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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I had been depending on the bitter cold to stay in place; I needed liquids to be able to flash-freeze on contact with surfaces. Unfortunately, a major thaw settled over the city and I ended up with nothing more than slush and puddles, and my originally planned topic ran down the storm drain along with everything else.

I was moping along until, my eye being drawn by a reflected glint of sunlight, I spotted something just as worthy of an in-depth article: a filthy snowbank, slowly disintegrating in the gentle afternoon sun, dislodging it’s treasures onto the sidewalk.

It occurred to me that the layers of the grimy snow (and more importantly their contents) were, in a sense, a sort of stratified time capsule much like the earth embankments of traditional archeological digs. Each line represented a period in which it snowed sufficiently to engulf any lost or discarded articles.

We could (more or less) correlate these layers’ contents to actual calendar days and trace the history of the pile.  A whole two months’ worth of history just lay there in the dirty ice waiting to be uncovered! It became clear that the breadth and width of the project would be staggering. Cataloging each find would prove exceedingly time consuming,  so I had to satisfy myself with a cursory examination, analysis, and much plagiarized research [bet you didn't know this was science!], results of which are listed here for your leisurely perusal.

Winter Clothing

This is by far the most common seasonal urban artifact. Most items show evidence of having fallen from pockets or been carelessly cast off, but there are occasional areas where this theory breaks down as entire matching ensembles have been discovered. More rarely, an occasional parka makes an appearance as do understandably discarded ear muffs.

The evidence clearly demonstrates past cultures’ penchant for disposable outerwear. We can only guess at what other perversions these “people” had.

Footwear

This ancient remnant is most often found in the Muntadhar al-Zaidi era strata of archeological sites. Most puzzling to scholars has been the almost complete absence of the second shoe or boot, leading some researchers to posit that humans during this era (roughly sixty days ago) were single-legged and travelled by means of hopping. Scientists have yet to figure out how boots or shoes would become so easily dislodged, especially in mid-winter. However, there is a general consensus that having the ability to always buy shoes at half price would make the items less valuable and more likely to be tossed aside.

Appliances

Large, unwieldy behemoths were apparently the order of the day during the last days of the Joe The Plummer era. Boffins [the thesaurus does indeed have many entries in this area] believe that the generation’s influx of new appliances  (informally named the “Christmas” era) produced an overabundance of crappy late-eighties housewares that required immediate disposal. While such artifacts may be seen within almost all strata, truly ancient representations appear mainly around college dorms and student housing. Recent discoveries, including the monstrous “Rotisserie” (pictured left) have cast doubt on the veracity of previous findings. Suggestions to explain such shocking discoveries include:

• The guys responsible for disposing of it were really lazy.
• The guys responsible for disposing of it got high before work.
• Both of the above.

Perhaps future investigations will reveal the true answer.

Excrement

Canine feces (or “dog shit” as they’re called by researchers) are often found at the lowest-most layers of the strata. At this advanced age, artifacts suffer from significant bleaching and aging, producing brittle and fragile specimens. In fact, any casual passerby may carelessly dismiss “dog shit” for brittle sugar sticks or, in more extreme cases of decay, icing sugar.

One would be well advised to not to attempt to taste such findings, however, but instead to deliver them to experts for analysis. Flaming paper bags are the preferred mode of delivery.

Cigarettes

This is a refreshingly familiar relic to most readers. In fact, you might be sucking on one right now. That cool menthol breeze has wafted through every layer of history, leaving it’s indelible mark on each one. Despite the ever-present coughing, wheezing, and horking of loogies by enthusiasts, this timeless pastime continues to be a big hit with city residents and visitors alike.

Perhaps most surprising is how little each new era has changed the ubiquitous little c-stick. At each stratum one can find butts in various states of decomposition, from the just-smoked to the nicotine-stain-with-a-filter, but all with roughly the same dimensions.

For a long time this similarity puzzled investigators until one brilliant discovery last Wednesday. Roaming bands of bums were seen to be smoking discarded cigarettes down to the nub resulting in the same length as all archeological butts. Surely this is no coincidence.

Natural Resources

These are found mostly in the bottom-most layer of sites. Typical components include various caches of petro-chemical pools, pre-formed aluminum deposits, nickel disks, and ancient flora and fauna  (e.g. rats, potted plants, etc.)

Being blocked by a deeper layer of sedimentary concrete, little else is known beyond this time period.

The Future of S.U.A.

I’m happy to have brought you this glimpse at what, I’m sure you’ll agree, is a fascinating subject. Future seasonal urban archeology is bound to be a rewarding field for any young up-and-comer that is able to hold back their bile. Each new season offers fresh opportunities to explore the strange and disgusting refuse of months gone by, and there doesn’t seem to be any shortage of raw research materials forecast for the near future.

Perhaps, if the forecast agrees with me, that original idea I mentioned at the top will also find its way to the surface. In the meantime, be sure to separate your recyclables.

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