I'm dreaming of a straitjacket*

I think I'm finally losing it.

Yesterday Mrs. RWP and I watched the 1954 film White Christmas on one of the movie channels, and more or less constantly ever since -- even upon waking up in the middle of the night and again this morning -- the final two lines from the song "Sisters" has been playing over and over in my head, in the voice of Rosemary Clooney singing harmony with herself:

Lord, help the mister who comes between me and my sister,
And Lord, help the sister who comes between me and my man.

I'm not even kidding. The really strange thing is I don't have a sister and, as God is my witness, I don't have a man.

I noticed in that movie that the character played by Bing Crosby is named Bob, and Bing's brother in real life was named Bob. Not only that, the character played by Rosemary Clooney is named Betty, and Rosemary's sister in real life was named Betty. I wonder if that was done on purpose or if it was purely coincidental.

I spotted the pre-West Side Story George Chakiris in there too as one of Rosemary's backup dancers. I am nothing if not observant.

Anyway, here it is two days before Christmas and our shopping and gift-wrapping is finally done. We didn't send out Christmas cards this year, so let me take this opportunity to thank Blogland friends Lowell and Peggy T. and Michelle and Ken J. (they will recognize themselves but the rest of you can just scratch your heads) for sending Christmas cards to us.

Mrs. RWP will be making two hashbrown casseroles to take to Christmas morning breakfast at our son's house one town over. Our daughter-in-law's mom and stepdad from Tennessee, our other son's family, and our daughter's family all the way from Alabamistan will be there too, 16 people in all. That last contingent will be spending a couple of days at our house afterwards before returning to the Land of Banjos of Mass Destruction.

Then Christmas will be over and everything will be back to what passes for normal.

I can only hope.

May you all have the merriest of Christmases, the happiest of Hanukkahs, and whatever else your hearts desire.

*not just like the ones I used to know, as I've never known any in my entire life. Just thought you ought to know.

This is just wrong on so many levels

I’m talking about this video clip in which Kate Smith introduces a rather strange performance of “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans” by Juliet Prowse, complete with high kicks and a tap-dancing troupe, on The Hollywood Palace television program back in the day (4:36).

I mean, it’s as if Susan Boyle were on Britain’s Got Talent and then had to stand by and watch some dancers get all the glory, with the audience lapping it up.

Oh, wait, that actually happened.

It’s as if Bing Crosby, who introduced “White Christmas” -- arguably the best-known Christmas song of the twentieth century -- on a radio program on Christmas Day 1941, were hosting a Christmas special on television years later but had to stand back and watch someone else introduce another Christmas song.

Oh, wait, that actually happened, too (3:48).

But this post has a happy ending. It’s not as if Kate Smith, who introduced a rather well-known song herself back on a radio program on Armistice Day in 1938, didn’t get a final moment of glory (3:20).

If Bing Crosby had a final moment of glory, I am unaware of what or when it was.

I know it isn’t Christmas -- hey, it isn’t even Epiphany -- but you guys got me started with your comments about “What Child Is This?” on my previous post, which didn’t have anything to do with Christmas either.

So this post is kind of your own fault.

Let the comments begin. I expect you’ll be discussing Irving Berlin, or New Orleans, or ice hockey.