Christmas in the Harbour (not literally)

If Christmas Eve actually did come into contact with St. John's harbour, some terrible mutant supervillain holiday would result. No one wants that, especially with Easter running amock ever since it got exposed to that gamma radiation.

Anyhoo. I drove to work even though it is 905 feet from my house to the hotel (thank you, Google Earth). I had put off leaving until it was too late to walk and be on time, and the sidewalks were that special kind of ice with cold water on top of it, so when you fall and fracture a bone you also get hypothermia to help take your mind off the pain. How considerate. Also I wish to deplete our fossil fuel reserves as quickly as possible. It's like pulling off a bandaid guys. Do your part.

The Crazy Horse, St. John's finest strip club in the category of "Back Entrance With 'No Trespassing' Sign With Angry Barking Dog Silhouette On It," was open. A dude stood on the step smoking on a cigarette. The neon 'OPEN' sign was doing that thing it does, where it goes "OPEN" and then spells "O-P-E-N" for people who need to slowly sound words out when they read.

One assumes there were ladies doing exotic dances inside and dudes there to watch them. It was 28 minutes until Christmas Day. The birth of our Lard was nigh; I imagine Mary was probably breathin' pretty heavy by this point, at least (really, the manger fable is so sanitized and clean even though the filthiness and lowness of the goings on is supposedly part of the whole mythos. Who here has actually wondered about the labour? A bloody placenta on a dungy floor? Maybe there is a short story waiting there. Or maybe someone has already written it. Our Post-Modern Age.)

I went to a United Church x-mas eve service with my Aunt and Uncle. I am complacent when it comes to soft liberal protestantism; it was interesting. Lots of singing, which I like, but many of the songs were in a difficult key so I kept dropping an octave or jumping an octave. I kept waiting for majesty and grandeur and crushing guilt, like a good Catholic, but mostly it was quite chill and low-key. I can see how this sort of thing is the spiritual bread and butter of the comfortable middle-upper class.

The congregation's children had made the story of Jesus's birth "Canadian" by having their pagent re-enact not Bethlehem, but the Huron Carol ("twas in the moon of winter-time when all the birds had fled") etc. I get nervous whenever earnest white Canadians casually appropriate indigenous culture as a placeholder for their own identity (augh! you aren't native! augh! stop putting inukshuks outside the airport!). The narrator referred to "Indians" and the costumes were more Great Plains and "there was no room in the teepee" (guys I think the Hurons had longhouses) and the language was simplified to an insulting level.

It was all surreally offensive. Surreal because their intentions were clearly so earnest and pure, like no one had taken them aside to suggest how ludicrously racist the proceedings were. Like even if someone had, the organizers would be hurt and upset and not understand what the issue was. So I couldn't build up a head of outraged steam and didn't try. It was a strange thing to witness all the same.

I wonder if anyone has ever done a nativity pagent in blackface. The Three Wise Pimps. It could work.

I hope you have had a magical Christmas. Mine has had a kind of magic so far but not the kind you see in holiday specials or hall-mark cards. It's OK, though. I've always taken what magic the world sees fit to provide me with.