This is not Toronto – a rarity, so don’t get used to it!

It is a sort of sub-alpine town  (if the hills were only bigger), situated somewhere in that vast swath of land called Northern Ontario.

Like most of the towns in this area, it was built into the solid rock that makes up the Canadian Shield, and built upon digging shit up out of that rock. Lotsa ores and radioactive rocks kinda shit.

That digging stopped a couple of decades ago and started the slow hemorrhage of the population with it. So it’s a pretty small town … a few high schools sorta small (and it wasn’t really that large in its heyday).

So, things here are necessarily a bit simpler.

There’s one Tim Horton’s, one McDick’s, and one Canadian Tire sporting outrageous gas prices.

Granted, that’s more than most Ontario towns have, but at the same time they’re usually an hour or two from some options. Not so in this town — if you don’t get your Mac ‘n doughnut here, you’ll have a good long wait before you find another opportunity for a healthy breakfast.

To put it into further perspective, the highway leading north of here opens up onto logging roads and then … wilderness. Nothing but hills and snow and naked trees as far as the eye can see. And bears and wolves and deer and all that other boring shit.

The people here strike me as a bit more rugged; like if you threw a bunch of retirees and geriatrics into a frozen Thuderdome (Tina Turner? Already there! :D ). You kinda have to be. This year it’s been mercifully dry but typically just shoveling the snow is like a cruel joke.

My city ass does not relish the experience. Nor is it easy to adapt to the one mall that everyone shops at (because there is no alternative), or the two coffee varieties in town (one of them being the aforementioned Timmy’s, the other unspeakable), or to the fact that not a goddam single road around here is straight or doesn’t, in some messed up way, end up back on itself.

After a few days, you realize that there’s really nothing much up here in this remote little community except satellite TV, friends, family, and the holiday cheer you bring up with you. And as much as I’m very much a city guy with an enduring love of convenience and variety any other time, at this one time of year, that seems to somehow be just right.

Whether you’re doing what I’m doing, or you’re earning double-time at work, it’s my sincere hope that Christmas does good things for you!

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Haha!

Ah, but I kid. This is actually a serious problem for Toronto retailers. Last year we lost 12 people in an avalanche at the lower-level Starbucks…

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If ever you’ve experienced an aversion to screaming midget hellions accompanied by double-wide-stroller-pushing “adults”, this is the one event that’s guaranteed to permanently damage your brain. Santa becomes Satan so very easily.

Dante’s little excursion through his so-called “Inferno” was, in comparison, a pleasant bonfire. Which would’ve been nice as this particular circle of hell was damn close to freezing over.

On top of this, imagine thousands of screaming infants, cranky at the excessive gaps in the procession because there were no more clowns to keep them entertained (or because they’d just been entertained by clowns).

Oh, it wasn’t all TSA-approved body cavity searches. Some of the floats were your standard Christmas parade fare and that’s okay. But even then I noticed a general propensity for using characters that had massive, Japanese Anime-like eyes. Except the Japs’ stylized characters are usually pleasant, if not mildly arousing. The things atop these trailers looked more like Smeagol (a.k.a. Gollum). Preciousssss.

And in bygone days we had corporate sponsors to blame for the declining mirth, now it’s a lineup of what looks like recycled floats with the soft drink logos ripped off. ‘cept they’re not fooling me, I know who these polar bears use to shill for.

Both my nephews still believe in the fat guy. I blame that irresponsibility on their parents.

Maybe my sis is trying to do some vicarious holidaying; she maintains that I stripped the joy out of Christmas by forcing on her irrefutable evidence that Santa doesn’t exist. Sounds like something I’d do. But listen, the earlier they learn that reindeer don’t fly, rabbits don’t shit chocolate eggs, and that uncle Patrick is really the guy who ponied up for their awesome new PS3 game, the earlier we can all get to enjoying the true meaning of Christmas: alcohol and time off work.

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In the process, incidentally, I had another break in the missing underwear case — possibly the break.

Two breaks, actually. Number one, my whities. So that’s one less to worry about. And a margarine container?

NO … FREAKIN’ … WAY!!

Okay, back story here. I had found similar containers, many caked with mud and (seemingly) dried saliva, in a variety of nooks and crannies around the place. Gotta tell ya, I didn’t remember absconding with any margarine containers from, really, anywhere recently. I don’t even eat margarine – I’m a real creamery butter kinda guy. So I was initially mystified as to how they had all ended up in my flat.

One day, while sitting on my couch watching something pleasantly dull, a black squirrel hopped onto the sill just behind the monitor — Ollie uses that window to get out onto the overhang and lord over his domain one storey below. I always kept the possibility of something getting into the flat at the back of my head. There are some overfed raccoons that like to hang around at the jumping-distance tree in the front yard. And the wires that hang from the street to the house make jumping mostly unnecessary for anything smaller. Not for Ollie – he’s too comfortable, but squirrels and chipmunks, no problem.

Whatever would get in, I thought, would likely ransack the kitchen for something to nibble on. There would be ample evidence that I’d finally been broken into by wildlife and that I was right not to trust them all along. Especially raccoons – they already look like criminals for God’s sake!

But when I spotted that squirrel on the sill, and what was that in it’s mouth? A margarine container?

Aha!

The squirrel had been storing its margarine surreptitiously at my place for the winter – basically using it as a food cupboard. That, I had not expected. I’d also expected Ollie to be a little more vigilant with guarding the flat against invading rodents with chaseably bushy tails. But he literally picked up his head, glanced at the squirrel, gave me a glazed-over look, and dropped his head right back down to sleep. Ollie and old Blackie, it seems, are old buddies. What other explanation is there?

The squirrel leapt, almost imperceptibly, to the side table that holds my monitor, margarine container in full view. I thought that the act of standing up suddenly would be enough to spook the squirrel back out into the night. Nope. Little fucker stood there, didn’t even flinch. Just kinda side-glanced me like he was dissing me. I could’ve sworn I heard him kiss his teeth.

I took two steps forward – the full width of my living room – only then did the squirrel finally mosey back over to the sill. This was in late November, I knew I’d be keeping the windows closed for the next half decade-ish, so I was really more curious to look into the eyes of such an audacious creature than to try to scare it from entering again. Perhaps promise that I would eat its heart for courage if I ever caught it and killed it it in a death match or found its frozen carcass out in the snow – in true urban warrior spirit, and out of respect for its brave little soul.

I would cry a little when I ate that squirrel.

Luckily I don’t have to do that. The squirrel finally walked off and has only flitted by my window on rare occasions. I’m still finding the random margarine container wedged between the sofa cushions or stuck in behind the bookcase, but the mountain of rags reeking with the repellent scent of man is no longer available, and the window is closed now anyway. I saw the squirrel a couple of weeks ago as I was trying to squeeze open-window season to its limit – he eyed me from the sill, margarine container firmly in his grasp, but the fight will have to wait until spring – he retreated and I haven’t seen him since. He’s now probably nestled into a hole in a tree or in some sucker’s comfortable drywall, family cozied up for warmth, my missing underwear at the entrance keeping predators at bay with a chemical-scent shield. If the little ones have the constitution of their dad, the odour won’t faze them. Impressive.

So, yeah, no freakin’ way. It must be the squirrel. And I accused Ollie of the undergarment thefts already; I feel like a heel. He pretended not to understand what I was saying. I could tell he was hurt though; he had that dejected look on his face and stopped eating for, like, 300 seconds. It seemed like an eternity. Now I may owe him a huge apology. Then I’ll cuss him out for letting the squirrel in here.

But other than the case, of course, I’ve been busy with Christmas.

I spent a good amount of my life on GO trains, heading west to see my sister, twice, and then east to gather some documents. The documents ended up being the one gift I’d been hoping for this season – both some evidence that the ex is entangled in some untoward business (at my expense :( ), and the fact that finally, I can say with authority … I was right. Oooh. Plus, I learned a couple of new pieces of information — stocking stuffers. Sent a shiver up my spine. Maybe I watch too much Poirot, but I definitely felt a private investigator vibe – and I liked it.

However, travelling the rails around this time of year is not something I’m keen to repeat. On the 24th, Union Station was a zoo and line-ups for anything went out the doors.

I don’t know if this is a normal thing or if it’s just holiday travellers, but everyone had their feet on the seats. I mean, it’s bad enough on a dry summer day, but these people had just trudged through snow, sludge, cigarette butts, salt, and partially thawed dog crap, and didn’t think twice about wiping it all generously on the seat in front of them. I think I’ll have to contact the Practical Urban Gentleman on this matter – it was epidemic.

However, a generous dip into the Bailey’s upon arrival soothed all my cares away and Christmas went pretty well after that. Of course, there were many eardrum-shattering screams emanating from the children, but we all managed through it somehow.

One day the boys will appreciate the dual Christmas they get just by virtue of the family they were born into, but for now it’s just an overload for their senses. They literally sit there tearing into presents day and night; by the time they’re done they’ll have gone through all the horrific, carnal, murderous stages of the Lord of the Flies. I believe they even got the symbolic stuck pig as a gift from their grandma this year. Okay, well, the pig is electronic and rolls around and laughs and is mostly cartoonish with no real evidence of any blood or violence or actually being stuck, but the symbolism is obvious.

In the end, only devastation and wide-eyed terror lay below the Christmas tree.

But with the extra couple of days I took off to round out an extended weekend (my employer believes in only the most statutory of holidays), I managed to squeeze some late nights and long sleeps in there. It’s also how come I have so much to talk about in this post.

I even managed to get a haircut at some point.

Wow.

I would say that this Christmas season has been successfully tackled. I managed to make my mom cry again (I try to do that with every gift), and I was able to correctly time it so that about 95% of photos of me will be with my eyes closed. And for the few that escaped I wonder, little sis, did I sneakily delete the photos from your camera when your back was turned?

Now, no more gifty holidays or birthdays in the immediate future other than mine. Sweet. Also, one and a half days of uninspired slackery until it’s party time and another long weekend for the much-needed recovery. Double-sweet.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go spend some of my new gift cards on a parka. I only have a few more hours in which to be intoxicated. After that, genuine outdoor protection is a must — even a fiery, spirited heart can die of exposure out there (so I certainly can). Besides, I recently discovered that I was right, so I’ll trust in my judgment on this one. I might have to be a bit cold-blooded later on so it’s better to prepare now.

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A real post is in the works (as soon as the turkey is done with and I’m back at my place), but I didn’t want you to feel like I forgot about you, dear reader. Hope you’re having a wonderful holiday!

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The urban sphere is no less magical at this time of year; festively festooned store windows hold visions of the wonders to come, with children looking on clinging to their mothers, promising all manner of rehabilitated behaviour if only they could get exactly that. And luckily, toys are a relatively inexpensive way to motivate them toward adopting good manners. It’s a terrible shame that the same can’t be said of the adult populace at large. It would certainly make shopping for gifts much more enjoyable, don’t you think?

Insolence at this time of year is most un-Christmas-like, yet during any average shopping expedition one may expect to encounter it at regular intervals. While previous installments of The Guide have dealt with successfully navigating crowds or dealing with queue jumpers, we have thus far not discussed the techniques for ensuring that the last item on the shelf ends up in your possession instead of the aggressive gentleman’s who just pushed you aside for it. The natural inclination may be to bare one’s knuckles and prepare for fisticuffs, but there are many variables to this approach that simply cannot be accounted for. Besides this, it is ungentlemanly. The timeless question must once again be raised; what’s the practical gentleman to do?

Luckily, dear reader, we have a few avenues open to us that ensure that we escape both unscathed, and with the gift we had wanted under our arm. And as my special gift to you, I have taken great pains to research two excellent approaches that are both entirely preemptive and self-maintaining. The gifts that you select will be ready for you when you’re ready to make your purchase; you won’t need to fend anyone off, thus entirely preventing insolence, as it were.

A great deal of wisdom has been scribbled hastily within convenience store greeting cards on the way to the relatives’ as regards these matters, but please allow me to at least get the ball rolling.

The Mark

Chocolate, who doesn’t love it? The insolent, that’s who. But not me, dear reader, and I believe you will love it too once this scenario unfolds in its entirety.

Clearly, for this technique we will be needing chocolate. I prefer dark, but melted milk chocolate also has a certain appeal. The idea is to use something that approaches the colour and consistency of feces, and cocoa is a wonderful medium to work in anyway.

Enjoy a corner of your favourite chocolate treat, allowing it to melt in your mouth until soft. Then, simply rub it onto a visibly obvious section of the gift you have selected, replacing it on the shelf from whence it came. Anyone who encounters it will see the “fecal” smear and will steer well clear. You hear? :)

The nice aspect of this strategy is that it allows you to shop with hands free while marking, and reserving, potential gifts you may want to return to later. Clearly there wouldn’t be much advantage to marking gifts weeks in advance, unless you’re short of cash at that time, so the approach is a day-of sort of thing.

It would be remiss not to complete the thought and ask what happens when the besmeared gift is unwrapped. “I was eating chocolate, as I am wont to do when wrapping gifts, and some of it dripped there. I had the receipt but they wouldn’t let me return it and mall security chased me out. I have no idea why. But it’s what’s on the inside of the box that counts anyway, right?”

Bingo bango, you’re done.

The Markup

When something absolutely must be reserved, the idea here is to make the object simply unattainable … except for yourself ;) As with the previous option, this may also be a day-of sort of thing or an advanced-planning sort of thing. But you must prepare.

The essence of the thing is to create our own price tags, of varying degrees of outrageousness, that we will apply to reserved items. Access to a printer is great, but if you write carefully (paying attention to size and spacing), you can produce credible tags by hand. A fine felt tip marker and some self-adhesive envelope labels – the kind that come on sheets – should serve you well. We’ll be cutting these into price-tag-sized pieces, so we really don’t need many.

It’s a good idea to produce them in incremental values of ten dollars. And ninety-nine cents, of course (that adds to the authenticity). Start at $10.99, then $20.99, $30.99, and so on. These are good psychological thresholds, hurdles for their penny-pinching minds. How high are they willing to jump?

Of course, you’ll know something they don’t; that the real price is just beneath the reserved tag.

To absolutely ensure that a certain item is held until your return, consider marking up a number of the same items in increasing sums. This adds to the confusion should someone decide to double-check the price. As the items leave the shelf, the price will most certainly climb – that $150.99 (what?!) Transformer is sure to be yours. Teehee … can you hear their outraged outbursts at the toy store’s audacity? Maybe if they weren’t so rude.

The Marquis

During the holidays it’s nice to clean up a bit. Get that haircut, brush those teeth, put on the top hat, pop on the monocle, strike the cane and get out there! As the Marquis, or Duke, or V.I.P.of one sort or another, you are to be afforded various privileges, and if your wealthy industrialist father taught you anything it was that any problem can be bought.

“Sir? Sir? I wonder if you’d be willing to part with that game for a profit. Name your price.  Well, now, that’s  quite a tidy sum. Luckily for you, I made that while standing here. Hang on, I’ll write you a cheque; I don’t carry that much cash on me.”

Fancy duds, presumptuous, quick to pay you off – yeah, thanks for the money, Mister Sucker. Yoink! Didn’t really want the game anyway.

A well-dressed lady interacting with members of the opposite sex is more likely to accomplish this without any complications. Ladies will have an advantage over the gentlemen here, I’m afraid. Sorry fellas, we can’t win ‘em all.

At this point, you contact your bank to put a block on the cheque. You can also use expired cheques such as result from switching accounts to avoid possible fraud — “Oh no! My bank card is missing!” (But not really :) )

We must absolutely not reward insolent behaviour, and moochiness is no exception. By using this method, the gift is given by someone truly deserving, and contrary to ending in raised fists, the situation results in a handshake. Is that not in the spirit of Christmas? I happen to think so.

Well, dear reader, this is the final edition of 2009. It’s been a tumultuous year, to be sure, but it is my most sincere wish that The Guide has thus far provided a modicum of guidance through it. I will continue to work hard to bring you real, practical solutions to modern urban insolence.

Wishing you and your loved ones the ho-ho-ho-iest Christmas and Auld-Lang-Syne-iest new year. Until next time!

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Add to that the challenge of crowded parking lots, shoppers wired on their kids’ Ritalin and ready to pounce on anyone who gets in their way, and the simple challenge of just getting around in the seasonal conditions – and you’ve got yourself some war planning to do. Old Man Winter’s pretty much made himself at home and he’s, well, he’s not always at his sexiest. Because he’s so ubiquitous, I couldn’t take a photo of him, so instead here’s a Titanic-style rendering:

I never feel like shopping after walking in on that.

Well, since most of my shopping will probably consist of gift cards and video games (nephews are the perfect age!), there really won’t be anything interesting to document this year. Unless the store at which I’m purchasing said gift card or video game is being held up, but I usually never get the camera out in time so I wouldn’t bank on it.

Due to this, I decided instead to compile some (hopefully) unique and original gift ideas – for you and your loved one. Of course, they may no suit everyone’s tastes, but that’s why there’s more than one thing on the list :)

The Toronto City Life 2009 Gift Guide

If you live with one of those snooty sonsabitches who wishes for world peace, you’re probably thinking what a miserable, selfish asshole! I mean, how the hell are you supposed to pull that one off in time for Christmas? You can either tell them to go to hell, or if they’re that important to you, you can do the next best thing and get them a world piece. Maybe lop a desk globe in half (or smaller), and gift wrap. Couldn’t be simpler, more affordable, and practically the same thing.

If your recipient just wants cold, hard cash like all normal people, you can exotify the gift by sticking it into a decorative red envelope and calling it a Han Bau. This is the traditional gift in China. Typically it’s given during the Lunar New Year and most often to kids, but I don’t know about you, but I ain’t Chinese so to hell with tradition. For the ultimate in authenticity, get the envelopes with some Chinese characters on them (do you really care what they say?), and hand the wad over with a gong-shi gong-shi ni-a! (that’s the traditional way of congratulating someone for surviving another year)

In the olden days, a lump of coal was seen as one of the worst things that anyone could receive. Of course, back in them ignorant times people had no clue how versatile coal really is. We now know that it’s the raw material for producing diamonds (this year, giver her a lump), and as energy prices continue to skyrocket, something to help heat the home is indeed a terrific gift!

And shit, if you’re giving coal, you may as well include a canary. If the coal decides to get any bad ideas, the canary will die (an old miner trick), saving you the embarrassment of having to drag the gassed-out carcass of your significant other onto the front lawn.

But I know that ladies aren’t always into practical things so something that appeals to their aesthetic sense is a great alternative. I thought about this one for a while and came to the conclusion that a pair of front teeth is a swell and inexpensive gift. I believe there was even a song written about it.

Ladies, in my experience, also just enjoy extensively hugging things – cuddling, I believe they call it. Doesn’t the Cuddle Fish sound like the perfect gift for the woman in your life? If you’re having trouble finding one, try the alternate spelling of Cuttlefish — the pronunciation is the same. Even sounds cute!

For your man, nothing says “I put effort into this bitch” more than a city sewer grate. To begin with, there’s gotta be at least five bucks’ worth of raw material in there so there’s that, and once he realizes the effort required to lift it (let alone gift wrap it), he’ll fall in love all over again. On top of all this, you’re out zilch and now have an amazing conversation piece in your living room! Not a world piece, mind you, but almost as good.

If you’re trying to avoid theft this Christmas, and you happen to be environmentally conscious, a year’s worth of natural gas can apparently be had entirely for free. I know, it’s practical, but for free you can make it a stocking stuffer! I’m not sure how the process works but it involves something called a Dutch oven and fine Egyptian cotton sheets.

A packet of farm-fresh Anthrax is, I’m told, also a well-received gift. It’s incumbent on you to ensure that the receiver knows it’s Anthrax. Of course, if they don’t believe you, they deserve what they get – untrusting louts. Otherwise, it’s theirs to dispense with as they please. The youth I’ve given it to in the past all assure me it was a “sick” gift. That means cool ;)

Finally, I was tossing around the possibility of getting someone an Ewok. You know, from the forest moon of Endor. They’re cute, anthropomorphic as all get out, and pretty damn rare in North America. Imagine the surprise when one pops out of a box with a ribbon on its head. I won’t recommend this one until I can figure out where to obtain a pet Ewok, but I thought I’d throw that out in case you happen to know of a reliable supplier. In which case, can you hook me up?

In previous years I experimented with food and standard pets, but they either start to mold pretty severely or their body begins decomposing well before the box is opened (even if you put them in alive). And I always seal the boxes really well, so air leaking in is not the cause. Guess they just don’t make good gifts. It doesn’t make for a nice Christmas eve (our family opens gifts on the 24th); kids cry, maggots get all over the carpet, smell ruins the hell out of the Carp dinner. Besides, why not do something different this time?

(this was the best I could come up with — St. Lawrence market is really distracting!)

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Unfortunately, I bailed from the office Christmas party at close to two in the morning. Technically, the party was over, but it usually just disperses to another locale. Took me some time to convince my cubicle buddy that we didn’t split at midnight as he kept insisting we did. I may have been sloshed, but if I can stand, I’m usually pretty with it. The service stopped at midnight … ah, that’s why it seemed like we left at that time. Right, right.

I felt like it was a pretty full night. We closed the doors on The Academy of Spherical Arts, a bar and restaurant with swanky pool tables and plush couches. You put your beer down anywhere and they leap out from behind the counter with a machete and cut you down like the savage animal you are.

Despite the plethora of criticisms I have for the company, their ability to throw a good party is without reproach. In the summer we gather at the top boss’ house (top boss in our office, anyway), get shitfaced and play baseball and other wholesome sports until the sun goes down. Then the hot tub cover comes off, someone gets naked (never anyone you want to see naked), and someone does a face plant on the lawn (because it’s so dark, of course).

But the Christmas party is the king of office parties, in my opinion. It’s the one where you’re supposed to tux around and act all grown-up, but that usually goes out the window at the sixth pint. It’s when people tell each other what they really think of each other, and it’s sometimes … less than flattering.

That’s probably why they chose some place with pool tables, it gives us a chance to settle scores like civilized drunkards: a bracing game of billiards. Here I am crossing swords with K.K., the marketing design whiz. Note she’s doing the rock horns while I’m saluting our dark overlord. That’s how the argument always begins. The gentleman in the back is the one who will administer the final coup de grâce once one of us lies gasping for breath and begging for mercy. None shall be given, of course.

Jeans in a sea of dress pants and dresses. I could’ve come to work all dolled up in the morning but that’s no way to get through the day – I sit near the rads and in the winter, stuff melts. The alternative is to run home, throw the getup on, and get back before the buffet gets cold. Unless they schedule the party right after the office closes. Some people actually still work at the end of the day, you know?

Anyway, I remember my proletarian ass winning each and every single game I played. Unfortunately, it was after my sixth pint so that may not be one-hundred percent accurate.

Yeah, after about eleven, everything starts to get a bit fuzzy. But there were no reports of boorishness or naked promenades, so I think I’m okay. And I even remembered to grab my door prize on the way out so I couldn’t have been that far gone.

On the tail end of suspiciously little sleep and a headache that took its sweet time, I’m thinking that it was another pretty good Christmas party. Would’ve been better if we had the day off today though — working with a hangover sucks.

The coconut is unrelated. Ignore the coconut. Do not look at the coconut, it is incidental.

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I then typically follow up by popping open a browser (this is usually at work), hitting TCL, and showing them last year’s thing. “Wow, you’d never catch me out there freezing my ass off”, is typically the next statement. “Well, you keep warm by virtue of shared body heat. That’s what makes the evening so magical; improper touching”, I try to sell it. But that’s usually not enough. After revelations that there’s no booze and that the place is swarming with kids, the conversation just peters off into other subjects, “So … Toronto City Life … what is that, a government website?” “Yup.” “Not very interesting.” “Yeah.” ”Have lunch yet?” “Nope.”

People are too jaded. Perhaps because they’re hungry. The Cavalcade of Lights, with this year’s record lack of snow, didn’t really classify as a winter event, so all that hoopla about buttocks falling of in the cold were for naught. The kids were there, but you couldn’t hear them over the din of the show and any ones caught underfoot were pretty much fair game so that problem wasn’t overly daunting. I managed to get up to the front of the crowd with barely any resistance:

The alcohol prohibition thing is also a bit of a moot point. I was not once searched even though I carried a bag big enough to conceal a small keg. A mickey stolen away in a coat pocket would most certainly have gone unnoticed, or you could do as any self-respecting adult would and simply go already lubricated. Essentially, sobriety is for children, the infirm, and stupid people.

But I don’t want to get hung up on methods of smuggling drinks in because with the kind of cover you get in both the scenery and the crowd, you can pretty much set up a temporary shelter where you and your junkie friends can shoot up in complete privacy. Drinking? Please, the cops have bigger things to worry about. Like heroin addicts. Or those guys that sell all that light-up crap that the kids use once before it explodes toxically in the car on the way home. Domestic-quality Chinese products are always hit-and-miss:

The best way to avoid these shuckers of mens’ wallets is to simply avoid them. Look for the guys with the craziest head gear — dead giveaway — and beeline it in the other direction. If you have children with you, a) Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Hehe! Hahaha! *wipe tear* Oh man. Why would you do something like that? and b) Avert their gaze from crazy hat guy. If nothing else, at least save yourself some cash.

I managed to avoid most of the vendors by pushing my through the thickest part of the crowd, mostly elderly and children — easy!

I don’t know what it is with Citytv but every year they choose the dorkiest personalities they have to introduce the acts. Seriously, the weather guy?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Michael Kuss; nothing for him either. He is adequate in his role to deliver the weather report in a timely manner. That is all.

For something exceptional, we need only look beyond Michael’s adequate head to see City Hall looming expectantly, waiting to be lit up like some kind of incendiary device:

To me, this is the real reason to go; a grand fireworks display that goes off way too close to City Hall. I know that immaculate planning goes into this thing, but who can predict that one unexpected gust of wind, or that one errant firework that’s just a little too far off course? Now you’ve got the holiday display of the season!

There were no showers of jagged glass or flaming audience members so, sadly, the errant firework didn’t happen this year. But the explosions packed a good wallop and this scared the kids, so it was satisfactory. Also, the Christmas tree at City Hall was unveiled during the show and this is more the official tree of Toronto I was thinking of. It’s a massive beast of a white spruce, about 18 meters (60 feet) tall and laden with an indecent amount of decoration. Hard to miss. Unfortunately, it makes for a difficult photo but while I work at it you can get a sense of the tree in the background here:

Even though the celebration’s over, the skating rink remains open until spring so there’s plenty of opportunity to watch people hurt themselves. Say what you will about City Hall, it can occasionally be very entertaining. Even in the cold.

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I’m always a little surprised to hear someone say that they don’t. To me, the dislike inevitably always boils down to poor management, doesn’t matter the back story.

What do you see when you look at the following picture?

Do you see a brightly decorated foyer with a festively blue wreath above the door, or is that a translucently hot sun about to go supernova and tear you and your family limb from limb? I’m going to suggest that both are possible depending on how you look at it. This can either be the prelude to an idyllic Christmas, or it can the foreshadowing of utter bloody terror. What’s the difference? I believe the answer is expectations.

In the first scenario, the only expectation is that you’ll be home, happy with your family, and hopefully you’ll get to enjoy some relaxing time off and a couple of good meals. Pretty simple, easy to fulfill. In the next scenario, well, I don’t have enough space here for the lists, recipes, schedules, budgets, planning, planning, and more planning that needs to takes place. And that show really needs to hit the road ASAP if it’s going to get some traction by December.

The first scenario has fairly low expectations. The second’s are in the stratosphere. So the trick is to simply bring those expectations down. Manage them.

Part of that is letting everyone know you want to keep it as simple as possible this year:

Take a page from the people in the business district, they didn’t dick around. “Throw a string of shit on that tree and let’s get the fuck outta here, we’ve got money to make”, is most probably how it went down. The essence of pragmatism.

But the idea is to take a page and not the whole book, because otherwise you start getting stuff like this:

Okay, it’s certainly better than barf on the windows, but it seems a little cold. Guess I’m more of a traditional Christmas kinda guy; gimme a fireplace, a mug full of booze, and a comely lass on the knee. Trees are also nice. I probably wouldn’t choose to put giant, blood-red impalement pyramids in the entrance to my place. I think it gives off the wrong message.

Bay Street sure likes it’s Christmas angular and abstract. But that’s okay, I don’t expect any more than that.

I did, however, expect the Eaton Centre’s decorations to be a little more involved. On Thursday evening they jammed the mall to unveil the Swarovski Crystal Tree so I had to delay getting a good look at it. Either that or elbow kids in wheelchairs to get to the front of the crowd during the ceremony. That didn’t seem very Christmasy. But today I got to sip an apple-carrot juice in peace and stare at a whole bunch of crystal hanging on a tree, hardly having to put any elbows into kids’ faces:

Something like this should’ve gone into Yonge-Dundas Square. It’s big, it’s loud; it’s a man’s tree. Even with all the glitter on it. If it means having armed guards around if it goes outside, so be it. That’s the price of fame.

But back to the Christmas and expectations thing, the Eaton Centre met mine well enough with the tree. But I also know that they hang a bunch of stuff from the rafters that’s usually pretty busy and fun to look at:

The more I look at that, the more I become convinced it’s a Christmas tree blasting off into deep space. That I didn’t expect. There’s also an unexpected scenario happening at the north end of the mall:

It’s difficult to see, but that sleigh has no passenger. The reindeer are in full gallop, dashing towards the stars (on a collision course with the tree!), and Santa’s plummeting down head-first somewhere in the background. In my mind. Also not expected, and quite an amusing tableau.

Expectations, managed.

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Consider this, for example:

Awww. You see Santa’s Workshop, a few rosy-cheeked, satisfied elves sitting outside with the happy labours of the year past, some cute houses topped with fluffy snow and powdered sugar. Merry Christmas, kids!

From another angle, this is Santa’s Sweatshop, miserly and terribly underdressed children cast outside their warm shelters in the middle of a cold Siberian winter, no doubt for under-producing for the “jolly old elf” (who’s probably enjoying himself a back-alley rub-and-tug somewhere in Bangkok). Merry freakin’ Christmas, kids.

At this point, some parents may say, “But I’ve taught my kids well. They’ll make the right choices.” I’ve no reason to doubt anyone’s parenting skills, but upbringing is no match for military-style indoctrination. Pretty soon your kid’s goose-stepping down University Avenue with the rest of his comrades:

Still not willing to co-operate? Let’s see how he feels after this:

No? I see; junior likes to play hardball, huh?

That’s right. If they don’t get him one way, it’ll be another. Do you really want your kid playing a tuba? What kind of a horrible parent are you to even consider that question?

And if you think that maybe some discipline might actually be good for your kid, take a moment to consider this: these groups are all about coercion, cohesion, group-think; discipline here is mostly founded on fear and mistrust. They don’t think twice about throwing a few members under the car to preserve the organization:

If, at this point, you still think that attending the parade with your children is acceptable, consider how the police will protect your kids once they’re “in the wild”:

Exactly, not at all. The cops stood there the entire time, not a care on their faces. Smiles, some of them. Instead of doing their jobs and clubbing / shooting / arresting people, they just stood around watching the procession like it was the eleven o’clock news. I think some of them were even drinking some sort of hot chocolate beverage. Drinking. On the job.

I did mention some of these displays were insidious, didn’t I? See if you can spot the hazard in the following scene:

Yes, university-aged girls are dangerous, but I’m talking about something more immediate. Imagine, the moment the pyramid goes up, the sweaty old men come out of the woodwork clutching their malodourous camera phones, flashing yellow smiles, and sporting all sorts of unpleasant stains on their sweatpants.

I’m sorry to have to get so graphic, but it’s important that parents everywhere be aware of what really goes down every year. This is simply no place for kids.

And finally, what about jolly old Saint Nick? What’s his ultimate role in all of this?

I don’t think any secret has ever been made of Santa Claus’ hyper-critical judgment of humanity: rewarding lists of people who fall within his insane definition of “nice”, monitoring those on the “naughty” lists for whom he reserves his own personal retribution. And heaven help you if you don’t accept one of his magnanimous “gifts” come Christmas.

Once again, I can’t stress enough how terribly inappropriate this event is for children. The numerous examples given in these two posts are, I think, sufficient to convey the imminent dangers you’d be placing your children under. Keep them away for all the right reasons.

Plus, they start to get irritatingly loud and underfoot after a couple of hours.

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To begin with, you have strange men winding their way through the audience snapping random pictures of children and posting them on only God-knows what website. That alone should be enough, but there’s much more to be wary of.

Consider the example set by  pre-pubescent delinquents who don’t think twice about defacing public property:

“Welcome Santa” must be kid code for “deliver crack cocaine here”. If only that were the worst of it. What happens when your child learns to steal cars? Driving without a license (and training) not only means a harsher jail sentence, it’s also extremely dangerous:

If you don’t believe me you can ask the cops. There were plenty of them along the parade route, handing out literature to educate the young about the dangers of falling in with the wrong crowd. Why they even allowed kids to attend is beyond me:

Those are just a few of the criminal influences that could befall your child at the Santa Claus Parade. Besides the dangers of running afoul of the law, kids also run the risk of mental / emotional trauma. Those who attended and have a fear of clowns are probably catatonic by now:

Reasonable people would think that inspiring terror on this scale would be enough. They’re just kids, for heaven’s sake! But no, parade organizers had to take it to twisted new heights:

As if fear weren’t enough, bringing children to the event means exposing them to all sorts of filth:

Every cunning device is used to ensure that no child escapes unscathed. For those with more active imaginations, a terrible portrait is carefully painted to resonate with their young minds. Imagine being held fast by a giant, blood-red beast who’s probably already feasted on your friends:

The parade of horrors continues with strange, nightmarish creatures that are neither beast nor man, but some ghoulish mixture of both:

Unfortunately I’ve run out of space in this post, but sufficed to say that the hazards lurking about the Santa Claus parade are many, some much more insidious than what’s shown here. I’ll continue with these tomorrow but if you have a kid or two and are considering a similar event in your home town, I urge you to reconsider. Attending is a first-class ticket to a shattered future. Won’t you please think of the children?

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I say technical because if you look at the archives, TCL only goes back to January. But it’s really been online since November of last year.

Luckily the WayBack Machine has, as yet, no record of it.

At that time TCL had a mostly-black theme with content that induced hemorrhaging from the eyeballs and projectile vomiting. Pretty awful stuff. Back then I didn’t have the experience or the sphincteric relaxation to do anything interesting, really. Had anyone suggested I run a shocking exposé on what really happens at the annual Santa Claus Parade, I would’ve balked!

But in mid-November I attended Illuminite, the annual Christmas lighting of Yonge-Dundas Square. It was a cold and rainy November night, but the show went on anyway. Try as I might, I wasn’t able to muscle my way up to the front of the crowd, and it was in that soggy moment of inspiration that I remembered it was Toronto City Life. Most of these people were alive, so they qualified. I was getting all bent out of shape for nothing!

That epiphany, and the attitudinal adjustment that came with it, carried me through all the way around to this year’s event. Good thing too because there were a lot more people this time around:

Most of the show, consisting of fire, sparks, trampolines, and dancing, took place at the far end of the square. There was a lot of loud music that, more often than not, descended into a raucous noise that in no way said season’s greetings to me. Eventually, the same spooky music I remember from last year came on as the fire dancers wound their way across the square toward the stage I’d plunked myself behind:

The dancers paraded around on stage in wintry white and silver, twirling fiery objects and having pyrotechnics go off behind them as if to say, “here’s the last blast of warmth you’re getting for the next six months”:

The audience were close enough that one slip and the girl in the red hood got a face full of fire. Now if that’s not a reason to go see something live, I don’t know what is. The fireworks were pretty scary too:

Behind the dancers was the reason for the whole display, the tree.

Nostalgia aside, I want to go on record as saying it’s great that the city doesn’t use a live tree. But what they chose instead is … not quite there yet.

I mean, obviously they were going for a theme because someone went to the bother of creating some Christmas light bears. But while nice, they and the tree seem more appropriate on someone’s 80s-themed holiday lawn than in the Square.

I also remember these things not quite making it to Christmas last year before a chunk of the lights had been broken, stolen, or had burned out. They’re a great photo-op and ideal swine flu vector, but unfortunately they don’t last:

Don’t get me wrong, Illuminite will always hold a special place in my heart because of the sopping awakening it gave me. In a way, it lived up to its name. But with the number of people packed into the square this year, I think they’ll need to come up with something a little less centralized; performances in small pockets all over the square, that kind of thing. And do something about that tree while they’re at it. Next to the longest street in the world, it doesn’t look very impressive.

I’ll do the official whoop-up for TCL in January, but I’m still happy I managed to last a year. And wouldn’t you know it, someone completed the loop on Saturday night by asking me if I was a journalist. I’ve now been asked that same question in every season. The circle of life is complete. Hakuna matata!

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To begin with, I completely missed Halloween. My hemorrhagic fever (I cut myself shaving) not only cost me my opportunity for cheap chocolate, but I didn’t even get to see my brobro’s costume. I asked my younger sis to send me a pic but that may or may not come to pass. May lady Fate smile on us.

Next came that Daylight Saving Time fiasco.

Today when I stepped out for a much-needed haircut, I was met with stark darkness:

I thought the entire point of D.S.T. was to save our daylight hours, not destroy them completely! Thanks a lot, Mr. Hudson. (shifty Kiwi, of course!)

And now, with the half-price Halloween candies still hanging around on shelves, all manner of Christmas gaudiness is blasting everyone in the face. Don’t we still have Rememberance Day? And what about U.S. Thanksgiving? I mean, it’s in the wrong month, but I say live and let eat turkey. Where’s the harm? Why you gotta get people all worked up and credit cardy?

I know, I know; it’s nothing new, but it still manages to somehow surprise me every year. This year the shock was somewhat mitigated by the general classiness that some retailers chose to adopt. For example, the Hudson’s Bay Company (no relation), chose to forgo the neon, abstract, tree-like constructs they’ve been sporting since the eighties in favour of more classic window displays:

Isn’t that nice? I figure if it’s going to be cold outside and I’m being forced to spend my non-existent money on garbage (gifts) I wouldn’t buy at any other time of the year, I don’t need to stare at the Bay’s rendition of a profitable holiday season. I believe they’re on my wavelength because not a thing in these displays is for sale; just for gawkin’:

The couplets that accompany the windows talk mostly about some fat guy with a remote shop where he forces slave labourers to produce “gifts” for his own self-aggrandizement; not my idea of yuletide joy. Guess that’s a corporate Christmas for ya!

Despite the dictatorial overtones, however, I’m glad that the Bay is trying to take Christmas back to something a bit more soulful. Earlier this year they re-opened up The Room on the third floor of the store to sell couture women’s clothing, once again in a style that’s reminiscent of something a bit grander:

People questioned the logic behind this move in the middle of the current financial storm, but I think it has more to do with looking forward, giving hope, and at least getting people to stand in front of the windows. Hopefully, when they have some cash, they’ll come and spend it here. With my own current financial micro-climate, I’m glad that the penny-pinching miser appears to be gaining some traction with retailers. I’ll remember them when I make my millions.

Tomorrow I’m taking a trip to the east end to meet with my RRSP guy; I get to find out how much my only investment’s tanked. I probably won’t be doing any shopping at the Bay any time soon, but at least I get to stare at the windows. From the cold, dark street. *shiver*

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