The Great Christmas Record Odyssey, Ep. LXXXIII

Prepare yourself, comrades, for a Luftwaffe-level assault on the Holiday senses. . . . .

Album Title:  Holiday Sing Along with Mitch

Album Artist:  Mitch Miller

Sweet Baby Jesus.  This one's weird, folks.

Such versatility. . .

Mitch Miller made a name for himself with an early '60s TV series called Sing Along with Mitch, that featured this dude and a male chorus (choir?) singing traditional, folk, and pop songs, while lyrics flashed along the bottom of the screen with one of those bouncing balls over each word as it was sung.  Due to the show's popularity - yes, it was popular with viewers -  they released a whole slew of records for people to sing along with.  Pop records, country records, showtunes records, and, like we have here, Christmas records.

Look at all these wonderful. . . lyric sheets.

The fact that someone could make so much money on something as stupid as singing along with music - something we all do anyway with regular, non-karaoke records - really says a lot about the early 1960s and how starved they were for entertainment.  The packaging on this album is interesting, for sure.  There's a still-intact lyric sheet with tear-out pages for each song, so folks could - I assume - rip out the page for the song they were listening to if. . . they didn't feel like holding. . . the entire album cover. . . .?  I guess?  I don't get it.

Anyway, so what does this slicked up production sound like?  Well, have you guys ever seen that meme online that says that when men reach their middle ages they have to either get really into smoking/grilling meats or really into World War II?  It totally makes sense to me, and Yours Truly is definitely guilty of the latter.  This evening I was actually watching the Stalingrad episode of WWII in Color (or something like that - it's really, really good) on Netflix shortly before retiring to the Study to put this album on my turntable.  Upon dropping the needle down, I immediately experienced flashbacks to what I had just been watching.

The first handful of songs on Side 1 are marches, sung by a boisterous male choir (chorus?), seemingly recorded in a large, barren room (the reverb and distance in their voices clearly give this away.)  And maybe it was the fact that I had just been watching German soldiers marching victorious through the burning fields of the Soviet Union in 1942, but listening to these first few songs it was impossible to not imagine a smoky beer hall filled with celebrating Nazi infantrymen.

Why are Nazis singing Christmas carols?  Why are they singing in English?  Who the hell is playing all the accordions?  

Questions like these I don't have answers to.

Not every song on this sing-along album sounds like Nazi propaganda, though.  There are polka-ish numbers, which shouldn't be too shocking for anyone, considering the rabid obsession Americans had with polka music in the '60s.  Other songs sound more folksy in nature (folksy in the Rankin Bass/Glenn Yarbrough The Hobbit vein, that is) - again, not too shocking considering the climate of American music back then.  There's even some children's songs on here. . . and yes, they're equally justifiable and run-of-the-mill for the time period.

While the song styles themselves vary every-so-slightly, the one consistent variable across all songs on this album (aside from the over-reliance on accordions) is the relentless, Aryan male choir.  Whether the song's fast or slow, hard or soft, march or polka, folk or children's, the Fuhrer's Supreme Choir rolls ever onward, crushing all resistance in its way.  There is no stopping the constant barrage of baritone, male bellowing that refuses to cede a single inch or decibel across both sides of this Holiday album.  Poland, France, Belgium, Norway, Czechoslovakia. . . . and now Holiday Sing Along with Mitch. 

What we really need here is for this choir to suddenly find itself bogged down and stuck in snowy, -30 degree weather for awhile.  

If history has shown us anything, guys, it's that a Russian Winter is a sure-fire way to force the Germans to a grinding halt. . .

VERDICT:  4/10 - Borophyll (Indiana Jones said it best, folks: "Nazis. I hate these guys.")

- SHELVED -

- Brian

Augustus Randomus

Mr. July

Fun fact time.

As you know, a common Latin root for the number '7' is sept.  For 8, it's oct.  9 is nov.  Essentially that's where the months September, October and November got their names - they were the 7th, 8th and 9th months of the Roman calendar.  The first six months of the year were named after Roman gods (Janus, Juno, Mars, etc.) - so when Julius Caesar (one of my favorite historical figures, actually) was declared a living god by the people of Rome, they honored him with his own month - July.  And it only made since to keep all the gods together, that's why July's the 7th month of the year.

Years later, when Caesar's grand-nephew Octavian became Rome's first emperor, he renamed himself Augustus. . . and decided that he, too, needed a month named after himself.

Guess which one.

So yeah. . . there's your history lesson for the day.  Another month named after a Roman emperor, another collection of leftover, un-released randoms from America's favourite family.

Enjoy.

I was extremely excited upon finding this for the Cannonball.  There's a lot of vocab and nouns in there she can't read, but the fundamentals she can handle.  Now if only I can get her to watch something in the trilogy besides Temple of Doom.

Why not.

My school truly appreciates me (I'd kinda rather have a gift card.)

What follows is a series of ridiculous family selfies taken on our kitchen floor on a Tuesday night following dinner.  'Cause that's how this family rolls. . .

Winding down with the evening's story time. . .

Rockin' out at another splash pad - this time with the Voigts in downtown Winter Garden.

The following photos courtesy of the Cannonball. . .

Alayna's bizarro selfie.

Living with a bunch of chicks is awesome.

- Brian

LEGOS!!!

You know, as a dad to two little girls, I've experienced my fair share of horrible, horrible bullshit.

From Disney Princesses to Disney Fairies, shitty TV shows to webisodes on Netflix, Barbies to My Little Ponies, dress-up outfits to sticker books, there isn't a whole lot of awesomeness in my house.  At least not by my standards.  Sure, once in awhile one of the kids will start getting into something that gives me a small glimmer of hope:  Alayna will occasionally ask to watch Star Wars or Indiana Jones, which leaves me with goosebumps, but those moments, alas, are sadly few and far between.

Indiana Jones just can't compete with Rainbow Dash or Barbie.

Lego Ninjago

We got Alayna this for next week's Easter Basket.

Over the course of the last couple of weeks, however, we've noted a change.  Alayna's always been somewhat into boys shows on Netflix.  She was on-and-off obsessed with the Power Rangers series (a few different shows, too) for nearly two years, and will watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles now and again.  This inclination towards boy shows led to her deciding to check out a show in her Netflix account called Lego Ninjago - a computer-animated series based on Lego ninjas.

Basically a show to sell toys.  Right out of the early 1980s marketing playbook.

Give this kid blonde hair and thirty lbs or so, and that was me.

Now, as you all probably know, I love me some Legos.  I grew up with them, I was obsessed with them, and - frankly - if you sat me down in front of a table with covered with Legos today, you could safely walk away with the understanding that'd I'd zone out and be there for several hours.

They're plastic heroin, and I was convinced that having two girls would forever prevent me from sharing this creative outlet with my offspring.

Not anymore.

The infamous Knights Castle set - I still have most of this.

Alayna's new obsession with this random Lego show prompted me to pull out my old sets from the ol' closet and break them out on the back patio table.  It was a huge hit - both kids took to it instantly.  The girls, of course, have Lego sets already - a few sets from Papa and Nana they received a few months back, along with a basic 'girl'-themed starter tub (or whatever the hell that's called) they got a year or two ago.

Neither kid really took to them at first, but now that there are Lego shows on Netflix, they're suddenly infatuated with the toys.

And this dad's not complaining in the slightest.  Not at all.

It sure beats the hell out of playing Barbies with the kids.

F***ing terrible.

Coincidentally, around the same time Alayna started watching Lego Ninjago, Abby started really getting into Lego Friends - a hugely-popular line of Lego sets aimed towards girls aged 6 - 12.  They, too, have a show on Netflix, but sadly there are only three episodes available.

This means that we're forced to watch the same three episodes over and over and over again.  Every Goddamn day.

The set we bought Abby for Easter.

Still, the silver lining here is that Abby has started playing with her Legos as well, and this opens up the door for Yours Truly to start buying Lego sets for birthdays, Christmases, Bar Mitzvahs, what have you.

I'm not sure how long they're going to be into Legos - with young kids, their obsessions are fleeting - but I'm going to ride this one out as long as I possibly can.

FOR GLORY!!!

- Brian

Broam K's Italian Saga: Day I

Hi gang.

Despite the recommendations of pretty much everybody, I decided to work a half-day today.  Don't ask me why - I still had a ton packing to do.  So after baby-stitting teaching my sixth-graders for three class periods, putting in final grades for the nine-week quarter and the like, I quietly snuck out during lunch and drove home.

Go ahead and try and name a better movie. . .

With Raiders of the Lost Ark playing in the background, I threw together the remainder of my crap into a battered-and-worn 25" suitcase (to check), a backcountry backpack that Melvin let me borrow (to serve as my carry-on), and my trusty Maxpedition sling-pack (my camera bag/personal item).

Slainté.

I'm probably going to end up forgetting something important anyway.  I usually do.

I suppose having a couple beers and watching Indiana Jones during the process probably wasn't the smartest thing I could've done.

I pack like a badass.

Anyway, Kris swung by with the girls around 5:15pm in order to haul my ass to the OIA.  Alayna wasn't too thrilled to say goodbye to Daddy; Abby just looked confused.  They dropped me off around 5:45pm at the Lufthansa (some German airline, who knows) terminal and, about ten minutes later, the first two members of my travel group - one of my students and her mother - showed up.

Unfortunately, there was some nasty multiple-car accident on one of the main roads leading up to the airport, so the remaining portion of our motley team (comprised of another one of my students and five members of his family) didn't even arrive to the airport until nearly 6:45pm... and by then the check-in line for luggage/tickets was down-right brutal.

Check in itself was pretty painless once we reached the counter, though.  Running through the TSA's security gauntlet was as well (thank God).  I packed about 10 lbs - practically nothing - in my checked bag, as I didn't want to risk losing anything essential and/or valuable in the journey over.

Consequently, my carry-on was packed to the brim and heavy as shit.

What are ya gonna do.

Upon boarding our plane, I was pleased to discover that I had been given a window seat, and that the seat next to me was vacant.  This euphoria would prove to be short-lived, unfortunately, as minutes before taking off a gigantic Viking plopped down in the seat next to mine, armed with two liters of Bombay Sapphire gin (from the Duty-Free shop) and a horrific sunburn.

I never got his name - it was probably 'Sven' or something along those lines anyway.  He was a 400 lb Finn who probably stood a solid two feet taller than me, and he quickly seized the armrest between us as well as a sound portion of the leg room.  He appeared friendly enough, but his European awkwardness and gruff demeanor didn't really entice me to strike up a lengthy conversation beyond polite small talk.


(I'm not big on strangers.)

We were fortunate enough to have individual TV screens in the seats ahead of us, and they had a wide variety of new movies to choose from.  I began Lincoln, which at first intrigued Sven, but he opted for a Richard Gere movie instead because, as he told me, "that Civil War you all had. . . it sounds boring."

I didn't catch the last 1 1/2 half of this movie, so I'm not sure how it ends.  Hopefully the North wins and Lincoln stays president for years and years to come.

Unlike Richard Gere.

Anyway, I was pretty exhausted, and about 45 minutes into the movie I found myself dozing off.  Lincoln, as it turns out, is more of a drama than a war movie (which is what I was hoping for), and consequently was much slower than I had anticipated.  I decided to switch over to Cloud Atlas instead.

I couldn't tell you what this movie was about. . .

This movie was far more visually-stimulating, so over the course of a few white wines (awesome) and a to-be-expected airline dinner of chicken and rice (not so awesome), I managed to watch the movie it its entirety without falling asleep (though towards the end it became a challenge.)




I don't know what time ended up falling asleep, but an inflatable neck pillow Kris picked up for me proved incredibly useful...

- Brian

Rich People, Dead People, and Papa

If it's one thing Florida has, it's decent weather.

Morning commutes down here rule...

Yes, I might complain about the congestion, or the traffic, or the cost I accrue when traveling home for the holidays, or even the bizarre third-world vibe that I get while driving to work.  These are all sound reasons why someone born and raised among the open fields and dense forests of central Michigan would detest living in urban sprawl.  It ain't for me.

But you cannot - cannot - complain about Florida winters.

I would've been pissed...

Unless, of course, you're flying down here to visit only to find that the temperature down here is colder than the frigidness you just left behind in Michigan.

This, dear readers, is exactly what my Dad got to enjoy during this last visit of his:  a brutal cold-snap that seemed to last only while he was in Orlando - settling in the morning of his arrival and vanishing the morning of his departure.

Any way you look at it, that just plain sucks.

Yes, Dad came down to visit for the weekend - just an in-and-out deal, but one that serves as a decent break from the grueling mid-winter slums that accompany this time of year.  Due to the fact the weather was dismal, we didn't hit up the parks or anything like that; besides being abnormally cold, it was also windy.  Grilling outdoors - which is usually a breeze - was a nightmare.

So, while we were confined to the indoors, we decided to occupy the kids as best we could - hitting up Puzzles with the kids, decorating Valentines cupcakes, and, of course, watching copious amounts of television.

Walking Dead

If I had to choose a theme for this weekend, it'd probably have to be dead people.  They were everywhere, whenever you turned on the television.  Being avid fans of AMC's Walking Dead, Dad and I decided that this weekend would be an excellent opportunity to barnstorm our way through the first six or seven episodes of Season II over the course of the first two nights of his visit.  This is a much better approach than, say, waiting a solid week for a 48-minute, commercial-ridden, cliff-hanger.

Spartacus

That's exactly what I'm doing with Spartacus: Vengeance, and it's frustrating beyond all rational thought.

Not all walking dead people on TV try to eat the living, though.  Sometimes they help present The Oscars.  Yes, we sat through the Oscars.

I'm not proud of it.

Highlight of the night.  Bar none.

But hell... we were out of zombies and Brett McKenzie was up for an Oscar for his Muppets work (a double-bonus for me, as I love Flight of the Conchords and the Muppets).  Hell, that's like watching a movie where Indiana Jones wields a lightsaber and rides a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Did you know this guys is still alive?

Sign me up.

The glitz, the sleaze, the corn-ball speeches, and the slew of 'holy shit, they're not dead?' over the course of the three or four hour run (not sure exactly how long it was - we sure as hell didn't stay up for the end) was more than enough of a reminder for me as to why I don't usually watch crap like that in the first place.

Hopefully they have crack in Hell...

I don't know if they honor Whitney Houston every year at the Oscars or what, but I sure got tired of hearing about that ol' crackhead.  Sheesh...

Anyway, Dad flew out Monday morning, and I had previously decided to take the day off in order to lesson plan and work on crap around the house (that would've otherwise taken up time during Dad's visit).  I'm a big fan of three-day weekends anyway.  So, while I'm hacking away at this, here's some pics and footage from Dad's visit.

Enjoy.

Dad brought some of his check-up equipment down with him, per our request, in order to better asses the girls' recent bouts of coughing...

...not sure why, really, since we already had a set here at the house.  Oh well.

If she continues down the whole 'Doctor' path, maybe I can afford to be put into one of those senior communities where the old guys get to drink scotch and drive golfcarts around, prowling for hot, 74-year-olds.  A man can dream...

Abby didn't so much decorate cupcakes, per se...

 

 

Valentine's Day Cupcakes - finished product

Alayna Rapunzel - deep into the middle of yet another lecture...

Preparing for a wagon ride in sunny ol' Florida...

Yo Gabba Gabba - visual heroin for kids.

 - Brian