Eighth in a series of disorganized thoughts I am left with immediately after watching something.
Thanks to Comedy Central, I’ve never seen John Hughes’s 1987 frenemy road comedy all the way through, or in a format that wasn’t cut for time and content, and edited to fit my screen. Hey, my screen is versatile! Don’t be so presumptuous.
Christmas is all up on us. People be puttin’ they lights up. Stores be gettin’ they sales on. Radios be playin’ they holiday musics. Maybe it’s because we only hear them once a year (over and over and over), but holiday songs can get away with a lot. Weird old men deifying a filthy barn urchin. Sinister ice pixies chewing peoples’ noses off! Santa Claus is a reckless driver, running over old ladies with reindeer. He’s a peeping tom. He sees you when you’re sleeping! He’s making a list, and jackin’ it twice, doesn’t matter if you’re naughty or nice (okay, I skewed that one a bit).
So it’s all pretty horrible. Asocial acts prettying up the capitalist equinox (p.s. I love Christmas! Give me presents). But what about that holy grail of inappropriate subject matter? Could a holiday song dare to cross the rape line?
Yes. Enter the American songbook standard, “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”.