Ingen kitsch som svensk kitsch

I was having little joy trying to find a new carol to learn this year. It didn't seem a tough assignment to raid the store of Swedish julvisor for one that appealed to me, but the renditions found on YouTube were all too gloppy, too boring, or both. Then I found this charmer:

monshu can attest that I've already taken to heart "Räven raskar över isen", but it's so simple it hardly counts. So nominees for a companion tune?

A night like this

Can't remember the last time I lingered so long at a staff party. I give a lot of credit to the space, which was the same as last year: a repurposed mansion. Apparently, the upper stories have been converted into dreadful fluorescent-lit offices (one of my work pals did what I've always wanted to and snuck up the grand staircase to peep), but the ground floor is pure Clue--to the degree that I insist on calling the sunroom "the Conservat'ry" in my plummiest imitation of Tim Curry.

Only two beers, but I left with such a glow that I seriously considered continuing to divert myself elsewhere, even though it's a school night and I'm old. But I didn't feel like following the buddies I left with to some near west side venue and none of my bear peeps answered my texts, so I ruled out Bear Den at Big Chicks. I figured that, without the freedom to keep my buzz going, I'd eventually ask myself what I was doing trashing my sleep schedule in a room full of cliquish queens.

So I picked up some pharmaceuticals and rode home. Bordering the el, I spied the cutest little nerdboy. Perfect Buck Godot figure (scaled down to slightly-less-than-average height), black trench, greasy goatee, and waves of Straight radiating from him like microwaves as he awkwardly bobbed about trying to chat up (just a little too loudly) two young girls. I hardly wasted any effort on being surreptitious as I watched his efforts from across the length of the car. And I didn't suppress my grin when I overheard him say, "Everyone has their vice and mine is Mountain Dew."

We got off at the same stop and I was sorely tempted to offer him a hand carrying his two-litres back home, but I'm trying to arrest my seemingly inevitable slide into dirty old manhood. So I swept past him and turned my attention to the snow, which was just then starting to fall in great fluffy flakes. I was still toying with the idea of dropping my bag at home and setting out again--anything besides another dull night in front of the computer. But at the end of the day, there are worse things than being dull.