…Unless of course, you’re Jewish, in which case...


Or maybe you’re an African-American who’s reconnecting with what Ron Karenga characterized as their African cultural and historical heritage by uniting in meditation and study around principles that have their putative origins in what Karenga asserts are "African traditions" and "common humanist principles", in which case...


Oh! And my friend Giggles is a pagan.


Did I forget anyone? In a world of such rich and diverse cultural and religious/spiritual… uh… things, I’m sure it’s impossible to include everyone, except to say:


…Oh… Unless your beliefs prohibit being happy. I suppose my blanket statement wouldn’t include you. Sorry! Okay, so, let’s try this again…


Whew! I think I nailed it that time. I must admit, though, I’m glad most of you readers just celebrate it as Christmas and Chanukah, because that’s much easier to say. ...And to write in hot glue on a stocking.

Working at Amoeba as I do, I am constantly coming across albums that stlit mind, and I…

Eh? What? Oh, you don’t know what ‘stlit’ means? Well, before you go racing to consult the Great Oracle that is Wikipedia, let me save you the trouble; you won’t find any definition of the word there (although you may find this). Stlit is a word I coined.

You’re familiar with the phrase “blows my mind”? Well, stlit is like a smaller version of that. Imagine for a second that your brain is made out of bubble-wrap. Now, if something “blows your mind”, it’s as if you took the entire sheet of bubble-wrap and twisted it hard, bursting hundreds of the bubbles and creating that sound reminiscent of a chiropractor adjusting your neck.

A stlit is when just one of those bubbles in your mind pops.

When your dad comes home and sits you down in the living room and tells you that he’s not your real dad after all, rather, he’s a robot – a killer robot from outer space sent to assassinate escape Martian criminals – and then he removes his face to reveal his inner mechanical controllers and then your baby sister walks in on you and he zeros in on her new party dress, causing it to burst into flames and she runs off the top of the skyscraper to her death (don’t ask me why the living room is on top of a skyscraper – it’s your weird family we’re talking about, not mine) because your sister was actually one of the escape Martians (which explains why she wouldn’t eat corn – aliens hate, hate, HATE corn) and then your dad turns to you and says “I hope this is…” but you don’t hear the end of the sentence because he flies away into the atmosphere, THAT’S your mind being blown.

Welp… We’re about ready to finish off ol’ 2007. And what a year it’s been. For years to come, we’ll be remembered by history as the people who got to see… urr… hours of YouTube footage of Britney Spears trying to buy cappuccinos. Oh yeah, and something about a war?

Anyhoo, I thought I’d maybe talk a little about my favorite album of the year – only, there’s a problem. My favorite album of the year came out in November of 2006. Hey, it’s not my fault if I wasn’t as blown away by the latest release by [insert everyone who released an album this year].

It’s not that I’m cynical and it’s NOT that I didn’t enjoy anything new this year. It’s that nothing has replaced my favorite yet. So, I continue listening to it.


For those few of you who don’t know what you’re looking at here, it’s the album “Ys” by Joanna Newsom.

There’s very little praise I can say here that hasn’t been said before by critics the world over. When it hit the scene, the album secured Miss Newsom some serious accolades. For myself, it was a rare moment when popular culture and yours truly loved something at the same time. That’s a blue moon moment. I think the last time it happened was… Twin Peaks. And Jesus, there’s people working as cashiers at Amoeba Music that are too young to remember who Laura Palmer is.


My relationship with the album is personal and doesn’t easily translate for my whimsical blog. I don’t like to talk about it. Every time I try to explain how I feel about the music, I get all overwhelmed and vulnerable, like a quaking fawn on newborn legs, and then I wanna punch faces in. You know how it is.

You fool. You bloody fool.

You’re too smug, too naïve! You think you have all the time in the world to deal with Christmas music. Or worse, maybe you haven’t even thought about acquiring any Christmas music at all!

It’s because I love you and want the best for you that I say I’m disappointed in you.

Don’t wait until the last second to figure out what you’re going to play for your Christmas party, Christmas Eve dinner, or Christmas morning, gift-giving orgy. (Incidentally, I found out what you’re getting this year, and frankly, most of it’s disappointing, but there’s at least one thing I think you’ll really like.)

Amoeba Music puts up their Christmas music section promptly after Thanksgiving. I understand if you’re too doped-up on tryptophan to shop it immediately (those vegetarians who opted for a Tofurky instead have an excuse – they’ll be suffering from indigestion until mid-February) but time is of the essence.

Learn from my mistake two years ago and buy USED Christmas albums early, before the hipsters pick-over the selection and leave only this:


Here’s a few gems I recommend:

Swingle Singers “Noëls Sans Passeport”


Also released, in the States, under the title “Christmastime”, this album is jazzy and lighthearted, but the vocal harmonies are ornate and require deft singing. You may think you’ve never heard of these guys, but by now you’ve almost certainly heard their music; they are often featured on film and TV. And once your holiday guests have had a few cups of egg nog, they will inevitably try to sing along, sounding like stray cats in heat – and isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

I wish I didn’t like Kathy Griffin so much. It’s such a cliché – me and my boyfriend, Corey, on our way to the foreign country known as Orange County, to see Ms. Griffin perform at the (and how’s this for a cute name) Orange County Performing Arts Center’s Renée and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall (I think I’m naming my kid that, you know, if it’s a girl).

It was Friday and Corey picked me up, fresh off a typical eight-hour shift in the soundtracks department of your favorite record store. It took about fifteen minutes before I realized that the man sitting next to me was my boyfriend and not someone hoping for a restroom, a wall-item, an “Amoeba buck”, or the “I’m Not There” soundtrack. I relaxed immediately and we discussed matters that are none of your business in amorous tones. Also I ate gum.

Have you tried this stuff yet? The Orbit “sweet mint” flavor? It tastes exactly like chocolate-mint ice cream and is so sumptuous it makes me barf a little, spiritually. Don’t ever try it unless you like being weirded out by deliciousness. I wish it had never been born. I need a piece now. Excuse me…


…Okay, so we made it to the Orange County Performing Arts Center’s Renée and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall in plenty of time, despite getting lost a while (we were distracted from following directions by a heated conversation about thantophobia and Scrabble). We saddled up to the uncozy Orange County Performing Arts Center’s Renée and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall bar for cocktails and a quick trip to the Orange County Performing Arts Center’s Renée and Henry Segerstrom Concert Hall restroom for men.