2002-12-23

Joe Strummer is dead. I mean, according to the laws of entropy and punk rock he should have snuffed it ages ago, but hey, it�s still sad. I would have liked to think he had at least a few more guitar-smashing years left in him. I�d bet a hundred bucks that if I turned on the radio at any random time today, I�d hear �London Calling�. I�ll probably do the honours myself and pop my old London Calling album into the stereo at some point this evening. I�m cheesy, I know. (Although �Straight to Hell, Boys� is my favourite song � don�t ask � so Combat Rock will also get its day in court. It�s going to be a big glut of gloomy punk rock nostalgia in my apartment tonight. Santa-nista!)

Also contributing to my pointed lack of goodwill today is the squalling gaggle of kids tearing around in here. Since the government is paying us to show up on Christmas Eve, you�d assume that something resembling work would make up our end of the bargain, but no dice. Those of us who haven�t dragged our hyperactive progeny to the workspace are being subjected to introductions to every snot-encrusted, whiny last one of them. It�s a festive tradition around here, and every year it makes me want to trim the tree with my own gouged-out eyeballs.

Assuming that I make it through the day without being tranquilized and buckled into restraints (unwillingly, I mean), I�m officially spending Christmas alone this year. My sister is out of town with Spank Monkey�s family, and my friends have all scattered to various locales across Canada (funny thing about Ottawa � everyone is from someplace else). Which, I�ll admit, is verging on sad and pathetic, but I�m actually looking forward to it. I�m just going to hang around in my pajamas, looking like crap, drinking tea, listening to Schumann and reading Dickens: in short, proving that even when no-one is looking, I�m a pretentious asshole.

Anyway, Merry Christmas to all, and the rest of it. Cheers.