| Merry Fucking Christmas |
[Dec. 21st, 2003|06:01 pm]
Young Geoffrey
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At about a quarter of seven Saturday morning, I brazenly tossed a cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and barged in to the Tim Horton's that skulks in the North-West corner of the building in which I waste my life so as to pay for my high-speed internet connection (never mind that I work for an internet company; Allstream doesn't offer resential ADSL).
Even at that early hour, Timmie's (as that storied chain is known to the cognoscenti) had a line-up, but not so long as to stop me from taking my place in it. As the counter-woman handed me my extral-large, double-milk, half-sugar aphrodisiac, I shuddered as I became of the music assaulting the restaurant: How in the world, I wondered, do they (the staff) put up with it?
Put up with what, Gentle Reader?
Christmas carrols. That month and a half "serenade" of saccarine schmaltz that yearly assaults the auditory canals of every North American who must venture forth from his or her bed. No doubt those poor bastards behind the counter have been suffering through that sound-track for the past month, with still almost a week to go before they can "enjoy" hearing Van Morrison's "Brown Eye-Girl" twice a day, every day, until next Christmas.
And yet ... And yet I grinned as I cradled my steaming coffee on the way out. With the exception of a couple of songs played by CBC Radio 1's idio-in-desidence, Jeck Goods, on "Fresh Air" that morning, I realized that - a mere 5 days before Christmas Day itself, that was my first encounter with Christmas carrols this year.
Somehow I have managed to avoid almost all of it - the songs, the shopping, the stress ... Best. Christmas. Ever.
(And I'll get to spend some time with my neice on Boxing Day; maybe life isn't so bad after all.) |
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