"...Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On, Cupid, On, John, Paul, George and Ringo..."

Amidst the bargain jargon and super sale slang flying around like snow in a New England sky this time of year, there is a word, instantly evocative of the season, that tends to get lost in the shuffle.

At least, until the last lock on the last door of the last open store is finally clicked somewhere along the way Christmas Eve.

Joy.

As in "...to the world..."

I was reminded of that today in a place doing something you don't often associate with epiphanous holiday moments.

Walking the treadmill.

Listening to The Beatles.

One song, amidst a variety of songs by a variety of singers on the IPod, put there for their groove, feel, mood, etc, ostensibly to keep me feeling upbeat as I work out, tone up and slim down but which, in fact, simply, and thankfully, do me the service of distracting me long enough to exercise for thirty minutes without wanting to load the treadmill into the trunk and drop it off in some unwatched dumpster on my way to the nearest DQ.

Go for the burn, my ass.

Winter is all about blizzards, baby.

The kind that come with chunks of Oreo.

And, this time of year, candy canes.

So, as I kept up a nice 3.2 MPH pace to the dancing and dining sounds of Michael Jackson, Nickelback, The Kinks, Shawn Colvin, Adam Lambert and Tammy Wynette, among others (hey, I wasn't born buff, but nobody can say I wasn't born eclectic), along came John, Paul, George and Ringo.

And a song that invariably, even after almost fifty years, evokes a smile and a little lightening of the load.

In the strangest way, as well, it also triggered that little previously mentioned holiday epiphany.

Because it caused me to be reminded of something that's missing, in large measure, from both the holiday season...and the current popular music culture.

Joy.

Sure, many folks find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins showing up at Christmas time, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore?

And I'll spare you the diatribe about Black Friday madness and Christmas crazies and mall mental cases and let you reflect, yourself, on how buried or not, in all that sugar coated sludge, real laugh out loud joy there is in your holiday season.

Meanwhile, I realized, somewhere along the 26th minute of the 3.2 MPH as the Fab Four sang, that the same thing could be asked about pop music.

Sure, many people find happiness and warmth and good cheer and a few of its cousins in pop music, but how much pure, untainted, child like joy is there to be found anymore amidst the thump and the beat and the groove and the lyrics that either send a wave of angst washing over us like that big ass ocean wave that turned George Clooney and the gang upside down a few years back or so often imply, or simply offer upfront, the concept that we should "fuck like rabbits...and then maybe get to know each other"?

And just so the youngers don't leap to the tired old argument that my line of thinking is simply tired and old, understand this.

I'm not talking about morality.

Or hip quotient.

Or even cultural relatability.

I'm just talkin' about joy.

A feeling of delight and/or exuberance that comes without the baggage of angst or sexuality or social relevance or cultural connection?

And just makes you feel good...before, during and after.

With no buyer's remorse coated in a thin varnish of fear that you're going straight to Hell for drinking it, shaking it, making it and/or faking it.

And, truth be told, even The Beatles evolved fairly soon after into that next, more angst filled, phase.

But, while it lasted, this particular phase of artistic creation radiated pure joy.

And was a joy to hear.

The song has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas.

But given the spirit that it evokes, I'm ready to make a pretty good case that it belongs right there on the Muzak with Rudolph, Frosty and the Holly Jolly of your own choosing.

Joy to the world...

...and I feel fine.

"...Gold...and Frankincense...and Frampton..."

Wouldn't be Christmas without "It's A Wonderful Life".

And amongst all the iconic images and catch phrase lines of dialogue that have woven their way into the fabric of our everydays, one particular line seems to pop up, for me, often throughout the year as the adventure of the life continues to unfold.

"Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

That thought has been, and continues to be, a source of both amusement and pride, depending on the given situation.

And, now and then, comfort when the water is low in the down phase of "sometimes the surf is up, sometimes the surf is down".

A friend of mine from bygone days is having a birthday this week and a little reminiscing about said days brought back both a fond memory and a renewed reminder about how we all affect, subtly, seriously or even satirically, each other on the shared road.

(excerpt from "I've Never Heard Of You, Either", @2010 by Blurb Publishing)

Peter Frampton was not amused.

Well, hell, I was just kidding.

In a work environment that can be very labor intensive and frequently chaotic, what with thousands of CD’s, tapes and assorted other merchandise items needing to be priced, stocked, dusted and protected from theft, it was only natural to expect that we would, occasionally, want to go off the well trodden path and come up with a few things for our own amusement. After all, those M.A.S.H. guys did some pretty wacky things and got away with it because everyone just sort of silently understood that it was their way of keeping from losing their minds in the madness. (not to equate the horrors of war with the running of a record store, but, unless you’ve done retail at Christmas, just ease off on the rush to judgment, okay, pal?)

We came up with a few little diversions from time to time. One I was particularly proud of (since I created it) was something we called the “trivia card”. Simply described, it was one of those plastic cards that sits in the stock bins, you know the ones that have the artists name on them so you can tell where the John Denver leaves off and the Frank Zappa begins, which we embossed with little bits of trivia about that particular artist. (...”Did you know that Andrew Gold, the singer/songwriter who created ‘Thank You For Being A Friend’ is the son of Marni Nixon, the lady who dubbed the singing voice of Natalie Wood in West Side Story?”)

The customers seemed to enjoy them, especially when we went a little left or right of center (“.....Sonny is a Congressman, Cher sells face creams and their daughter is a lesbian...is this a great country or what?”).

Sooner or later, though, it was inevitable that we would piss somebody off.

Hey, show me the way, Pete.

I had made up a new batch of cards and, feeling particularly witty that particular day, included this little tidbit of info under the name

PETER FRAMPTON:

“....artist whose album ‘Frampton Comes Alive’ is the best selling live album of all times...go figure...”.

I thought it was funny.

The staff thought it was funny.

Customers thought it was funny.

Peter Frampton was not amused.

I dodged the bullet, being occupied when Mr. Frampton came by, but Rob Esparza, one of my assistants had to do a very quick tap dance for the miffed musician. (....”what’s this?” “oh, you know, Mr. Frampton, go figure just means it’s hard to explain phenomenal success like yours”.....”oh, is that right...well, uh....I don’t think...” “well, sir, if you are offended, we apologize and here {sound of label being ripped off}..it’s gone..” “well...”)

I thanked Rob for falling on the sword for my attack of the witties. And, I was, in a spirit of good humor, content to let it go…until….

Not two hours later, my boss came to me and informed me that our main office had gotten a call from Mr. Frampton’s management office expressing their sincere unhappiness with the ridicule we had inflicted upon the aforementioned Mr. Frampton.

Well, shit, Peter, you sort of validated the whole “go figure” thing with that little temper tantrum, didn’t you?

Convinced that discretion was the better part of retort, I let it drop.

But not before I made up one last bin card for the benefit of staff and friends to use as a prop when telling the story:

“...it was a joke, Peter...lighten the fuck up...”


Admittedly, that story doesn't necessarily qualify as a memory of the misty water colored variety Barbra Streisand warbled about.

But I think, if you stretch the point, you can see the threads of our humanity that weave in and out of the story, threads that take on a special meaning as family and friends gather to share a very special time of year.

There's humor and harpiness, vanity and victory, quiet determination and quick thinking, sacrifice and silliness, folly and friendship.

One, and all, essential tiles in the mosaic of the lives given us by the God whose kid is having a birthday this month.

And just as Harry Bailey wouldn't have been around to win the Congressional Medal of Honor if George Bailey hadn't pulled him out of the icy lake when they were kids, so, too, perhaps would my life not have taken me to success as a writer and radio personality had I been fired that day because Rob wasn't around to pull my bacon out of the fire.

"...Each man's life touches so many other lives...."

An unconventional, but, I'd offer, totally appropriate thought in this season.

Not to mention the other, equally unconventional thought that might best be remembered when the frantic frenzy of said season starts to overtake and overwhelm.

"...lighten the fuck up..."

Happy birthday and Merry Christmas, Rob.

Oh, and Peter...Merry Christmas to you...and...see above...