Tales From The Music Industry: Christmas Party

by Justin Anderson

It's almost Christmas, but it doesn't feel like it. The magazine I work for is preparing to host its first ever Christmas party. I've been in the music business for a few months now, long enough to know that when it comes to partying, these industry types DO NOT fuck around. Things start off pretty slow. I've never really been on the hosting end of a party before, so I didn't realize that for the first little bit all you do is wait around for people to start showing up. This part is not that much fun. Small talk is made with the volunteer bar staff: the boyfriend of one of my bosses (the female one), a struggling local musician. He's being backed up by a too-pretty, Barbie-looking blonde girl. She maybe saves me from alcohol poisoning later.

An hour or two after the part starts, the party starts. It's late afternoon, as it's the absolute last day people are around before Christmas, and there are about three bigger, better, sexier parties later tonight. It's still a little awkward, as nobody in the business really knows me yet, and I'm not, as people say, a particularly "nice" person.

One of my co-workers tells me that my editor has "something planned." My editor, I am about to find out, is notorious for his drunken antics. Barbie the bartender will save me from him later.

This is about when my editor shows up. In a Santa Claus costume. Already drunk. With a sign on his chest that says "Photos with Drunk Santa - $5." He soon flips it over to reveal the reverse of the sign.

"Photos with Drunk, Pantsless Santa - $10."

My editor fucking rules.

---

A local all-girl band shows up. They're kinda hot, but incredibly snotty. It's still relatively early, but I'm thinking maybe I'll get a little drunker and try to hit on all of them at once, see what happens.

I meet a guy, a friend of one of my co-workers, the gayest man I've ever met in my life. We're talking limp-wristed, swishy, Cher-listening, talk-to-the-hand gay here. Of course, he maintains he's straight, but his fashion sense is suspiciously keen.

Cut to the bathroom. I've broken the seal and am pissing for the fifth time in 45 minutes. I notice the gay/not-gay guy in the stall next to me.

"Hey," he says to me.

All I can think of is getting the hell out of this bathroom. I may be lonely and drunk, but I'm pretty sure I'm not intrested.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Do you burn?"

"Sorry?"

"Do you burn? Smoke up?"

". . ."

(I'm drunk, remember.)

"Do you smoke pot?"

"Oh. Um. Yes. Yes I do."

HELLO STUDIO CITY!

---

I end up at a table with the magazine's accountant. She's very loudly talking about cocaine.

"Well, the thing is with cocaine, is that it makes you GO CRAZY," she's saying maybe a little too loud.

"I remember when I was getting fucked up on coke all the time," she yells. "It was great. Sometimes I really miss it. Sometimes I want to duck into the bathroom and do some lines. Sometimes I really miss it. Hahahahahahahahahaha."

When she stops working for us in six months, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Also at my table is a former MuchMusic VJ. He was one of the first VJs in Canada, and the lone black face at the station for many years. He used to write a column for the magazine on urban music, but not anymore. He was one of the coolest guys on TV when I was 13.

My drunken editor introduces me as "the new urban guy at the magazine," urban being the word industry people use when they mean "black." White people don't mind making shitloads of money from black culture, they just don't like it phrased that way, I've learned.

"Well, actually, I'm only half urban," I reply. I stole that joke from The Larry Sanders Show, but nobody ever gets it.

"Um," says the former VJ.

I can't remember what happens next.

---

The party's coming to a close. There's another party across town that everyone seems to be going to, being held by some management company. It's invite-only, but everyone's going to crash. I'm too drunk, stoned and tired to go anywhere else, so I decide to just head home. I head over to the bar to bid adieu to Drunk Santa my female boss. I interrupt Santa groping my other boss to wish everyone a merry Christmas, I'll see them back at work in a few weeks, etc.

"It's nine o'clock!" says my drunk, incredulous editor.

"I've been drinking since three. If I have another drink I'm going to throw up all over myself. And I live an hour away."

"Come on, you can crash at my place. I live up the street from here."

"Uh, no thanks. Enjoy the rest of the night."

"Have one more drink, at least."

"I'm really not much of a drinker, and I've had more than enough already."

"Come on."

"Dude, I can't. I can barely stand."

"You're having one more drink or you're fired."

Now, I know you're probably thinking, just have the goddamn drink, you fucking pussy. But I get hangovers the night of, not the following morning, and at this point being jobless is looking good compared to more booze.

"You can't be serious, man."

"I'm serious." I look in his eyes. I really think he might be serious.

"Two shots," he says to Barbie.

Suddenly my other boss needs Santa's attention for something. Barbie pours one shot of whiskey, one shot of cranberry juice, and winks at me. So does my boss. It's like a James Bond movie.

"Here you go," says the bartender.

"Alright, drink up," says Santa.

"Fine," I say, slamming my shot glass on the bar. "Happy?"

"Yeah," he says. "So listen, thanks for all the work you've done this year."

"Hey, it's my pleasure," I reply, genuinely flattered. "I do my best."

My editor looks at me. "That's your best? Jeez. Well, enjoy your holiday."

"Um. You too."