White Christmas is the dumbest, plot-hole-iest, staggeringly-implausible-storyline-iest movie ever made--and I adore every second of it

I used to host a party every year in Chicago and invite only the friends I knew were able to shut up for 120 minutes so we could all enjoy its ridiculous awesomeness together in peace. And then I usually watched it again on my own. And maybe one more time. But now my DVD is buried in a box in my storage unit, and I’m not able to see any of the big-screen showings this month so I'm just gonna mock it here. Lovingly, of course.

So let's get started ...

First of all, it drives me NUTS that Rosemary Clooney runs (well, clomps in four-inch stilettos) away from Bing Crosby in a self-righteous fit over a laughably stupid misunderstanding that she could easily clear up with a simple question and then boards a train with a little satchel in which she's packed all her clothes, wigs, makeup, gowns, those white sequined oven mitts she wears in "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" plus four of the Vermont dancer boys. And then she happily--yes: happily, despite the loathing she had for Bing's appearance on TV that was so toxic it prompted her to sneak away from Vermont in secret--watches Bing's appearance on TV, suddenly has a mis-misunderstanding revelation, sneaks back to Vermont in the dead of night with her sensible orthopedic Army-issue oxfords in tow and somehow absorbs all the "Gee, I Wish I Was Back in the Army" choreography out of thin air from some secret backstage rehearsal room in that drafty barn that apparently a cast of 1,000 people had mysteriously never even known about because she surprised the hell out of all of them when she suddenly appeared onstage in the middle of the number with the woman who was presumably going to replace her tied up and gagged in a corner by the flylines.

But those gowns!

And don't get me started on that stupid "Sisters" number--it sure gets a LOT of mileage in the Haynes' sisters' apparently only-one-song act despite having only one verse and an enormous dance break where Rosemary and Vera basically just stand on stage and smile dewily at Bing and Doofusface while presumably the rest of the audiences watches and thinks they're being somehow entertained by all that standing around. AND WHAT THE HELL IS THAT "SNOW" SONG? "I want to wash my hands, my face and hair with snow"? SERIOUSLY?

But those gowns!

And Bing Crosby sings “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” after chugging a quart of buttermilk and Rosemary Clooney’s and Vera-Ellen’s “ugly” brother is actually totally cute when they show Bing and Doofusface his picture and WHAT THE HELL IS THAT “MR. BONES” SONG?

But those gowns!

And then Vera-Ellen--who does the entire movie in funnel-collared outfits tailored to hide whatever the hell is wrong with her neck--descends from the sky in her tearaway Ostrich Barbie outfit and executes some wicked nerve taps WITHOUT EVEN WEARING TAPS.

But those gowns!

And the general is clearly on a laudanum binge in the attic of his hotel-theater as he somehow doesn't notice that every U.S. war soldier past, present and future is swarming all over the entire property and filling every hotel room not already taken by the swarm of singers, dancers, directors, and costume and tech crew members, and when they all finally surprise him with their--frankly underwhelming--show, they seat him at the table of honor behind a three-foot-tall cake that completely blocks his view of the--frankly underwhelming--show that they put together ESPECIALLY FOR HIM TO SEE.

But those gowns!

Flashback Saturday: Green Fountain Edition

Who knows how many St. Patrick’s Days ago, Chicago’ Daley Plaza fountain was dyed so green that it became alarmingly Seussian.

krumkake (CRUMB caca):

a thin, crispy Norwegian waffle cookie rolled into an unwieldy cone shape for two purposes: 1) to fool you into thinking it can hold ice cream or any other delicious treat without crumbling all over fucking everything the second you try to eat or even hold it; 2) to crumble all over fucking everything the second you try to eat or even hold it anyway

*stirring

They're probably technically SWEDISH meatballs ...

but we're Norwegian and my family's made the same recipe for Christmas decades upon decades before Frozen even came out, so we're culturally appropriating them and you can just go glade jul if you don't like it.

But next time I need to be more mindful to turn my Diet Coke can toward the camera because I don't get any product-placement residuals if nobody can see the label. #ResolutionToBeMoreResponsible

#ElfShelfies

We “got a good do” on the cookies, as my Norwegian forebears used to say

#FlashbackFriday: More Hot Pies Edition

A long time ago in a stunningly (ahem) appointed Wedgewood blue dining room far away, my ex and I—along with my visiting parents—used to host an annual pie party for 50+ Chicago friends to help kick off everyone’s holiday waistlines. We (mostly meaning my mom) would make (the oddly specific number) 17 from-scratch pies in about 10 assorted flavors and spend the next five hours gasping in horror as people tore into our beautiful culinary creations and ate them. But it was an awesome reason to haul out all the Christmas decorations in a timely manner, dust the expertly (ahem) installed frame moldings, remember where we’d been hiding the tablecloth and actually use the nice dishes. It was always nice to see our friends too, I guess. Especially the ones who stayed so long they felt compelled to help vacuum crumbs of perfectly (ahem) flaky pie crust out of the rugs.

Without so much as a kiss my foot or have an apple

White Christmas is the dumbest, plot-hole-iest, staggeringly-implausible-storyline-iest movie ever made -- and I adore every second of it. I used to host a party every year in Chicago and invite only the friends I knew were able to shut up for 120 minutes so we could all enjoy its ridiculous awesomeness together in peace. And then I usually watched it again on my own. And maybe one more time. But now my DVD is buried in a box in my storage locker ... and I’m thrilled beyond belief that I’m -- as we speak -- finally about to see it on the big screen.

All that said, it still drives me NUTS that Rosemary Clooney runs (well, clomps in four-inch stilettos) away from Bing Crosby in a self-righteous fit over a laughably stupid misunderstanding that she could easily clear up with a simple question and then boards a train with a little satchel in which she's packed all her clothes, wigs, makeup, gowns, those white sequined oven mitts she wears in "Love, You Didn't Do Right By Me" plus four of the Vermont dancer boys. And then she happily -- yes: happily, despite the loathing she had for Bing's appearance on TV that was so toxic it prompted her to sneak away from Vermont in secret -- watches Bing's appearance on TV, suddenly has a mis-misunderstanding revelation, sneaks back to Vermont in the dead of night with her sensible orthopedic Army-issue oxfords in tow and somehow absorbs all the "Gee, I Wish I Was Back in the Army" choreography out of thin air from some secret backstage rehearsal room in that drafty barn that apparently a cast of 1,000 people had mysteriously never even known about.

But those gowns!

And don't get me started on that stupid "Sisters" number -- it sure gets a LOT of mileage for having only one verse and an enormous dance break where Rosemary and Vera basically just stand on stage and smile dewily at Bing and Doofusface while presumably the rest of the audiences watches and thinks they're being somehow entertained by all that standing around.

But those gowns!

And Bing Crosby sings “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” after chugging a quart of buttermilk and Rosemary Clooney’s and Vera-Ellen’s “ugly” brother is actually totally cute when they show Bing and Doofusface his picture and WHAT THE HELL IS THAT “MR. BONES” SONG?

But those gowns!

And then Vera-Ellen — who does the entire movie in funnel-collared outfits tailored to hide whatever the hell is wrong with her neck — descends from the sky in her tearaway Ostrich Barbie outfit and executes some wicked nerve taps WITHOUT EVEN WEARING TAPS.

But those gowns!

And the general is clearly on laudanum binge in the attic of his hotel-theater as every U.S. war soldier past, present and future swarms all over the entire property and fills every hotel room not already taken by the swarm of singers, dancers, directors, and costume and tech crew members, and when they all finally surprise him they seat him at the table of honor behind a three-foot-tall cake that completely blocks his view of the show that they put together ESPECIALLY FOR HIM TO SEE.

But those gowns!

My summers with Rodin

Washington, D.C., is so overflowing with American history that there's a monument to something or someone on practically every corner. The Smithsonian museums are so overflowing with history and culture and gift shops and art that some of it literally spills outside into the sunshine. And part of my annual summer pilgrimage to visit some D.C. friends and road-trip to their Rehoboth beach house is my visit to the sunken sculpture garden behind the relentlessly round Hirshhorn Museum, which houses what most people probably see as the oddest examples of Modern art. 

The sculpture garden sits more than a story below street level so it masks all the ambient street noise, but it positively hums with beauty and magic and some of the most delightful -- and delightfully odd -- art that waits there resolutely to nourish any soul. If you're in D.C. and want to visit my little sanctuary, enter from the Mall side and go immediately to your left -- the corner there is populated with the rough-hewn glories of August Rodin, including what is perhaps my favorite sculpture of all time: his mighty Burghers of Calais, which depicts six men walking to their martyrdom to save their city during the Hundred Years' War. The men are overcome with terror and anguish and resignation and peace all at once, and Rodin has sculpted their figures so masterfully that you see and understand their every emotion from your every angle. The piece is enormous in size and exaggerated in scale and almost primitive in its rendering, all of which invite you to approach it with your own perspectives, examine it with your own curiosities and appreciate it with your own conclusions. It's everyone's sculpture -- casts of it stand in museums and university campuses all over Europe and the United States, including a single figure from the piece who stands at the entrance of the University of Iowa's Boyd Law Building -- and it's my sculpture to admire and fear and share and visit summer after summer, year after year.