Category: Social Media

Christmas and the Annual Idiot

I love Christmas.  I love everything about it.  I love Santa and the reindeer, jingle bells, mistletoe, the baby Jesus and the Wise Men – everything.  I like the crowds and the bitchin’ and the music in the malls.  I even tolerate that stupid little drummer boy – the first 500 times, anyway.  It’s all too cool but I’m an old-fashioned guy, so I like the older traditions best.  That’s why, every year, I wait, in uncontrollable anticipation, for one of our society’s oldest and dearest traditions — the arrival of the Annual Idiot.  For me, the arrival of the Annual Idiot actually kicks off the Christmas season.  When I was younger, the Annual Idiot was usually a school teacher with a full beard or the woman who didn’t shave her legs.  However, like most traditions, the Annual Idiot has changed over the years.  Today, the Annual Idiot could be anyone — a friend, a colleague, the guy you meet in the mall, even a family member.  Like Christmas itself, the Annual Idiot has become somewhat universal.

For those of you who haven’t figured it out yet, the Annual Idiot is that person, who, filled with the spirit of “I’m Smarter than You Are” (and overcome with joy at the sound of their own voice) takes it upon themselves to explain just how screwed up Christmas really is.  This can be as simple as the politically correct guy who stops you in mid “Merry Christmas” to tell you to say “Happy Holidays” because it’s more inclusive.   Or it could be the holier-than-thou woman who tells you, “Christmas is becoming just too commercialized.”   Or it could be that pompous ass who explains, “According to the fragmentary records from the Augustan period of the Roman Era, tax collection was done in July of the Julian calendar; therefore, Christ could not possibly have been born in December.”  But the one I like the best is the cynical jerk who questions the holiday itself, asking, “How did we get from the birth of the ‘so-called’ Saviour to Santa Claus and elves?  All of the things we have for this ‘so-called’ Christian holiday are really just pagan symbols, you know.”   When I hear these dulcet voices singing, I know it’s finally Christmas.  I like to take a second or two to contemplate the infinite universe and its delights before I respond, in my best little kid voice, “Sorry, I forgot.”  What these neo-fascists don’t realize is that they’re engaging in a Christmas tradition that is one of our very oldest.  Christmas bashing actually pre-dates most of what we know to be a traditional Christmas.  In truth, these modern merry morons are merely acting like our most intolerant Christian ancestors – the Puritans.  They didn’t like Christmas, either – over 400 years ago.

In Elizabethan England, Christmas was the main holiday of the year.  When good Queen Bess was on the throne, the locals really knew how to party.  First of all, Christmas lasted 12 days – the 12 days of Christmas, from the song.  Secondly, nobody went to work, so if you wanted your doublet fixed, you were out of luck until January.  What people did was roll out of bed and head for the nearest tavern.  They drank and gambled and chased women (who generally tried not to run that fast.)  They sang bawdy songs, ate, laughed, joked and then drank some more – and this went on every day.  They dressed up as supernatural creatures and animals and danced in the streets or watched the acrobats, the bear-baiting or one of Will Shakespeare’s new comedies.  It was called Topsy-Turvy time — when the servant became the master and the shepherd became the sheep.  The Elizabethans celebrated by honouring the Lord of Misrule, a local dimwit or barmaid who rode backwards on a donkey through the streets to the steps of a church or cathedral where he or she was crowned, in front of the cheering, jeering mob.  Basically, it was all one big, queen-sized debauch.  Obviously, our ancestors saw Christmas as a time to have fun, much as we do.  So it was only a matter of time before somebody tried to put a stop to it.

Enter the Puritans.  Without overstating it, the Puritans were a gang of uptight, intolerant fanatics who wanted the world to do as it was told, and they wanted to do the telling.  They were so narrow-minded they could look through a keyhole with both eyes.  They believed life was a serious business and anybody who wasn’t serious about it needed to be whipped into shape – literally.  They also believed they had all the answers, and were willing to provide them even when nobody was asking for their opinion.  Actually, they compare very well with our contemporary Christmas bashers — except the Puritans were better organized.  They looked at Christmas, circa 1570, and practically burst an internal organ.  One unnamed source wrote “There is nothing else [at Christmas] but cards, dice, tables, masking, mumming, bowling and such fooleries…”   It was clearly the work of the Devil.  As early as 1583, some churches were setting penance for “keeping the superstitious day called Yule,” and by the turn of the 16th century, the common folk were well-advised to stay off the streets after the middle of December.  The times were changing in Merrye Olde England: it was getting a lot less merry.  By the time Cromwell and his Puritan crowd actually came to power, anybody who wanted to celebrate Christmas did it at their peril, and in the privacy of their own hovel.  Within a couple of years, there was nothing much left of Christmas, and on December 24th, 1652, it was formally banned.  The proclamation read, “That no observation shall be had of the five and twentieth day of December, commonly called Christmas nor any solemnity used or exercised in churches.”  It would take Christmas just about 200 years to recover.

So you see, all those oh-so-enlightened Christmas bashing freaks who wander the earth, setting the world straight every December, are just following in the footsteps of their Puritan ancestors.  They’re actually celebrating their very own, very old Christmas tradition.  That’s why I wait for them so eagerly every year.  They’re as much a part of Christmas as Santa Claus himself.

 Wednesday: A Modern Christmas, or how Santa Claus finally came to town.

Travellers’ Advisory

Every Canadian over the age of 12 has heard this story.  It’s a rite of passage in Canada, like going to the bar the first time (legally) or getting your driver’s license.  It’s one of the things that binds us together as Canadians — like hockey and godawful cold.  Unfortunately, it’s rapidly becoming a damn lie.  I’ve heard the story hundreds of times; so have you, and it has a million variations.  Essentially, it’s this: a Canadian returns from a trip that required a passport.  They unpack their clothes, show you the flotilla of pictures and then say something like,

“We had a great time.  You’ve got to go.  The people were just wonderful.  They were a little grumpy at first, but once they found out we were Canadians, [knowing pause] they couldn’t have been nicer.”  Everybody agrees, and somebody passes the dip.

What a crock!  This may have been true back when the Travelocity Gnome was a baby, but these days, in the realm of mythology, this ranks right up there with unicorns.  Canadian tourists are becoming obnoxious – I can’t state it any plainer.  We’ve been living on our rep for years, and even that’s wearing thin.  Back in the day, we pranced around the world content in the knowledge that our maple leaf would protect us from being mistaken for Americans, and that was good enough.  Our cup of smug overflowed every time we didn’t act as jerky as our American cousins.  The legend grew in the 10 provinces that people liked us best because we treated foreigners nicely – in their own country.

Now, I’m not saying Americans have started minding their manners; I’m saying we’ve forgotten ours.  Over the last decade, I have personally witnessed an ever-widening circle of such outrageous acts of rude as to make a crack addict blush — and I don’t travel much.  The sordid details run to volumes, so let me just hit the low points.  I’ve seen a man loudly explaining the stupidity of Castro’s police state to a couple of bartenders – and half the bar – in Havana, Cuba.  In Mexico, I watched a woman negotiate the price of a bracelet in English while her husband gave the rest of the tour a detailed play-by-play as if the shopkeeper was invisible.  I’ve seen a woman in a halter top and short shorts slide her chubby little bum over the barricade inside a cathedral in France so she could get a better picture of the people praying.    Also in France, three women from Ontario, would finish their breakfast, then go back to the buffet and load enough ham, bread and cheese into their purses to feed Camp Kandahar.  These chicks were notorious; we called them the “Je m’appelle Kathys,” and when they weren’t pilfering croissants, they were showing off their French 101 by complaining.  I think the desk clerks had a standing bet every morning on which one would start beaking first.  I’m not sure, but I saw money change hands.  They weren’t backpacking college kids, either, but professional women of an age who should have known better.

Those are just a few examples, but the granddaddy of them all (so far) happened in Mexico.  A particularly drunken crew of Canucks went marauding across the beaches of the Mayan Riviera south of Cancun.  By the time they were finished, the local police had been called in once, the Federales twice, and the all-inclusive resort where they were staying refused to serve them.  To show their disdain for the local custom of sobriety, they climbed to the top of the pyramid at Chichen Itza, proudly waved the flag, dropped their pants, and took turns taking pictures.   For those unfamiliar with Chichen Itza, it’s an ancient Mayan city in the Yucatan and a Unesco Heritage Site.  It is also the second most visited archaeological location in Mexico.  Their audience was huge.  Several other Canadians in the area, including me, began telling people we were from Seattle.  Ironic isn’t it?

Canada - Designated Area

Cheap airfares and a renewed sense of patriotism have combined with this super myth that Canadians are automatically liked wherever they go: it’s a perfect storm.  We’ve become loud and proud, but we still cling to the belief that everybody loves us just because we’re Canadian.  Then, back home we congratulate each other on the accomplishment – reinforcing the myth.

Here’s a news flash: you’re a tourist, one of many.  The people in the places you go to can’t complain.  They have to put up with you because their livelihood depends on it.  I don’t care how quaint the village is or how close you get to the local culture, those folks have to shut-up and take it or they might be out of a job.  Of course they smile; they’re in the service industry.  Whether they think you’re a nitwit or not, depends entirely on your behaviour.  So when you’re planning this year’s winter get-away to the fun and sun, here are a few tips that will make everybody’s life a little easier.

1 – When you’re sitting around the bed and breakfast complaining about the hired help, you need to remember two things: 1) the person standing there probably speaks English and 2) she’s not deaf.

2 – Tim Horton’s is a local establishment, so when you go to a busy restaurant, order a Double-double and laugh like you’ve been possessed by demons, the natives don’t get the joke — no matter how many times you repeat it.

3 – While it’s true that Canadian liquor laws were written in the 12th century, other countries are different.  You don’t have to drink it all.  They’re not going to take it away.

4 – People around the world may be poor and/or downtrodden by our standards, but you don’t have to point it out to them.  It’s embarrassing.

5 – Don’t tip in Canadian money – it’s not cute.

6 – Yes, swearing is de rigueur in Canadian society, but in other parts of the world, those colourful verbs, nouns and adjectives are considered crude — especially when you shout them in public places.

7 – Keep your clothes on.

8 – Whereas bargaining is part of some local cultures arguing over the price is not.  Know the difference.

9 – Just because you’re not particularly religious, other people might be, and those buildings are places of worship; show some respect.

10 – Okay, okay, okay, you’re not American.  They get it.

Finally, there’s one thing that would make me particularly happy.   If you absolutely insist on acting like a jackass, leave our flag at home.

Go ahead: touch my junk

Recently an airline passenger didn’t feel it was necessary to be groped by airport security and he told them so — in no uncertain terms.  I think what he said was “If you touch my junk I’ll charge you with sexual assault,” or something like that.  Suddenly, the whole security/rights debate was on again.  Let me make a couple of things perfectly clear concerning air travel.  I do not want to get blown up at 30 thousand feet, and I want my government to protect me up there.  Therefore, I am willing to help them do it.  For example, I think it is reasonable to identify yourself before you get on an airplane.  I also think it is reasonable that sharp objects and things that go boom are prohibited from airplanes.  I think it is reasonable to go through a metal detector and/or be searched before boarding an airplane.  I think these are just prudent precautions that everyone should take before getting into an oversized, airtight aluminum tube with a bunch of strangers.  I have nothing against my fellow passengers, but when I’m speeding through the sky, I think trust is an overrated concept.  Having said that, I would also like to know what sorry sack of stupid is in charge of airport security.

I love the art of travel.  Everything about it breathes adventure.  If I ever won the lottery, I would walk into British Airways with a stack of 20s and say, “Just tell me when it’s gone.”

However, at the risk of stating the obvious, air travel is really not as pleasant as it used to be.  There’s nothing wrong with the friendly skies or the airlines that fly in them.  They’re pretty much the same as they always were — average movies, mystery food and a complimentary crying baby – all part of the experience.   It’s the train wreck (oops!) they’re calling security that’s ruining it for me.

First of all, I don’t feel safe.  The last time I went through security at YVR (Vancouver) I thought I was watching an amateur theatrical troupe performing The Bourne Identity.  The person at the baggage scanner looked like she was checking groceries at Safeway.  The woman snooping through my backpack didn’t have her glasses on, and the roly-poly guy with the gun couldn’t have caught Betty White in a footrace (no offence, Betty.)  If it wasn’t so serious, it would have been funny.

Unfortunately, it is serious.  There are people out there trying to kill me.  I can theorize and chatter all day about why, but does it really matter?  I have paid huge dinero in taxes, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask that my government return the favour and at least give me the illusion of safety when I decide to fling myself through the stratosphere.  Or better still: why not actually make it safe?

 The problem is the people in charge of security are acting like a bunch of nomadic tribesmen chasing the rain.  Every time they see a cloud, they run to it. Every new avenue of attack produces yet another set of procedures, restrictions and devices.  We can’t go on like this indefinitely.  Eventually, we’re all going to be getting on the plane naked.  Personally, I don’t care.  If somebody wants to feel my junk, let him go ahead.  I would even submit to a cavity search if there was an ironclad guarantee that my cavity and I would arrive at our destination intact.  But there is no guarantee, so keep your hands to yourself.  By the way, you might want to change those little blue gloves every once in a while: I don’t know where they’ve been.  I wouldn’t mind getting pinched, poked and prodded by teams of semi-trained farmers, so much, if it did any good.  It doesn’t.

Airport security and their minions are hunting the wrong thing.  They’re searching for weapons when they should be looking for terrorists — who are a hell of a lot easier to find.  I’ll grant you that keeping guns, knives and explosive devices off airplanes is a #1 priority.  However, until terrorists perfect a Star Trek style transporter, somebody’s got to be carrying that crap around with them.  That person — whoever he or she is — is going to be stuck in the airport for the same length of time as I am.  They are going to have to go through ever-narrowing gates to get to my plane, just like I do.  And each of those gates is going to have a variety of personnel gawking at them.  There are always going to be new and better devices that can kill me, but people haven’t changed that much since Eve discovered the recipe for applesauce.  Technology is a wonderful friend, but security is a people business.  We need to concentrate on finding the people who wish to do me harm, not the things they bring with them.

Let me make a couple of suggestions on how to do that.  We need to get some people who are willing to conduct themselves in a professional manner.  We need to train them to be more than just junk feelers.    We need to motivate them: after all, they’re on the frontline of the War on Terror.  We need to give them tons of professional help.  Finally we need to pay them as professionals – minimum wage plus tips doesn’t cut it.  In the end, they won’t be running around looking for a needle in a haystack; they’ll be preventing the guy from putting the needle there in the first place.