"it's going to be easy -- like peeling a turtle."

every year, at christmas, a couple of debates are reignited as we gather round the tree at my mom's house. the first, oldest, and least likely to ever be resolved, is that of one's preference among operatic tenors -- domingo? pavarotti? pick your poison. choose unwisely and you may never see another of my mother's (in)famous cookie baskets ever again. i know you're dying for the "right" answer (i.e. the one that will ensure your place on my mother's cookie basket list -- a list so exclusive, with a selection process so arbitrary, it has been compared by academic friends of mine to a certain federal research grant program *ahem*). i don't really want to tread over old debate ground, so i'll keep it short. one summer, while my mom and i were wandering aimlessly through the streets of vienna, she literally ran into domingo, who was singing at the staatsöper. she stopped on the street outside st. stephen's, turned around to look for me (i had been lured away by a shoe sale at a neighbouring store) and she smacked right into his chest. she apologized profusely, and was taken aback when she realized who it was. without fawning over him too much ("oh shannon, he had such spanish eyes!"), she said something about his gig at the staatsöper and sheepishly backed away. i saw the whole exchange from the wrong side of a shoe sale bin. forget tone, colour, range, roles, and repertoire. we all know who is my mom's fav. my grandmother used to make up the pavarotti contingent and has passed on that tradition to others in my family.

the second debate, perhaps the more lively one of the two, concerns the better of two christmas musicals, each starring bing crosby -- holiday inn (1942) and white christmas (1954). we don't talk about bing's run in those "going my way" films, though i do like to resurrect risë stevens every so often just to make the debate more fun. as a child, i used to defend my love for the vistavision spectacle with vibrant red costumes, mary wicks as the nosey housekeeper and that strange blend of holiday spirit and american patriotism that could only come from the touch of director michael curtiz. in recent years, however, i have begun to awaken to the merits of bing's earlier offering -- if only for the number where fred astaire dances with firecrackers. the dialogue, from which the title of this post is taken, is far superior. for example, this exchange, between danny reed (fred's manager) and a waiter at a nightclub, gets me every time:

Danny Reed: François! Have you seen Mr. Hanover?
François: Twice, sir. The first time he came from his dressing room he had a telegram in his hand. He ordered scotch and soda. A bottle of each.
Danny Reed: I know! I know!
François: The second time he came from his dressing room he asked which way is Connecticut.
Danny Reed: Connecticut?
François: Connecticut. He said he had a friend there who knows about women too.
Danny Reed: Why didn't you stop him?
François: How can I stop him sir when I don't know which way is Connecticut

and how can you not love bing and his exploding jars of peach preserves, that, he confesses to fred, he put up before he went into the insane asylum?

as i sit here, drowning slowly in piles of marking and other end of term tasks, i can't help but get a little homesick -- for cookie baskets, inane family debates and all those other holiday joys about which i am usually so cynical (driving to see the blinding christmas light extravaganza on rio drive, anyone?). alas, before i can hop a train (with the furry beasts in tow) and effect my exodus from ktown, i must make it to the end of my mammoth to-do list. "it's going to be easy", i keep telling myself, "like peeling a turtle."