Fête accompli

by RAF KATIGBAK

Okay, so maybe the Christmas Blues are total bullshit; studies show that suicide rates don’t go up any more during the holidays than any other time of year (although they are more likely to happen early in the week and less on weekends—which makes you think twice about that “I Hate Mondays” mug your aunt has), but still, I can’t help getting all frosty-eyed this time of year. Maybe it’s because 2008 is coming to a close and past regrets come creeping in like the mould on last year’s eggnog that’s still in my fridge. “Maybe I should have given my friend a lift to the emergency room last week…” or “Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed that old lady out of my way and yelled ‘Rape!’ because I saw her eyeing the last box of blueberry Eggos at the grocery store.”

Perhaps it’s the wistful feeling of quiet contemplation that happens as the snow settles like a blanket over the city, but I start feeling nostalgic. Not necessarily for the friends or family that I have not talked to since last holiday, but for DJing.

Yup, that’s right. Around this time of year, I kinda miss DJing. Not the “art” of DJing because, let’s face it, that’s kind of a joke. You’d basically have to be a complete moron to not be able to play one song after another. Sure, there is some thought involved, like having decent taste in music and not playing shit that is too different from each other but just different enough, but really, the idea of paying some guy from the Netherlands $50,000 to play two hours of trance music is completely ludicrous to me.

Note that I’m also not talking about missing DJing in terms of “turntablism,” that thankfully short-lived music scene that involved a bunch of nerds moving a record back and forth on a record player. Have you ever actually been to a DMC competition? It’s basically the least sexy event ever. It’s basically a giant sausage party where guys with turntable graphics and Bape hoodies talk like they’re watching gymnastics: “Ooooh! Did you see that routine?! Son did a reverse triple-crab-flare into a reverse twiddle fader scribble!” Look, if I wanted to hear annoying scritch-scritch-scratching for three hours, I’d forget my cat on the balcony again.

No, the thing I miss most about DJing this time of year is working at Christmas parties. Everyone knows that office parties are awesome. Rocking out with your workmates builds a sense of community and togetherness that can’t be beat! Sure, socializing with officemates can be a little daunting at first, so as an ice breaker, I like to start the night with some brain teasers like movie trivia, and sometimes I even do a few rounds of “Pass the Orange With Your Chin,” and by the end everyone is laughing and a sense of togetherness and fun will be established….NOT!

Okay, the truth is that office parties are the worst. Imagine being stuck in a place and forced to socialize with a bunch of people you have really nothing in common with other than your day-to-day. Oh wait, there is a place—it’s called prison. But at least in prison there’s lots of felching, reach-arounds and stick ’n’ poke tattoos that read “Property of Slim.” Office parties are basically hell on Earth. Take a bunch of people who have nothing in common except work (which most people hate to begin with) and then make them “relax” and “have fun” together, add alcohol, sit back and watch the awkwardness begin.

Maybe it’s a morbid fascination, like that sweet, stinging cringing while you wait for the inevitable social trainwreck. I should know. When I worked at an upscale boutique hotel, I used to DJ about 10 Christmas parties a year. And every year, shit would go down. It got so familiar that I created an office party drinking game to keep myself un-bored.

Take a shot if:

A woman in accounting is dressed unusually sexy and tries to get a younger exec to grind with her (take two shots if it’s to any song by Shakira).

A thick-necked guy gets really hammered and tells a co-worker what he really thinks of him.

A couple who has been flirtatious all year are caught making out in the corner (take another shot for every person that goes, “OMG did you see them!?” And take three shots if they leave together).

After one too many Flaming Sambuca shots, the usually quiet guy in IT positions his tie as a Rambo headband and suddenly becomes the life of the party (drink three extra shots if he does the Pee-Wee Herman Dance or tries to start a conga line).

Some douchebag takes his shirt off.

Feel free to add more rules by e-mailing me.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA