmas card as charming as the one above.
Molly the Dog, who is Important
I agree with President Obama on many things and passionately disagree with him on other things, particularly the social issues, but at this time of year, when it seems to me we ought to go the extra mile to see the humanity -- and the divine spark -- in our fellow man, there's only one thing you can say: Merry Christmas, Mr. President. If you're in the neighborhood, drop by for some egg nog -- or some adult beverages. We can talk sports and music, and we can solve a few of the world's problems while we're at it. And give Bo an extra dog treat. He's a good boy.
I think that's a holiday greeting folks in Denham Springs, La., can work with. If you're familiar with the burg just east of Baton Rouge, you know what I'm sayin'. If you're, say, a sensible, low-key Midwestern type, you're probably about to tell the missus "Vi, come look at this! I think those people down there might have a screw loose." Which, of course, is a sensible thing for a sensible, low-key Midwestern type to think when exposed to random slices of life in the Gret Stet.
Personally, I gauge the degree to which I have become Midwesternized -- or at least Nebraskafied -- by the number of times I face palm over stories like this from back home instead of chuckle and repeat the mantra "Well, dat's Loosiana for you!"
THIS from The Advocateis a definite face palm, and perhaps a reminder to pay homage and leave offerings of thanksgiving at the statue of Tom Osborne at Memorial Stadium in Lincoln:
Thanksgiving has just passed and Sarah Henderson has already taken the holiday lights off her roof.
A visit from the police prompted by complaints from her neighbors might have hurried the process.
The lights were in the shape of a hand flipping the middle finger, neighbors said. Henderson said that’s what she intended.
“I got to looking, and I said is that what I think it is?” said Gemma Rachal, who lives at the far end of the street. “I put on my glasses just to be double sure.”
“I’m furious,” Rachal said “My 6-year-old tried to make the symbol with his hand.”
She said she was afraid her son might mimic the gesture again at kindergarten.
Neighbor Hunter Lee said the lights bothered him because of his children, ages 3 and 9.
He said he didn’t like “having to explain to the kids what it means.”
Amy Bryant, who lives a block away, said that when she first saw the lights this weekend she thought, “I can’t believe she did it.”
Police Chief Scott Jones said an officer went to Henderson’s house on Starlite Drive on Monday and talked Henderson into taking the lights down.
TAKE THIS incident and transpose the psychology to the realm of governance, politics and what passes for civil society in Louisiana, and you might gain a little understanding of the place. Then you'll do a face palm.
At this point, you might be asking yourself why someone would put a twinkling fickle finger of fate on their friggin' roof. That's a good question, one for which Henderson has an answer that makes up in entertainment value what it lacks in lucidity.
The finger was intended for neighbors with whom she’s had a yearlong disagreement over personal matters, she said.
“This is how I expressed myself,” Henderson said. “It’s the only means I have to express myself to these people.”
She said she has thought about replacing the extended finger with a swastika.
I THINK I had a flashback just now. Yes, I definitely had a flashback just now. That's because I can picture my mother doing the exact same thing.
One of the benefits of old age, I suppose -- albeit a benefit for the neighborhood, not her -- is that it keeps Mama off the roof.
A little more than 97 years ago, a young man -- a noted American composer and pianist, in fact -- sat down at a keyboard instrument called a celesta and played a heavenly version of "Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht" . . . "Silent Night" to you and me. The young man and his glockenspiel-sounding contraption were in a Victor Talking Machine Co., studio in Camden, N.J., and they sat in front of a large horn that would capture the music and funnel those vibrations to a diaphragm connected to a needle. The needle would cut grooves into a blank wax disc -- the master recording.
And that recording became a side of this record, released in December 1915. Someone bought it for 75 cents that Christmas, and it came down through generations until it landed in a box of old records Sunday at an Omaha estate sale.
I bought it and some others for 50 cents a piece, and what began in Camden when the Great War wasn't yet "great" and America was still at peace, Sunday night spun on a record changer in my little studio in Omaha. Alas, this occurred many wars after "the war to end all wars."
THE YOUNG MAN, all of 25 at the time, was Felix Arndt. Around this time, Arndt, despite his own youth, was becoming a mentor to a teenager eager to make his mark in the music business.
A decade later, George Gershwin made quite the mark, indeed.
By the middle of October 1918, though, Felix Arndt would lose his life to the Spanish influenza epidemic. He was 29, survived by his wife, Nola, and his music.
That music, generations later, lives still within the grooves of an almost century-old record and emerges to touch a world that, in 1914, surely would have been almost unimaginable. A world whose music was changed by a certain young kid who hung out with, and was influenced by, Felix Arndt.
No man is an island. Neither is any man's music.
It's rather like the communion of saints, isn't it? Just in the grooves of ancient 78s.
Sometimes, when I'm in an old church, if I try hard enough, I can visualize all the generations of believers who sat there before me, all of us present -- across time and defying the grave -- each generation singing a verse of a never-ending hymn. Likewise, when I find an ancient record and place the needle into a well-worn groove, I hear a long-ago verse of a song still sung, and I realize that I am not my own . . . and neither are you.
We stand upon the shoulders of our forebears, all of us bought and paid for with the blood of a long-dead savior Who lives still, conducting this symphony of the generations, world without end.
Felix Arndt's rendition of Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht, Victor 17842-B, as archived by the Library of Congress. My copy actually might sound a little better than this.
The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone. You have brought them abundant joy and great rejoicing, as they rejoice before you as at the harvest, as people make merry when dividing spoils. For the yoke that burdened them, the pole on their shoulder, and the rod of their taskmaster you have smashed, as on the day of Midian. For every boot that tramped in battle, every cloak rolled in blood, will be burned as fuel for flames. For a child is born to us, a son is given us; upon his shoulder dominion rests. They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace. His dominion is vast and forever peaceful, from David's throne, and over his kingdom, which he confirms and sustains by judgment and justice, both now and forever. The zeal of the LORD of hosts will do this!
Our Christmas tree is the story of our lives, the missus and me. Yours may well be the same.
There's a little wooden painted-tree ornament over here -- I made that in elementary school more than 40 years ago. And that glass ball over there with the glitter on it -- that's from my wife's childhood Christmas tree.
And there's the big Lucite heart that says "Love. Christmas 1983." We bought that at Hallmark our first Christmas as a married couple. I cherish that ornament.
I cherish our tree . . . the annual Yuletide story of our lives, with baubles commemorating five years together -- 1988 -- and first Christmas in our new house, 1989. Ornaments given to us by now-gone parents. Ornaments for now-gone pets. Ornaments made by now-grown children of friends.
EVERY YEAR -- with every added year -- Christmas becomes more wistful. It becomes more about loss, more about what once was instead of what might be. It becomes about remembering and erasing the impenetrable barrier between what was and what is -- who we were and who we are. It lets us bring back those who have gone, if only in our dreams.
Once again as in olden days Happy golden days of yore Faithful friends who were dear to us Will be near to us once more Someday soon we all will be together If the fates allow Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow So have yourself a merry little Christmas now
THIS WEEK on 3 Chords & the Truth, we celebrate He who has defeated time and death, the celestial king come to earth as a little child, born in a manger long ago in a land far away. We play the songs of our Christmases past as we anticipate its coming once again.
This week, the Big Show is about the songs of our lives, both sacred and playful.
It's Christmastime once again, and we're having a party. Everyone is invited -- past, present or future . . . it doesn't matter. Not this week. Faithful friends who were dear to us will be near to us once more.
It's been a very Baby Boom kind of Christmas around the house the past couple of days.
What with all the holiday sounds of the 1960s and early '70s playing on the old hi-fi, how could it not be?
For example, you got your 1965 Great Songs of Christmas album from your local Goodyear dealer, and then you got Volume II of your 1969 holiday compilation LP,The Spirit of Christmas . . . exclusive to TG&Y five-and-dime stores.
I MEAN, you got your Steve and Eydie, you got your Anna Maria Alberghetti, you got your Danny Kaye, you got your Percy Faith, you got your Jerry Vale, you got your Robert Goulet and Andy Williams -- and you even got your Maurice Chevalier.
That there is some prime Christmas artistic stylings.
Of course, what's Christmas without A Partridge Family Christmas Card, the No. 1 holiday album of 1971?
Don't judge me.
Especially if you'd like any 8-track tapes in your stocking the morning of Dec. 25.
Sometimes, when you hit December, this time of good cheer and good will toward men, you're running low on both. You are tired. You have been beaten down by a world of bad will and bad tidings, and if success ever came calling on you, there'd probably be no room at the inn.
For trouble, there's plenty of room. Because that's how the world rolls.
You feel alone in the world, and if your mother told you she loved you, you'd feel compelled to confirm it with at least two independent sources. Preferably, there would be something on paper somewhere -- not that you would be able to find it.
Meantime, being that the world has you convinced you're a great big failure, you seek inspiration among folks our world holds up as successful. You take a hard look at who they are and how they got where you'd like to be . . . and you conclude that if these societal role models were in Texas, somebody surely would say they "just need killin'." (See "Investment bankers, Wall Street.")
Then you conclude that's just false hope talking.
SO THERE you are. Feeling alone. Stressed out. A giant, screaming failure -- one way or another. You don't love you, and you're fairly certain God is ambivalent on the subject.
Merry expletive-deleted Christmas. The only reason you didn't get pepper sprayed at Wal-Mart on Black Friday was because the last shred of dignity you have left hinges on not being the sort of person who puts himself in a position to get pepper sprayed at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. So you have that going for you, at least.
Zuzu feels your pain.
Well, at least Karolyn Grimes -- she who was so sure about what happened to angels whenever a bell rang in It's a Wonderful Life -- feels your pain. Being a movie icon offers little protection when the world decides to crash down upon you.
But sometimes, underneath the rubble and amid the ruin, there is a wisdom that surpasses what we understood to be true. We live, we suffer and -- as "Zuzu" tells The Washington Post from the perspective of now being 71 and having suffered . . . a lot -- the truth is where it is.
And God is where He is. Which isn't necessarily where we presume Him to be.
“My life has never been wonderful,” she offered quietly. “Maybe when I was a child, but not after age 15.”
“It’s not a Christmas movie, not a movie about Jesus or Bethlehem or anything religious like that,” she insisted. “It’s about how we have to face life with a lot of uncertainty, and even though nobody hears it, most of us ask God to show us the way when things get really hard.
“That was part of Capra’s genius,” she said. “Everybody has some sorrow, worry, and everybody asks God for help. One way or the other, we all do, and it can be in Martini’s, not a church on Christmas.”
Francis Caraccilo, a preservationist in Seneca Falls and an organizer of the annual “It’s a Wonderful Life” celebration, believes Capra’s film addresses other important issues. “For a lot of historians and people who just watch the film closely, the movie’s relevance includes the fact that it addresses anti-immigrant sentiments and religious bigotry,” pointing to the scene where the evil banker Potter complains that George Bailey is helping “garlic eaters” buy homes.
“Italian Americans appear throughout the film,” said Caraccilo, himself an Italian American. “When Capra came through this town, it was clear that anti-immigrant and not-too-subtle hostility toward Catholics was part of the American social landscape in 1946.”
“There’s a generous heart in this movie,” he said. “Think about that for a moment in 2011.”
THINK ABOUT THAT for several moments.
Maybe life is wonderful, after all. Maybe what's not so wonderful is how much room we allow Henry F. Potter in our hearts and in our culture . . . and how little is left for George Bailey. We say we long for Bedford Falls, yet we double down on the Pottersville that we've been sold.
You could pray about this at your church of the almighty annual appeal and happy-clappy, dinner-theater hymns to the triumphant self. On the other hand, you could get serious, pop into Martini's, order a double bourbon and go for broke.
"Dear Father in heaven, I'm not a praying man, but if you're up there and can hear me, show me the way. I'm at the end of my rope. Show me the way, God."
I heard the bells on Christmas Day Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come, The belfries of all Christendom Had rolled along The unbroken song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way, The world revolved from night to day, A voice, a chime, A chant sublime Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth The cannon thundered in the South, And with the sound The carols drowned Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent The hearth-stones of a continent, And made forlorn The households born Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men."
I understand you've been kinda stressed out this Christmas, Cap.
Hear tell that you've been the Target of lots of hype by desperate retailers -- it Sears your brain, really -- to Shopko till you dropko, because you're somehow less of a great American (Nay! Less of a human being!) until you make that Best Buy this holiday season.
Over and over again.
Why don't you just buy the wife a new Beemer? Yeah, that's the big ticket!
And then there's the lights. And the tree. And getting the house perfect. And the kids to the Christmas parties. And you to your Christmas party. Where the magnifying glass is upon you as you lift a glass or three. Where that scrutiny would never impact your career, noooooo sir, nuh uh.
THEN THERE'S the bell ringers, and the Christmas Eve wingding you're throwing, and the kids wanting new cell phones -- and laptops and iPads -- and appearances that have to be kept up. Despite your mortgage that's under water.
Merry Christmas, all!
Now . . . just stop. Why are we doing all this, again? Is there something we might be missing here, something buried beneath all the desperate consumerism and corporatism and overextendedism and general "festive" mayhem?
This Christmas, we at the Big Show give you a break. We give you the chance to just stop, grab a hot cup of something, take a load off and relax for 90 minutes. No commercials, no urgent calls to consumeristic action.
It's Christmas. Don't forget the joy, or the opportunity to just be. Don't forget to just stop for a while and appreciate the things that really matter this time of the year.
In the festive, yuletide sense of the term, as opposed to the festive, misogynistic sense.
It's the week before Christmas, and 3 Chords & the Truth is giving the gift of music this year! Of course, that's exactly what we gave last year, too.
And the year before.
As a matter of fact, the Big Show gives the gift of music every single episode, and we don't need a special excuse -- like Christmas, for example -- to do it. That is truth.
Public relations, however, dictates that we make it sound like giving the gift of music is a special Christmas thing. You need a good peg for proper public relations, and the promiscuous consumption and self-indulgence of the holiday season fills the bill for pimpin' the Big Ho . . . er, Show.
SO CONSIDER yourself sold. And remember to tell your mom that you absolutely, positively have to have a whole bunch of3 Chords & the Truth this Christmas, or you'll just die! I mean, all the other kids are getting the Big Show this Christmas, and she just can't let you be some kind of freak.
What will everybody say about you on Facebook, after all?
I swear to God, everybody is downloading the thing -- this 3 Chords & the Truth -- and if she doesn't get it for you . . . YOU . . . WILL . . . JUST . . . DIE.
You'll hold your breath until you turn blue.
You'll throw a tantrum.
You'll cry forever.
You swear to God.
OF COURSE, this is one case where getting what you want will actually be good for you. Unlike all that Easter candy last spring.
3 Chords & the Truthactually will expand your mind and, as an extra added bonus at no additional cost, feed your soul.
Some have even reported developing good musical taste. Your mileage, however, may vary.
So ask your mom for lots of the Big Show this Christmas. You -- and she -- will be glad you did.
Breakfast and Meet & Greet at 7AM Radio Show at 9AM Ticket Price: $500.00
Package Includes: * Breakfast at the General Denver Hotel * Meet & Greet with Glenn Beck * Photo with Glenn Beck * Premium Ticket to the live Radio Show Broadcast at the Murphy Theatre
All Ages Reserved Seating
Glenn Beck Live Radio Show Broadcast
Doors: 8:00AM Radio Show: 9:00AM (Must be seated by 8:45AM sharp)
And if it's bloody Christmastime, then -- Yuletide, as it were -- it bloody well's time to commence with the nickin' of hilarious Christmas shows off of YouTube, innit? I thought I'd, meself, personally commence with this 1987 offering from the BBC. The Homemade Xmas Video is, in fact, is every bit as hilarious as A Christmas Story.
Downtown, we have the Holiday Lights Festival. But at the Durham Museum in the old Union Station, you'll find the Mother of All Christmas Trees (above).
Yes, Omaha is an old railroad and cow town. Then again, that isn't -- and wasn't -- necessarily a bad thing.
THERE WAS grandeur in old cow towns, if only you looked for it. In Omaha, a good place to start was the fabulous art-deco Union Station.
And what's great about old railroad and cow towns all grown up is that, sometimes, we remember the grandeur in our midst and preserve it . . . restore it to its full measure.
Then, especially at Christmastime, we revel in glories past -- glories restored for the present and the future.
To many Americans on the coasts, cities like mine are "flyover country," hardly worth a mention or a thought.
Their loss.
THERE ARE many reasons to visit the Durham Museum all through the year -- in January, it's wrapping up a fantastic Smithsonian exhibit of the poster art of Nashville's Hatch Show Print from the past century.
It's not a poster show; it's the cultural history of the South and the country displayed through hand-set advertisements run off one by one on the printers' old letterpresses.
Ernest Tubb. Minstrel shows. Stock-car races. Johnny Cash. Porter Wagoner. Elvis Presley at the beginning.
But I digress.
THE REAL STAR at the Durham -- at the old Omaha Union Station -- when the cold wind blows and the days grow pitifully short . . . is Christmas. The whole holiday season, where the past is present and its glories point toward the future, too.
It's grand. It's parents introducing their children to the magic, and those children introducing their children to the magic some fine day when the present has faded into the rosy glow of "when I was your age."
Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind ? Should old acquaintance be forgot, and old lang syne ?
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne. And surely you’ll buy your pint cup ! and surely I’ll buy mine ! And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet, for auld lang syne.
Have a houseful of dogs, especially those of the yappy variety? Has your locality just been smacked good by a blizzard?
Are the drifts in your back yard deep enough for Fido to disappear into, never to be seen again . . . at least until spring?
Well, Bucko, Revolution 21's Blog for the People and 3 Chords & the Truthhave the helpful hints you needed yesterday.
Follow your host, the Mighty Favog, as he shows off the Wintertime Canine Superhighway of Bidness Doing. All you need to keep your furry friends happy, dry and . . . alive . . . is a snow shovel and the basic knowledge one can gain from listening to Frank Zappa's 1974 album Apostrophe(').
AND ALL you need to remember is "Don't Eat the Yellow Snow":
Dreamed I was an Eskimo (Bop-bop ta-da-da bop-bop Ta-da-da) Frozen wind began to blow (Bop-bop ta-da-da bop-bop Ta-da-da) Under my boots 'n around my toe (Bop-bop ta-da-da bop-bop Ta-da-da) Frost had bit the ground below (Boop-boop aiee-ay-ah!) Was a hundred degrees below zero (Booh!) (Bop-bop ta-da-da bop-bop Ta-da-da) And my momma cried: Boo-a-hoo hoo-ooo And my momma cried: Nanook-a, no no (no no . . . ) Nanook-a, no no (no no . . . ) Don't be a naughty Eskimo-wo-oh (Bop-bop ta-da-da bop-bop Ta-da-da) Save your money: don't go to the show Well I turned around an' I said: HO HO (Booh!) Well I turned around an' I said: HO HO (Booh!) Well I turned around an' I said: HO HO An' the Northern Lites commenced t' glow An' she said (Bop-bop ta-da-da bop . . . ) With a tear in her eye: WATCH OUT WHERE THE HUSKIES GO AN' DON'T YOU EAT THAT YELLOW SNOW WATCH OUT WHERE THE HUSKIES GO AN' DON'T YOU EAT THAT YELLOW SNOW
WELL, THAT'S ALL your fearless leader has for you right now, my children. So, until next time, this is Mighty (Nanook) Favog signing off.
It's brutal out there -- a full-blown Plains blizzard.
So far, though, God's whole "Enough! Be still and be at peace" initiative through better meteorology is going OK this Christmastide. After a busy day posting the Christmas edition of 3 Chords & the Truthand shoveling the walk and driveway several times, I'm a good kind of tired and remarkably unstressed.
Maybe that's because the blizzard has taken away all the wild expectations surrounding the holiday. It has been stripped to its essentials . . . and so have our lives, for just these few days. FOR US, at least, the rush to get presents wrapped, etcetera and so on, has been diminished. Holiday entertaining, too. Today was a day of getting done what needed to be done, managing to get to Christmas vigil Mass while the getting was . . . possible . . . and then making a pot of our traditional Christmas Eve chicken-and-sausage gumbo for a late-night supper for two. Even though the simple act of getting to Mass involved the driveway-shoveling equivalent of a forced march, it was all good. And the snowy drive to church, truth be told, fell under the category of Things Guys Like. IN OTHER WORDS, a good challenge. And I don't think God minded that I showed up to Christmas Mass in snow boots and two pairs of sweatpants.
You don't shovel in finery, is what I'm saying.
But now it's really late, I'm exhausted, and it's time to go to bed. Tomorrow -- today now -- is another day, Christmas Day, when we will continue to be still as we scramble to beat back the elements howling outside the door. And suit up to shovel away enough drifts for the poor dogs to go outside and do what dogs do.
JUST CALL me Nanook of the North.
Merry Christmas from snowy, blowy Omaha, by God, Nebraska.
O holy night! The stars are brightly shining, It is the night of Our dear Saviour's birth. Long lay the world In sin and error pining, 'Til He appear'd And the soul felt its worth. A thrill of hope The weary world rejoices, For yonder breaks A new and glorious morn.
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