I report the following in all sincerity. I swear it. I could not make this stuff up.
My mother, The Crackhead, told me about her dream last night:
Crackhead: There was a little Hispanic man who flew out of my cupboard on a loaf of poppyseed bread to go do good in the world.
Me: ... ... ...
I've been struggling with Christmas music this year more than most. I have this self-imposed ban on listening to Christmas music before Thanksgiving. I so enjoy Christmas music, that I refuse to over-indulge. I want it to remain special. And I kept to it this year. But I lost my iPod earlier this year, so I've had to listen to most of my Christmas music on the radio. Hence, my problems.
Here is my main problem with what I've heard: there are far too few artists who can interpret a song correctly these days. This doesn't show up as much as it should in most pop music because the songs are so poorly written that it doesn't matter if the singer has any grasp of artistry. But in some of the well written songs that are traditionally associated with Christmas music, an artists' flaws and shortcomings become glaringly obvious.
First I tuned in to the pop station. And mostly what I heard is artists who don't understand Christmas. They sing about Christmas with a vague sense that they need to put some feeling into the songs. But if that's you're starting point, please make it your stopping point as well. From what I know about pop stars' personal lives, (which is less than I could know, thank God), they don't have happy homes or traditional families. So they sing songs about happy family memories at Christmas time with all the honesty that I could put into a song about ridin' dirty and smackin' bitches up. Every syllable of their version of Christmas songs drips with effort and emotion. But when everything has the same emphasis... it's not emphatic. Big lush arrangements attempt to overcompensate for honesty. And it doesn't work.
And that's on the traditional and religious songs. On the pop Christmas songs, the shortcoming is the material. I don't want to hear songs about shopping and holiday stress. Those things suck. Why do we have songs about them? And why is it so hard to write a new good Christmas song? I don't think pop music has produced a decent one since Mariah Carey's, "All I Want for Christmas is You." And that one's merely decent.
Then there's the "Christian" musicians. These are supposed to be the people that "get it." First of all, there's virtually no difference between the music they're playing on "Christian" radio and what the pop stations are playing. The only difference is the artists. And all the "Christian" "artists" sing about Christmas like it's sex. They grunt and growl their way through over-produced shlock, overcompensating for a glaring lack of talent. When they sing about the birth of Jesus, it sounds like they're trying to get into somebody's pants. The subtext of their singing style screams, "I'm cool! I'm hip! I sound like a real singer on the radio!" But they're wrong. They stink.
Are there exceptions? Of course. But these over-generalizations are brought to you courtesy of the preponderance of evidence in their support by simply turning on the radio dial. I realize that I'm very open to criticism here for not naming specific artists. That's okay. I'd rather be guilty of that than badmouth real people.
I need to find some time to sit down and listen to some of my favorites: The Cambridge Singers, Amy Grant, Mindy Smith, John Denver and the Muppets, Bela Fleck, The Chieftains, Pavorotti, and Ralph Vaughn Williams.
And if I never hear that God-awful "Happy Birthday, Jesus" abomination again, I'll die a happy man.
The setting: Beeki has been trying to train me to close my closet door. It's sort of working. Ish.
Beeki: Do you know what the first five letters in the word "closet" are?
Me: "Close?" (Pronounced: Claws)
Beeki: I'm going to be made a saint for this. What do you call that?
Me: Canonized?
Beeki: Oh, sure. So you know that word...?
Me: You're pretty.
So today I had a call back for a commercial. The spot? A cell phone commercial. I was auditioning for the role of the spokesperson. Like the Verizon "Can you hear me now" guy. It'd pay well and have the possibility of lots of recurrences. And it'd be fun. I'd be a minor celebrity.
Oh, did I mention that I would have to be naked in the commercial? Yeah. There's that.
You know, with strategically placed items in the foreground.
So anyway, I get a call from my agent yesterday letting me know about the callback. It went like this:
Agent: So they want you at the callback for Naked Guy.
Me: That's great! What do I need to do?
Agent: Just show up at 10:45am. And wear the same thing you wore to the first audition.
Me: Really? The same thing? Really?
Agent: Hmmm... yeah. Shouldn't be too hard, huh?
Me: Yeah, maybe you should phrase it "take off the same things you took off to the first audition?"
So that's what I did today. That and got dressed up like a grownup afterwards and went to a board meeting where I totally pretended to be a mature professional.
Little does anyone know. Some know me as a streaker for hire. Others as a semi-respectable professional. Still others as a nearly-invisible interpreter. And even others as a preacher! Bwaa haa haa!
I'm sleepy.
As most of you know, I was named the inaugural Wacoan of the Year two years ago. The newest man to hold the title is a friend of mine and one whose accomplishments dwarf mine into insignificance. Nevertheless, he recently Facebooked me requesting a letter of advice for the incoming WOTY.
I couldn't help myself.
Fortunately, that's exactly what he had in mind. So without further ado, I give you my letter to the incoming Wacoan of the Year:
Dear Mark,
First of all, I hope it is plainly understood that the advice and information I am writing you here should NEVER, under any circumstances, reach the general public. We are selected to lead and inspire, and if everyone knew how truly superior we are to the average Wacoan, it would only depress them. So as long as we're clear that this letter is to remain completely private and is never to be read by another Wacoan, I'll proceed.
Congratulations, grasshopper. For the duration of one year, you will be the holder of the title "Wacoan of the Year." (Naturally, since I was the inaugural WOTY, I retain the title in perpetuity. All subsequent holders are merely honorary ones. We're clear on that, capice?) You have reached the highest of heights. You have floated to the top of the Brazos. You have hit the high note on the Hippodrome stage. You have topped the final rung of the tallest ladder atop the Alico. You are the man.*
Now, becoming WOTY bestows you with awesome powers and abilities. You always know the answer to the question, "Where's Freddie." You become one of the keepers of the secret formula of Dr Pepper. If you find yourself at the back of any line, just say, "Don't they know who I am?" and you'll be moved right to the front.** You understand that in much the same way that odor is added to methane for our safety, the Waco water taste is added for everyone's benefit. Every time there is a natural disaster or other major threat to the city, you will be spirited away to the secret bunker underneath Ridgewood. It's all pretty cool.
And let me confirm some rumors: Yes, being WOTY comes with some perks. Among them is of course access to the VIP lounge on the top floor of the Alico. (The key should be where Bobby and I left it: buried in the "grave" of William Cowper Brann.) You get a free glass of wine every time you go to the Green Room. (Be sure to tell Davin I told you about that one.)*** You get a free membership to Cottonwood Creek as long as you are willing to climb the fence at night. Rosetree Floral will make sure that there is a path of rose petals leading you every step of your daily journey. And the mouth-breathers who badmouth you in the comment section of the Trib website will become increasingly incoherent as your WOTY powers grow and mature to the point where they will no longer even be able to form complete sentences.
But all is not sunshine and bluebonnets; there are some serious tasks for you. Continue my fight to rid the airways of the Clark Motors and Mike Knight television commercial abominations. Keep lobbying the Starplex to clean the headrests on their seats for the first time. Help Baylor in their obvious agenda to form a shadow government that really runs Waco. Find a way to eat one of each kind of pancake at Cafe Cappuccino in one sitting. Get Bush's to prove they don't lace their chicken with crack.
This is all but a taste of what you have to look forward to. Go forth boldly. Tell everyone I say hello. Wear the sash and tiara of the WOTY with pride. Don't point out to anyone that if they look carefully at the photo spread of me in the December '07 issue they'll notice that my fly is down. And next time I'm in town I'll teach you the secret handshake.
Sincerely,
Scott Baker
Wacoan of the Year in Perpetuity
* - Not to be confused with "The Man." Without the WOTY title, being "The Man" in Waco is a very very very bad thing. It means you're the one keeping everyone else down. You cause the mold in the Brazos. You keep TAKS scores down in WISD. You make sure the police force is too small. You serve on a non-profit board. And you probably have something to with Baylor.
** - So far, this has yet to work out of town. Not for lack of trying. It also fails to impress my wife.
*** - Unless, of course, there is another Baylor employee present. In which case Davin will bring you some "grape juice."
Remember a while back when I told you about my embarrassing dance-related injury at my brother's wedding reception? The one I sustained after officiating the ceremony while dancing in the circle to "Billie Jean?" The one I still haven't completely healed from?
I found a picture.
I'm sure to have a better one in time. This one's grainy. And not exactly "legal." But until my brother actually sends me a copy, it's the best I can do. Enjoy:
"... she's just a girl who thinks that AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"
