A Christmas Story celebrates its 25th anniversary this year.

For folks in Ohio who were around at the time (1983), it was a big deal. Parts of the film were shot in Cleveland, at three main locations: The Higbee’s and Halle’s department stores, and a house in the Tremont district.

Since that time, both Higbee’s and Halle’s have gone the way of many downtown department stores; they were sold off and closed. But I found some beautiful pictures at clevelandmemory.org, and they brought back some fond recollections of when my mother used to take Mavis and me to Gimbel’s, Sears, Montgomery Ward and Marshall Field’s in Milwaukee and Chicago when we were kids in the 60s.

Those stores had the best display windows, didn’t they, crusties? Check out these great photos (click to enlarge):

The guy who bought the actual Christmas Story house has turned it into a tourist attraction, complete with a museum and gift shop. You can see it here. They just had a big reunion last weekend.

You can even buy the famous Leg Lamp:

I can’t believe it’s been 25 years already. I still think of all the kids in that movie as if they were still kids…

Here’s Ralphie (Peter Billingsley) today:

Nice!

Fink out.

PS – This is hilarious. A reenactment of A Christmas Story in 30 seconds, performed by bunnies.

PPS – A two-hour delay today. I must say it’s nice, but 5th grade choir really needs the rehearsal. Nuts.

Photo credits: clevelandmemory.org, imdb.com, Associated Press, WireImage.com, MGM/UA Entertainment

Yes, I know it’s uber-hip to hate Barry Manilow. Usually, when people behave in that type of pile-on manner, they know a lot less about the one they’re piling on than what they think.

I saw a Reuters blog post with the tag line, Warning: readers who are easily disturbed or offended should not read this item. The author even titled it, “Well, this is just too sick!” (Just a *bit* over the top. Overkill, anyone?) It’s about a judge who punished young noise-ordinance offenders by making them sit for an hour and listen to Manilow’s music. HAAAhaHAahAHAAA! That’s HILARIOUS!!! OMG, that’s PRICELESS!!! HO ho Heee hee haha–*BANG*

Shut up already. As knee-slappingly funny and delightfully clever as the judge is, he’s a piler-on. Everyone who possesses the slightest trace amount of cool is supposed to hate Barry Manilow, right? So yeah, let’s run that into the ground.

If you don’t like him for personal or musical reasons, fine. I’m not a huge Manilow fan myself — I wasn’t in the 70s, either. But I respected who he was, and still do. A prolific songwriter, commercial jingle writer, pianist, arranger and producer, he got his start in the bigtime back in the early 70s as music director for an up-and-coming singer named Bette Midler. He has a pleasant voice, sings in tune, and writes some beautiful melodies. He’s a true musician, unlike about fifty other Kool Kids I could name. Just sayin’…give the guy the credit due him.

I don’t particularly like “I Write the Songs” either, but Manilow didn’t even write that. He also didn’t write “Weekend in New England,” but his rendition was gorgeous. He did, however, write the beautiful ballad “Even Now,” and to this day, hearing it makes me bawl (it’s a profoundly sad introspective about a man who has, for all intents and purposes, moved on with his life, but is still tormented by how difficult it is to live without “her”). Equally moving is “Could it Be Magic,” based in part on a Chopin prelude. He had a way of writing chord progressions that seemed to physically “pull” at you, somewhere in your chest, near your heart. Those who have experienced that phenomenon know what I mean. To those who haven’t, I’m not sure I could explain it; when it happens, you just know it, and it’s magnificent and addictive. It’s what makes you play tunes over and over and over, just to get the feeling.

But of course, regardless of his many accomplishments, the kool thing to do is deposit the guy’s entire performing career and song catalog into a stupid box called “Copacabana.” Ok, go ahead. But at least consider this:

With worldwide sales of more than 75 million records, Barry Manilow’s success is a benchmark in popular music. His concerts and night-club performances sell out instantly. He is ranked as the top adult contemporary chart artist of all time, according to R&R (Radio&Records) and Billboard magazines. Rolling Stone crowned him ‘a giant among entertainers… the showman of our generation,’ and Frank Sinatra summed up Manilow best when [he] told the British press, ‘He’s next.’ manilow.com

Yep. No-talent slouch, that Manilow guy. And Sinatra knew bupkes about performing anyhow. Feh.

But enough of the bad stuff. I want to wish a very happy Thanksgiving to all my Finkville fiends. I heart you!

RF, off to finish the pies

If I dream, I usually don’t remember doing so. I don’t know why. But there are rare exceptions.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point last night, I had a nightmare. I dreamed we had a 2-hour delay at school, and I used the time to have coffee at my breakfast table with my parents. La-dee-da, nothing wrong there — except 1) Dad and Mother passed away in 1995 and 1996, respectively, and 2) I don’t have a breakfast table in my tiny little kitchen.

Bizarre, to be sure, but I was enjoying it, apparently. Then the weird thing happened: I forgot to go to school.

The rest of the otherwise-pleasant dream experience was horrifying. I couldn’t find a phone. Anywhere. All I could say to everyone around me (and I didn’t even know some of the people) was, “I’m gonna lose my job! I’m gonna lose my job!” I remember trying desperately to come up with an outfit, and flinging open closet door after closet door, only to find the closets empty.

Then, for the pièce de résistance, I happened to find a phone and called the school. The middle school secretary said, “You can come in, but Terry [my principal] has reassigned all your kids to other teachers.” Great. Not only am I in trouble with my bosses, but I’m a permanent pariah to my colleagues. I’m dead to them.

The nightmare must have faded away, because I remember nothing more after that.

What does this mean, my clever fiends? Any Josephs out there want to interpret? I promise I won’t throw you in jail.

Fink out(ta here, because there’s no 2-hour delay and I have to get to school on time!)