Christmas. It may be Hallmark, and I may be the furthest thing from a follower of Christ you’ll find walking down the streets of Toronto, but I feel the need… nay, the urge to share with all of you why Christmas is, has always been and will forever remain my most favourite time of year.
I’ve never been a huge music buff. To my dad’s chagrin, I really can’t tell the difference between Pink Floyd, the Who or any other band whose name I recognize but whose songs I couldn’t name if you paid me a million bucks. Maybe I just don’t have the ear for it… or maybe I just have really lame taste in music. Both are likely possibilities, but whatever the reason, I was the kid who blared “Breakfast with the Beatles” from the radio on CHUM FM every Saturday morning. Why? Because that is the bread and butter that I was fed growing up. Every weekend (and week day) was filled with songs from the Monkees, the Beatles, the crazy Swedes from Abba or some British rock band that my dad had listened to himself growing up. It was bliss pulling up on Sunday’s after being dragged to Sunday school to see my shirtless father rocking out to the radio and cleaning the car. For him, this was nirvana. Not the band.