Zeborah

So, in 1944 Frank Loesser wrote a song for him and his wife Lyn Garland to sing at parties. It proved popular, he sold it to MGM for the movie Neptune's Daughter, and it got even more popular[1]. 70-odd years later it's embedded in the American consciousness as a traditional Christmas carol, and so far and wide people are outraged when an Ohio radio station pulls it from the air as a gesture of respect to #MeToo[2].

Discourse seems to be roughly divided between

• a) "PC gone mad!" [no citation needed; you'll find this expressed in every possible newspaper/blog/YouTube comments section] which deserves little respect;


• b) "This song is pretty date-rapey"[3], which deserves some consideration; and


• c) "Actually no she's really into it"[4] which accordingly considers it but respectfully disagrees.

So here's my take: That third argument is a pretty compelling analysis of how the song was written, performed, and appreciated in 1944. Granted Frank introduced himself as the "evil of two Loessers" when they sang it, and the score has the female part as "Mouse" and the male part as "Wolf"[1], because technically social mores of the time frowned on a gentleman pressuring a lady in the way he does in this song.

But when Frank and Lyn sing it[5], even without video you can hear her smiling on lines like "Maybe just a half a drink more". In the film choreography[6] Eve is totally flirting with Jose: there are little smiles and coy glances throughout, and when she puts a hat on and he takes it straight off, there's no shock or fear or irritation or struggle, she just moves to the next thing with no attempt to evade him doing exactly the same again. (I'm a bit more concerned about the gender-swapped version that follows for comedic effect; that comedy gets in the way of figuring out how Jack really feels about Betty's advances.)

In 1944 a woman couldn't say yes and still be respected in the morning. If she wanted sex, she had to play the "no, no, no" game so that "at least I'm gonna say that I tried". In those performances, Mouse and Wolf are playing the game, and the audience is thoroughly in on it. (We may not get to see a kiss but there's got to be a reason Wolf goes from "your lips look delicious" to "your lips are delicious" and Mouse then requests the use of his comb!) Only the Hayes Office seems to have missed the joke since somehow they thought this song was more appropriate than "Slow Boat To China"[7] despite the two songs clearly coming to the same implicit conclusion.

But 2018 is a different time. I know, this is ordinarily a speciously ahistorical argument, so let me clarify. I'm not saying we have a better understanding of rape, or more respect for a woman who isn't consenting. That's rubbish. Valuable as the solidarity has been, #MeToo hasn't yet changed our broader culture much outside of a lot of headlines sold and a few token efforts at taking a song or two off the air: men are still having sentences reduced or commuted, or simply not getting convicted at all, for the sake of their precious reputations.

No, the key difference is that it's now more or less widely understood that if a woman wants sex, she can say so -- yet we still struggle with the idea that if a woman says she doesn't want sex, she actually means it. A song that was in 1944 a great example of how a woman could get sex without destroying her reputation (or even alarming the Hayes Office) is in 2018 setting a terrible example to men that "I really can't stay" is just a "hold out" to be got over.

So I don't think it should be taken off the air because it illustrates a 1944 date rape. I think it should be taken off the air because it perpetuates the 2018 myth that "mixed signals" is a real thing.

An alternative to a complete ban
It's interesting how when you read/listen to the lyrics over and over, you discover they've changed over time[2]. Some of these changes are pretty minor (the original "lend me your comb" becomes "lend me your coat", which is a hilarious bit of expurgation especially since it now doesn't rhyme with "got to get home"). One is pretty major: the version the radio quotes is missing out a whole verse or so -- perhaps for length, or perhaps because that section used to conclude with, "Maybe just a cigarette more".

If cigarettes can be edited out of the song with no apparent controversy, why not edit respect into it with a "Baby, I'm fine with that"[8]?

Of course Lydia now reserves the right to either go home (and meet Josiah tomorrow night at the Cheesecake Factory, a line that single-handedly makes this version of the song superior to all possible others), or saying "Oh my god, you're actually listening to me? That's so hot, do me now." So the only tweak I'd make to these lyrics is for Lydia to return after all to the final "Ah, but it's cold outside!"

because when I arrived for the Christmas Eve service there was a sign saying "Welcome: please use alternate entrance" and the alternate entrance led to the back lawn where several rows of chairs were set up. Apparently the cracks in the (brick) church have widened enough that they want to get an assessment before risking having the congregation in there, especially as the cracks are in the side where the emergency exits are located. They'd managed to get the sound system in position just inside the ranch sliders of the lounge, with the piano and lectern and Advent candles, but the sun was far too bright to allow for a projector even if that system was mobile.

We had to add another row chairs as people kept arriving. (Some brought picnic blankets but we didn't have to resort to that.) It did cool a little as the evening progressed and clouds drifted across the sky, but not badly.

Sound didn't carry very well -- we kept singing either faster or slower than the piano, which at one point got so bad our minister was cracking up -- but it was surprising effective being outside with the rustle of the wind in the trees: it fit with the shepherds and the straw in the manger much better than a brick building does. It reminded me of the New Zealand carol Te Harinui, "The people gathered round upon the grassy ground to hear the preacher say 'I bring to you today Te Harinui, glad tidings of great joy.'"

I'm baking a fruitcake for the Midwinter Christmas we're probably going to celebrate at work. This is a couple months away yet, so it's a good time to bake the cake. I started... well, on my birthday in December, when my parents gave me some jars full of dried pineapple, mango, and papaya and I thought "Ooh!" Since then I've been gathering other dried fruits that don't normally go in Christmas cakes: apricots and cranberries, and a couple of weeks ago some guava.

A few days ago I added in some sultanas to make it up to 1.5kg(1), and then I soaked it in rather a lot of brandy.

Today I figured it was probably sufficiently sozzled, plus I'm going back to work tomorrow, so I recopied the recipe from Mum, made up the batter, lifted the gladwrap off the brandy-soaked fruit, took a whiff and promptly became quite happy indeed, mixed the lot together and put it in the (butter-paper)-and-(corrugated-cardboard)-lined tin.

(Boots helped by sitting on one of the pieces of butter-paper but fortunately Mum had given me sufficient spares. I'm not sure where she's gone off to put her buttery butt now though.)

It's now in the oven where it will cook for several hours and then get another dose of brandy. I hope this will contribute significantly to the Christmas Spirit at the party at work (and also that there are leftovers, but we're a small team and it's going to be a very solid cake).

(1) Actually I think the recipe should read "Take 1.6kg of dried fruit. Soak in brandy overnight / for a few days. Mix the batter, then add the 1.5kg of fruit."