365 Days of Song Recommendations: Dec 22
Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis—Tom Waits
Listen, it’s time for some real talk. Christmas is a dark ass day for a lot of people, and that darkness is buried under twinkly lights, jingling bells, and fake plastic trees. We collectively wrap our family dysfunctions, grief, and childhood traumas in honey-baked ham — gross — and shit we don’t need all in the name of Capitalism.
And by Capitalism I mean Jesus.
That’s the real “War on Christmas.”
Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas as an idea, and it looks good. It shows well. I’m even a sucker for a good ole’ fashioned Catholic Midnight Mass, even though I’m clearly not a religious fella. In truth, we even decorated our fake plastic tree the day before Thanksgiving — though, I’d prefer the rapidly decomposing version, sap and all.
My Mom loved Christmas, or at least she tried so very hard to convince herself that she loved it. What I saw was a woman on the edge, stressed by the volumes of work: hosting unappreciative family, the deep-seeded insecurity that the gifts weren’t good enough, building a seven-layer multi-colored jello mold — that shit took hours, and this otherwise kind and gentle soul turned into Logan Roy every single time she made it. She was happiest first thing in the morning, at our expressions of pure joy that her gifts were in fact exactly what we wanted, and at the end of the night when the guests were gone.
She was admitted to the hospital the day after Christmas, 2009, suddenly short of breath in what we later learned was a side effect from cancer treatments. She never went home again. I didn’t make it back that year. Though I can’t change history nor do I subscribe much to the wasted emotion of regret, the depth to that loss comes back every year. My Mom’s perceived love of Christmas created an atmosphere for us kids that did make it magical, and both my sister and I have done our part in passing that magic to another generation. I just don’t sugarcoat it the way she did.
So what does any of this have to do with music? Everything. Christmas music is the lie that sets the false tone. It’s the layer that establishes the dissonance between what we’re supposed to feel and what many of us actually feel. We need more reindeer-squashed grandmas and fewer holly jolly Christmases. We can celebrate, and feed Capitalism in the name of generosity, while also acknowledging what’s been lost along the way — even as we create space for those who have nothing, feel desperately lonely, or stare down losses too deep to comprehend.
You know what we need? We need more Tom Wait and less Bing Crosby.
Hey Charley I’m pregnant
Living on 9th Street
Right above a dirty bookstore
Off Euclid Avenue
I stopped taking dope
And I quit drinking whiskey
And my old man plays the trombone
And works out at the track
He says that he loves me
Even though its not his baby
He says that he’ll raise him up
Like he would his own son
He gave me a ring
That was worn by his mother
And he takes me out dancin’
Every Saturday night
Hey Charley I think about you
Every time I pass a fillin’ station
On account of all the grease
You used to wear in your hair
I still have that record
Of Little Anthony and The Imperials
But someone stole my record player
How do ya like that?
Hey Charley I almost went crazy
After Mario got busted
I went back to Omaha
To live with my folks
Everyone I used to know
Was either dead or in prison
So I came back to Minneapolis
This time I think I’m gonna stay
Hey Charley I think I’m happy
For the first time since my accident
I wish I had all the money
That we used to spend on dope
I’d buy me a used car lot
And I wouldn’t sell any of ‘em
I’d just drive a different car every day
Dependin’ on how I feel
Hey Charley, for chrissakes
Do you want to know the truth of it?
I don’t have a husband
He don’t play the trombone
I need to borrow money
To pay this lawyer
And Charley, hey
I’ll be eligible for parole
Come Valentine’s Day
“Christmas Card From A Hooker In Minneapolis” is the 356th song on the #365Songs playlist:
