In addition to being a grace Nazi, Samson has also become a Christmas carol fascist. Don't get me wrong: I like Christmas carols as much as the next guy. OK, if the next guy's name is Nasrullah Ali Hussein.
I mean, who can resist a classy version of "Hark the Herald" by Nat King Cole?
Especially when it's been carefully chosen for your listening pleasure by the good people at Williams-Sonoma. And Crate & Barrel. And Pottery Barn, J. Crew, Ann Taylor, and every other place that takes Visa. Except for the gas station, where they're too busy piping out "Jingle Bell Rock" and "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" to fit old Nat into the mix. I digress, but you get my point.
[Full disclosure: In college, I worked as seasonal help at Radio City Music Hall, first as an usher and then as house security. Which means that from Thanksgiving until after New Year's, I spent a couple of years surrounded by Christmas music for 10-hour shifts. Sort of like the Ludovico technique. Except with Rockettes. Also, I got paid. Pretty well, actually.]
Well, young Samson is crazy for "Jingle Bells" and "Frosty the Snowman." So now, in addition to the three books we ritually read before bed, we've also got a set list of carols we need to sing. Which, in truth, is really sweet. And I would use my last breath to sing carols with him before revealing my inner Grinch.
But man, if you're not careful, Jingle Bells can last longer than "Light My Fire." And for the life of me, I can't remember all the words to Frosty. So we usually just cut to where he heads off into the hills. [Sidenote: Vicki pointed out the eerie similarity between this verse and the final days of Guy Waterman. We'll hold off on letting Samson know about this for a few more years.]
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