Summer Santa

Since November 9th (the day after the election), the radio station has been wall-to-wall Christmas music.  Isabella (she’s 9) is all about the music.  I have been subjected to countless versions of Carol of the Bells (really, David Foster?  Really, Manheim?  Really, Trans-Siberian?  Where the hell is Trans-Siberia?), Multiple versions of Wham’s “Last Christmas.”  Why is that Special?  (Special).  When did that become a classic?  Crappy, crappy song.

And, even Sir Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime.”  Good god!  It’s so awful that exactly no one has ever covered that song.  (And, I love Paul!  But, it’s crap.)

Julianna (she’s 12):  This song sounds like summer.

Me:  Because that is the Beach Boys.  Little Saint Nick.

J:  But why does it sound like summer?

Me: It’s the Beach Boys.  Think about it:  Beach.

J:  But they sing: Christmas comes each time this year.  Can’t Christmas come in the summer?  Like July the 4th?

(I sense you can tell I am annoyed.)

Me: Honey, you were born in Los Angeles, at Cedars-Sinai Hospital.  Where all the famous people go to die.  We dip our toes in the Pacific every year.  You absolutely need to know the Beach Boys.  They were America’s last gasp against the tide of British Invasion bands.  Who poisoned our ears with crap like “Wonderful Christmastime.”

She, like you, is tuning me out.

Me:  The Beach Boys sound like summer because they are summer.  Even at Christmas.

Iz (from the back seat):  Last Christmas, I gave you my heart.  The very next day you gave it away.

Me: British!

Iz:  Special….  Special.

 

 

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