Confessions of a Cidiot

Best of Cidiot, Volume 1

2009-02-03T14:00:00.003-05:00

After writing a humour column for the past few years Derek Robertson looked back and selected his favourites for a three volume best-of series, and here embedded for you is a digital copy of Volume 1.

This first volume featurs the stories Bowl-a-Drama, Boobstruck (originally article titled Rock and Tackle), Snowball Effect, Unravel Over Scrabble, Insecurity Sticker (Volume 1's cover story), and Derek's Inferno. Plus 'Ask a Cidiot' and 'What is a Cidiot?'

To read a digital copy of Volume 1 just click on the thumbnail image below.

(Note: for optimum viewing click the 'full screen' option on the tool bar above the magazine)

Read Confessions of a Cidiot - Vol. 1

Check back in a couple of weeks for Confessions of a Cidiot, Volume 2!

Volume 2 is set to feature:

- From Russia with Febreeze

- The Once and Future Pogster

- Baggage Claims

- Hanging Up is Hard to Do

- Ask a Cidiot

- The Taken Seat

- Gettin' to High off Masculinity

The Younger Woman - A Cidiot Short

2008-07-08T13:45:00.000-05:00

Mon Ex et Moi

2008-06-24T14:00:00.003-05:00

I have a habit of becoming really close friends with my ex-girlfriends, which is a little strange I know, but it just sort of happens that way. This fact alone wouldn’t be such a big deal except when you combine it with my never failing ability to say the wrong thing to my girlfriend.

I’ve got Relationship Tourette’s.

With a little to fond a look in my eye I can ruin movies, books, even entire towns for my girlfriend Amanda as my remembrance of dates gone by with … we’ll call them all Allison … lingers just a little to long.

So it didn’t help when my girlfriend discovered some photos of one ex-girlfriend, (for the sake of the story) named Allison, who wasn’t exactly dressed to go out… of the bedroom.

“What is this?” Amanda demanded.

The question what is this can have one of two meanings, either you’ve gotten her something romantic or went above and beyond on some chore that needed doing, or you’re screwed.

I hadn’t bought her anything and I certainly hadn’t been helpful without being asked, so I knew whatever she was looking at would lead to trouble.

My stomach dropped when I saw the photos. It wasn’t as though I kept them for some nefarious purpose, I forgot they existed. But here Amanda was, excavating some lost artifact of a relationship gone by, raiding some lost ark of a shoe box, a Holy Grail of trouble, a temple of doom for my relationship. It was as if some high priest of Polaroid paper had reached from the photo and ripped her still beating heart out and she responded with a short round of swearing.

“Allison! Why’d it have to be Allison?” I asked myself, before trying to pretend I didn’t know who this girl was or how I came to own pictures of her. It was a tactic that’d last all of three seconds before my bluff would be called.

The argument quickly degenerated into a discussion over the definition of half naked, an argument I was not aided on by my old friend Wikipedia who seemed to disregard the whole encyclopedic approach to the question and instead opted to strike up more of a The Stranger from The Big Lebowski sort of tone, informing us that “the quantity of skin exposed is not the determining criterion, it's the "quality" that counts” for defining half naked.

My ex's name was icily received from then on, yet somehow my name managed to avoid a similar fate in Amanda's mind. We moved forward.

Yet for some reason I still had the misguided belief that Amanda and Allison would somehow hit it off and become best friends. If only they could meet they'd realize what kindred spirits they were and soon there'd be no more tension! The three of us could go for coffee regularly, or maybe the two girls would go for a day of shopping. We could have dinner parties and Allison could bring the wine, who knows maybe the three of us would all have a little to much of that wine and then...

Right, sorry. Back to the real world.

I had somehow convinced Amanda to come meet Allison over dinner at this restaurant. You may have thought this proposition would've been a battle to get Amanda to agree to, a difficult series of negotiations that could've helped me fill several paragraphs. Sadly she agreed to meet Allison immediately.

My efforts to prepare for the night were a different story. If I spent an extra minute then normal staring into the cotton void of my closet my motives were to be suspect. Apparently my desire to look less like Tom Hanks circa the second act of Cast Away signaled I was trying to hard.

Had I reached for the aftershave I surely would've found myself sleeping on the couch.

When your girlfriend meets your ex-girlfriend its like two worlds colliding, like the planet Theia being flung through space and smacking straight into the side of the Earth. If things don't go just right it could spell utter destruction. If by some astrological miracle though the two collide and it goes well, who knows, you may have inseparable friends. Like Theia becoming the Earth's moon.

That's the desired outcome, I thought as I drove to the restaurant. Allison mooning Amanda.

That probably could've been phrased better.

I was worrying more and more. What if the thing about the photos came up? If hair pulling and biting broke out amongst them would it be inappropriate for me to keep eating? If you knew that I had had to skip lunch earlier that day would you be more understanding if I did? Or what if on the flip side they started to get along a little to well. They started gossiping about me, Allison recounting everything she hated about dating me. Maybe that'd suddenly make Amanda see me in a new late, maybe suddenly the value of Ex would equal 2.

I had decided the whole plan was a mistake, but had only settled on this after we were saying our hello's to Allison.

I sat there, waiting for the first signs of disaster. Yet there were none.

In fact it almost seemed as though the two girls were hitting it off, trading horror stories about work and laughing.

By the time our meals arrived we were in a comfortable conversational rhythm. Things were truly going perfect, and at this rate by the time the waiter brought the bill we'd all be complaining about the price of gas with one another over brunch every Sunday.

Some wine was uncorked.

"This really is going well isn't it?" I said, deciding to launch into a director's commentary on the evening.

"Its funny, here we are with candle light and wine and I've had this fantasy for awhile now that starts off just like this."

"Oh?" my girlfriend asks warily.

"Yeah you know, the three of us all have a little to much wine and we end up coming back to my place and one of us says jokingly..."

I made the mistake of finishing this thought once, I'll try to avoid repeating the error.

In life like in astronomy it's not the threats you see coming that are the risk, its the ones you don't.

For me, my ever forgiving Amanda and the dozen or so Allison's before her, it's my Relationship Tourette’s.

Slippery Rock, PA

2008-06-17T14:00:00.006-05:00

I enjoy a good road trip, especially one that can include nights in hotels with American television.

A few weeks ago I was on such a trip, this story picking up with me deep in the heart of Pennsylvania. I've got a surprising amount of Pennsylvania stories, but this one involves very little. Just me driving by a sign for a town named Slippery Rock.

Slippery Rock. What a name.

It amused me as I drove by, my mind filling with images of just how a town could get such a name.

I picture a young village being built, people excitedly moving into their homes as the villages founder sat at his desk, quill in hand and he scribbled out potential names for the town. He needed the perfect one, the kind of name that would inspire the villages' citizens to do great thing. The kind of name that would bring them pride. The kind of name that would see this village grow to one of America's largest cities.

He took his job seriously, sitting at that desk day after day as he burnt away the midnight oil at an alarming pace. It probably would've been smart not to burn the midnight oil during the day, but he had more important things on his mind, so burn it did.

Then one day he had come up with it! The perfect name, one that was classy, that demanded respect, one that captured the spirit of its citizens and the geography around them.

He called all the villagers together, dozens and dozens gathered down by the river. To address them all the village's founder stood up on a nearby rock and he began to speak to them.

"We gather on this momentous occasion to name this beotch of a burg."

Okay, this may not be a direct quote.

"And folks, I have thought long and hard," he continued, "and today I proclaim that our little town shall forever be known as..."

Now the rock that this man had stood upon, being so close to the rivers splashing waves was a little damp, and it was at this particularly inopportune moment that he decided to shift his weight, causing a foot to give way.

He began to loose his balance, on the verge of falling and embarrassing himself. Luckily a panicked flail of his arms had saved him this humility. But still he'd lost his balance and was not looking to graceful, so he begins to laugh it off.

"Slippery rock," he chuckled.

Suddenly the crowd began to cheer. Hats were thrown, a fiddler randomly starts a'fiddlin' and everyone begins celebrating.

Confused the village's founder stands upon the rock trying to understand what was going on.

Then slowly he realizes, he had just proclaimed the town to be forever known as Slippery Rock.

Desperate he tries to tell nearby revelers the real name he had carefully crafted but they are to busy celebrating.

That's how I imagined it went down, but a fact check on this story informs me that it is not the case.

Here's the story those Slippery Rockians would have you believe.

Natives went and attacked Fort Pitt, another unfortunate victim of bad naming. This attack sort of frustrated the folks living in the fort, so they decided to chase the natives. As they did they found themselves crossing a river. They were gaining ground on the group of natives, closing in. But the floor of the river was muddy. This didn't cause the natives any problems, but the Americans in hot pursuit began slipping and sliding in the river, giving the natives a perfect opportunity to get away.

So I guess as a slap in the face people living nearby said, "Oh wow! You soldiers sure are something! In fact to honour your amazing soldering we're going to rename our town after you!"

Missing the sarcasm one soldier probably asked, "really? Like 4th Battalion City or something like that?"

"Oh no, no, no. We were thinking Slippery Rock." And then the town laughed in their face.

Think about that, the soldiers screwed up and a town was renamed after their screw up.

What if your town was renamed after a particularly bad mistake you made?

I believe this is how Enterprise, Alabama got its name. You know, after a guy's girlfriend stumbled across his shockingly large collection of Star Trek Enterprise collectibles, and don't even get me started on the embarrassing incident that led to Spanish Fork, Utah.

I don't live in a small town myself, so I feel spared such a fate as thousands of embarrassing things happen every minute in this city I am sure. I did go to college in a small town though, and I can't help but imagine if a poor choice on my part had been immortalized by the locals.

I once had one to many Canadian Killer Kool-aids, a drink consisting of vodka, amaretto, melon liqueur and cranberry juice as it turns out. The problems included a 'drunk dial' that night, and then a sleeping in and missing the call time I had to be on set for a cooking show... I was directing.

The point of this story was supposed to be thank goodness they didn't rename the town Killer Kool-aid, Ontario but now that I think about it that actually sounds really cool.

Belleville, Ontario you may have this idea, you're welcome... but get on it before Jonestown, Guyana beats you to the punch.

Bowl-A-Drama

2008-06-10T15:08:00.001-05:00

The trip didn't get off to a good start.

I was in the middle of directing my first feature film when my good friend, and former manager, came to the small town I was in to visit.

We met up at a diner on the towns main street. It wasn't the fun kind of diner, you know the '50s themed restaurant that can serve you a quality milkshake and food dripping with Americana (sometimes mistaken for grease). This was the other style of diner, the one frequented by men proudly donning John Deer hats who are served by bitter middle-aged women who cigarettes tucked behind the ear and who use the term 'hun' like a period.

The trip didn't get off to a good start as one of these bitter middle-aged servers dumped a pot of coffee all over Dan's lap.

Yet this isn't a story about that, this is a story about what happened afterwards.

We were looking for something to do that night, and a small town doesn't exactly overwhelm you with options when almost everything but the strip club closes at 8pm (6 on weekends!)

We could've stayed at my place and watched an old Paul Reiser stand-up comedy VHS tape I had discovered in town earlier that week, but with the crazy girl I was living with around it'd be hard to listen to Reiser's observations on finding a seat in a movie theater over top of said crazy girl trying to interpret her latest dream.

"Like okay, I get that me being naked at a marina means that maybe like I'll be caught off guard, or somethin', but like why would you and the unicorn die in that car bomb?"

So Dan and I settled on going out to the one place every small town has, or you know, other then a Wal-Mart... we decided to go bowling.

Bowling, I mean it doesn't get more simple then that. You go, rent out some communal shoes that seem to always be some strange mix of red and black with neon green laces, then throw a ball at some pins for forty five minutes. A simple plan. Well, any other night.

See not long before my sister Emily had gotten married and Dan had been there. During the course of the reception the photographer, Ben, an extremely nice man with a limited working knowledge of English had approached Dan and I and asked me if I would like a photo with 'your partner'.

What did he mean? Like a business partner? Did he use the word partner instead of friend? Or did he think we were dating? Like partner partner, like Ellen and Elton (not together, that'd be a little to hetro). And if this man, who barely knew us thought this, then what did everyone else think?

We were pretty good friends, we did a lot of things together, he was even here at my sisters wedding.

Normally we were both pretty secure in our sexuality, I mean hell I had had a guy send me a drink at a bar and I didn't even send it back, though this may have been less my security in my sexuality and more my Scottish penny pinching. But still, I didn't send it back.

But something about the way the photographer said it shook us. Maybe I was giving people the wrong impression, I did cry pretty hard when Tom Hanks' volleyball floated away and that Halloween costume my first year of college probably wasn't helping anything.

So there we were, two guys on a Saturday night going out to a bowling alley. Maybe we were continuing to send the wrong idea to people?

I tried calling up some girls to get them to join us.

No luck, none I knew in town were free.

So reluctantly before my roommate began remembering another detail of her dream (always involving death, sex, or nudity) Dan and I climbed into the back of a cab alone and headed towards the lanes.

“So,” Dan started talking overly loud, “Suzy said she’s meeting us there?”

“Yeah,” I replied, picking up on what he’s doing, “She picked up Julie and is meeting us at the alley.”

We began taking turns elaborating on our plans with 'the girls' creating a fictional back story normally reserved for the geeky kid at elementary school who comes back after summer with a story of the girl he totally kissed at camp.

Now there were three of us in the conversation, the cab driver jumping in. We talked about our girlfriends who were waiting for us at the bowling alley and then about his ex-wife. We bonded with that cabbie, and it was clear there'd be no mistaking us for a couple of guys out on the town looking for a gay old time.

The parking lot seemed oddly empty, but we just attributed that to the fact that well... this is bowling.

We were in for a surprise though as we walked through the door and found the empty, dark, bowling lanes staring back at us.

A scruffy looking man with a ponytail stood behind the shoe rental desk, polishing the counter.

“Are you closed?” I asked, hoping maybe they were just trying to conserve power.

“Yup,” he croaked.

I looked at my watch, 7:30.

“Oh, when do you guys close?”

“Whenever people stop showing up,” he replied.

“Well, we showed up?”

He looked at us, then back down at the counter.

“Sorry.” He continued scrubbing. I had mis-underestimated the nature of a small town again, the Cidiot in me assuming a place people go for entertainment would be open past dusk on a Saturday night.

Dan and I turned to leave but stopped dead in our tracks when we noticed the taxi was still sitting outside, the driver doing some paperwork.

Dan opened the door, ready to head for the cab when it hit me.

“Wait!” I shouted as though all life on this planet depended on him not going through that door.

“We told him we were meeting two girls here. We can’t just leave alone, we’ll look like idiots!”

Dan and I stood there, looking at the cab driver filling out his paperwork. He was just sitting there, happily writing stuff down, as though he was just screwing with us, waiting to call our bluff.

“What if we call the cab company and ask for the taxi a few blocks away? Chances are they’ll send him, right?” suggested Dan.

It was genius, we’d send the driver a few blocks away, call back and get another cab to pick us up before the other cabbie even realizes there was no one to pick up. It was perfect; we were home free… until the plan didn’t work.

“We could walk back to my place?” I suggested. A snowstorm kicked in as if on cue.

It was at that point that pony-tail decided to lock up for the night. Looking at one another, sighing, Dan and I sheepishly climbed into the cab.

“How was bowling?” asked the driver, smiling ear to ear. We had a quiet ride home, then settled in for Paul Resier and his crazy early 90s clothing.

Oh and I believe it was decided by 'crazy girl' around the middle of Resier's act that the unicorn in the dream being blown up symbolized the death of her innocence and me being blown up, well that was because I hadn't vacuumed like I said I would apparently.

Those Dangerous Games

2008-06-03T14:00:00.000-05:00

There are politicians who like to preach that we should ban video games, burn them, protect our stupid minds from them because if we don't we'll go on a rampage of carjacking, killing prostitutes, and randomly beating guys on the street with a baseball bat in hopes glowing money will pop out of them.

Grand Theft Auto I am looking at you.

I didn't believe you political fringe types, I thought maybe you just realized you spend a lot of time and money to get elected only to discover you don't really believe in anything and so desperate, you looked for the easiest target to go after. Porn was taken by the Junior Representative from Lackawanna County, and the movie industry was under attack from a Senator out of Utah, so you thought you'd settle for video games.

That's what I thought, I did. Until I realized you were right! It's hit me!

You my dear fear mongering friend of Fox News were right, its happened to me!

One day I am immersed in several hours of Mario Kart Wii (Rainbow Road I will make you mine!) then the next I am driving my Saturn, minding my own business. Suddenly this guy starts riding my tail, he's all up behind me and I don't know what to do.

Perhaps if I was a level headed video game free individual I would have just let him go about his tailgating. Perhaps.

But no, I did something so horrible, so shameful it is hard to admit.

I finished the banana I was eating, rolled down my window and then... then... yes, that's right I did it! I through the banana peel back at his car.

But it gets worse, my slippery slide into mindless, easily influenced video gamer continued.

I don't even want to tell you what happened, but lets just say the turtle I promised my little sister I'd take to the vet, well it never made it.

So you were right and I was wrong. We can not trust video games, we as humans are so stupid. How could I ever have doubted you?

I have to end this here, have to rush to the pet store before my sister gets out of school. I'm kind of cutting it close, but I figure if I pop a few mushrooms it should give me the speed boost I need to make it in time.

HIATUS

2008-03-18T14:00:00.001-05:00

Confessions of a Cidiot will be on hiatus from March 18th until June 3rd, when it will begin again.

Over the next few weeks while Cidiot is off why not come out and see
Derek Robertson's stand-up live, or reread old Cidiots.

Check back in June for an exciting new batch of stories
from the misadventure that is Derek.

Water, Water Everywhere

2008-03-11T14:00:00.002-05:00

I remember when I used to be a free range water drinker, able to roam where ever I liked with the thought in the back of my young mind that no matter where I end up a sip of water was never far away.

I could turn on a tap and fill up a glass, saddle up to a drinking fountain, or on hot summer days there was nothing more satisfying then sticking your face in the path of a garden hose and opening wide.

Oh to be a free range water drinker, had it not been so natural it would've felt like the sweet life.

And then came bottled water. Well technically I wasn't there for the birth of bottled water, that credit goes to the Roman Empire, but they lacked polyethylene terephtalate, or recyclable plastic as those of us who didn't spend a small fortune on diploma collecting call it.

Mineral water was already gaining fans but with the birth of polyethylene terephtalate suddenly we could choose between glacial, spring, well, or repackaged tap water.

At first it was a big joke, a punch line to jokes about Hollywood and the rich, but then slowly more and more of us started trading in the tap for the 24 pack, and suddenly we ceased to be free range becoming tied down to water coolers, fridges, and store shelves.

And now its hard to go back. The idea of raising garden hose to mouth on a warm summers day seems akin to a feast of roasted plague rats, bird flu marinated chickens, and a big juicy mad cow steak. It's a miracle I survived my youth.

When I am at a persons house and they offer a glass of water, if their hand passes the fridge and heads towards the sink I feel the need to inquire, "tap water? Really? What am I to you? Some common dish? A utensil?"

Clearly my water domestication is well ingrained in me.

That brings me to last night.

I was a bit thirsty and in need of a nice cool glass of water. I headed for the kitchen, obviously the only place in a home one can find water suited for anything other then cleaning your body. Passing the metal basin in the middle of the counter where dishes queue for their turn in the dish washer I headed straight for the water cooler.

My cool water dispensing friend, usually full and bubbly, looked alarmingly empty. At first I hoped it was just an optical illusion, perhaps the light bouncing off the plastic container in a funny way. I studied the water cooler, circling it, looking at it from all sides, from above, below... it still seemed kind of empty.

Maybe there was some hidden reservoir within the base of the cooler, some oasis where water sits patiently as it waits for me to lap it up.

Cautiously I put my cup under the dispenser, pushed the button, and waited to be pleasantly surprised.

A trickle of water came out, just enough to evaporate by the time the cup hits my lips.

"Why are you doing this water cooler?" I asked.

It didn't seem to have an explanation.

Thirsty I didn't know what to do. I needed water, but where could I find it?

I considered running out to a 24-hour grocery store and buying some, but it was 2 AM and wearing pants no longer felt like an option. Would I have to go thirsty? Suffer through the night? It certainly felt like it.

Then I remembered my youth, I recalled the garden hoses, taps, and those public water dispensing things that seemed as quaint as a phone booth.

I eyed the metal dish basin suspiciously.

Could I? Should I? Would I wake up with a nasty case of the Norwalk?

I was pretty thirsty, a little tired, and just crazy enough to try.

I walked over to the sink and turned it on. It felt hotter then drinking water should.

Remembering how to operate the contraption it occurred to me I had to adjust the temperature.

"Hey Water Cooler, can you believe this sink? It doesn't even know how to cool a drink to proper drinking standard!"

Filling my glass I cautiously raised it to my mouth, fearful of the fact that no soda pop or chocolate bar corporation had certified my beverage.

I closed my eyes, crossed my fingers... almost lost my grip on the cup, uncrossed my fingers, and then had a sip.

And you know it wasn't bad.

But there isn't anyway I'd kick my bottled water habit and return to the ways of free range sipping.

I remember though when the concept of paying for a bottle of water seemed laughable. Those crazy Californians we thought.

You know what they are up to these days in LA? Designer Oxygen. The last time I was down there I stopped in at an Oxygen Bar where I could sample the latest scents like fresh cut grass or grapefruit for a dollar a minute. I hear they are even starting to sell the stuff in cans. I was going to make a joke here, but it just occurred to me you hear about those air borne virus' all the time, maybe Pepsi Brand Oxygen wouldn't be so bad...

Stuck in the Middle with You

2008-03-04T14:00:00.008-05:00

Look I like winter as much as the next sane, rational human being (which is not at all), but isn't it enough already? Just when you've dug out from the last snowfall, before you can so much as get the hot chocolate on a burner, its coming down again around here.

Have you noticed how quiet Al Gore gets during the winter? The last thing you want is some Nobel Peace Prize/inventor of the Internet going around saying the world is getting to warm when icicles are forming off your eye lids.

I like Al Gore, I like to imagine he would've made a good president, but here's a good Al Gore related exercise to occupy your mind when you're are shoveling for the fifth time in one day: ask yourself what exactly did he do to win a Nobel PEACE prize? How is talking about something everyone else is talking about bringing peace to anyone?

"What? Mr. Gore says green house gases are going to cause the polar ice caps to melt? Let's lay down our weapons men!"

We all just went a little Al Gore crazy last year, there wasn't an award we couldn't give him! Nobel prizes and Oscars and an Emmy, why I'm pretty sure he also received the WNBA's Rookie of the Year.

Say what you want about his defense, but his drive to the net has all the ladies scrambling.

Right, I digress, I was doing what most of my fellow Canadians like to do, complain about the winter.

I usually try to rise above complaining about such a predictable thing as a season, but a few days ago winter turned on me, and now the gloves (or mittens) are off.

See I had just performed stand-up comedy that night, and it felt good, felt like a really good show. So after all the post show partying my girlfriend and I were driving back to my place.

Did I mention I was feeling good?

It was about 2 AM and the adrenaline was still coursing through my body from the flight or fight response that is standing alone on a stage to a room full of people looking at you as you try to make them laugh. And on this night I did, so maybe I didn't make the right decision, maybe I was just a little to cocky.

I decided to take a short cut on my way home.

I cut through this alley which immediately was a bad idea. Ice and hardened snow gave my shocks a work out. If we weren't bouncing we were skidding.

But I knew this alley and I knew we'd come out on the other side of it quickly.

I knew this alley.

Really.

I did...

...I thought.

Okay, so I couldn't find where the lane way exited back onto the other street. I could've sworn I should've already found it, but here I was still bouncing along.

Then I saw it, the break in garages and back yard fences, my sweet escape.

I turned down it without giving it a second thought.

I probably should've given it a second thought.

Quickly it became clear that this was not part of the public lane way, this was a family's driveway. A family who didn't really practice the art of shoveling their driveway.

Here I was driving right up alongside their house, middle of the night, my headlights bouncing in their windows, but I couldn't turn back now. I was committed. I had to just keep on going.

Within moments I was stuck fast, the battle between snow and tire ringing in a knock out. I wasn't moving anywhere.

I sat there in a strangers driveway contemplating my options. I could wake the people in the house up and explain I had somehow found myself stuck on their property.

No, it really was to cold to stand outside and wait for someone to answer their door. Maybe, I figured, I could just abandon my car and come back for it in the spring.

Nah, they might notice it.

I could go all Oprah on this family's ass.

"Look under your iced over lawn chairs! It's keys to a five year old car!"

Nah, then I'd have to do that whole 'walking' thing again. Things were hopeless, I was doomed. I sat there wallowing in my own defeat.

It was sometime between me imagining how I'd stick car keys to the under side of a chaise lounge and sobbing quietly into my steering wheel that my trusty girlfriend Amanda, got out and pushed the car free.

Yes, she may wear the pants in this relationship, but I like to think my butt looks cute in a skirt.

Not So Sharp a Shooter

2008-02-26T14:00:00.001-05:00

I had this job interview over at Fort York to be one of those army reenactors.

I did, I did. And as I was going in for the interview I realized just how big an idiot I was. I was wearing my glasses, hardly historically accurate. So I tuck them away in my pocket, I mean yes okay sure I am a little blind without them on. A little blind. I mean I can make out shapes.

So the woman calls me and I sit down, making sure to look straight ahead at the blurry shape asking me questions.

And I’m doing amazing, nailing questions left and right, left and right.

About fifteen minutes into the interview I realize the shape I’ve been staring at is the women’s breasts.

This now explain the five questions in a row she’s fired at me about sexual harassment.

I figure I’ve blown this one. But there’s still the second portion of the interview, where I am led out into the field to follow the woman’s commands to load and fire this reenactment musket.

I consider putting on the glasses, but I decide I don’t want the woman to think I was a pervert and a liar.

I start following the instructions, loading the gun. The woman yells for me to aim, I bring the gun up. The bayonet on the end of the weapon connects with a shape.

I pray it’s not the woman’s breasts.

So I’ve just stabbed a small maple tree, which is a bit of a relief to learn the wet stuff dripping off the gun is just sap.

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Pundits, Scandals, and a Facebook News Feed

2008-02-12T14:00:00.002-05:00

I am on a weeks hiatus from my comedy show (Third Banana), so naturally with a week off I have to be hit by a bad cold. It's given me a lot of time to sit around and watch 24 hour news channels and marvel at the lengths they go to fill each one of those hours.

I've also been filling commercial breaks checking Facebook, following my 'news feed' of what friends are up to. Combined in some sick head cold of a hallucinogenic imagination I began to wonder what it'd be like if all our lives were followed by a 24 hour news network...

Jackson Cooper: We're going to take you now to a story that is just breaking.

GFX: An elaborate animated sequence takes over half our television with the words "Situation Chat Up"

Jackson Cooper: Derek has been sighted at a local video store engaged in what some witnesses describe as flirting. For more we turn to DNN reporter Judy Owen, joining us via phone.

Jackson: Judy you are on the scene right now can describe what is going on around you?

Judy: Hello Jackson, I'm here at the site of the video store. It's quiet here now but just moments ago witnesses believe they witnessed Derek flirting with a video store clerk.

Jackson: A video store clerk? Now this is something new! Can you confirm this?

Judy: No, no not at all, but I overheard someone saying it and I've been asked to update you on this situation, so I thought I'd report it.

Jackson: Thank you Judy. Well some fascinating new information on Situation Chat Up, we'll be staying with this as it continues to unfold. But first, joining us now our regular panel of Derek Robertson experts. Lisa Sax, former Derek dater.

Lisa: Hi Jackson.

Jackson: Shelley Schultz, an adviser to Derek's girlfriend Amanda.

Shelley: Evening Jackson.

Jackson: And Ed O'Neill, token University professor.

Ed: Good to be back Jackson.

Jackson: We're glad to have your irrelevant opinion join us again too Ed, but first Lisa, is Derek chatting up a video sales jockey?

Lisa: I think its a little early for us to make that sort of judgment, if we...

Shelley: A little early? Unidentified witnesses may have seen it happen, and you know Jackson, I think the question we should be asking is not what happened, but how is this going to impact Derek's girlfriend?

Ed: You know it's interesting...

Lisa: I am sorry Shelley, but I've got a long history with Derek and this is just not credible.

Ed: If I could add, what is interesting is...

Shelley: Slut.

Lisa: Excuse me?

Jackson: Sorry, I need to jump in here, Ed, what are your thoughts?

Ed: What is interesting is that if we use history as a guide we can point to a number of times when Derek went out of his way to try and make sales clerks laugh, for instance the infamous 2005 American Eagle incident.

Shelley: Which makes todays situation all the more alarming.

Lisa: I think we need to remember during the 2005 American Eagle incident the sales clerk convinced Derek to buy a pink polo shirt, so who was playing who? Who Jackson was the real victim?

Ed: It's true Jackson, he did look like popular pink ball shaped Nintendo character Kirby.

Shelley: I don't think we should get distracted from the issues here...

Jackson: I'm sorry, we're going to have to cut away for a moment, I am getting word someone was uploaded a video of what we've dubbed Situation Chat Up.

A grainy cell phone video plays of two shapes having mumbled conversation before we cut back to Jackson.

Jackson: This story is blowing wide open, so now lets check back in with our pundits, Ed?

Ed: You know Jackson, we have to look at the bigger picture, digital downloads and rentals are on the rise, video stores are quickly becoming outdated, will history remember this as the day Derek was left behind?

Jackson: Another excellently crafted off topic question to fill the void while we wait for real facts to fill this newscast.

Ed: They don't go giving out the title of professor to everyone.

Everyone laughs awkwardly.

Jackson: We're going to continue to monitor this breaking news story, but first let's check in with some other stories we are following.

Jackson turns to another camera.

Jackson: As laundry goes unchecked for another day, is Derek on the verge of running a clean clothes deficit?

William Shakespeare once wrote "All the world's a stage, yadda, yadda, yadda..." you've heard it a million times, quoted by seemingly everyone. But maybe in the 21st Century things are different. With the internet merging with our obsession for information we begin to follow the lives of those around us more as a viewer then as a player. Perhaps all the world is a newscast, and all the men and women merely micro celebrities, they have their scandals and their fluff pieces, and one man in his time plays out many prime time stories, his segments being seven ages.

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The Taken Seat

2008-02-05T14:00:00.000-05:00

Some time had passed since 'Kool-Aid Gate' and my girlfriend Amanda thought it was safe to go back to a movie theater with me. She had several drink based conditions but still, she hesitantly agreed to go with me.

Boy, was that a mistake.

Now I am a man of principals, and I don't mean your standard "thou shalt not kill" or "thou shall not commit adultery"... don't get me wrong, I generally adhere to these principals, although come on, who hasn't done something unholy on the Sabbath?

Sure it bugs me when my bike gets stolen or someone lies to me, but these aren't really the principals I fight for.

Here's one that I do fight for: say I have a keen ability to read what time a movie starts and a general knack of arriving before this published time. Say this super human ability allows me to get prime seats in the theater, ones that you yourself may covet.

Now lets say you don't trust what is written on the Internet, in newspapers, what is listed on the marquee and printed up on your tickets. Let's say you don't believe in time. So you arrive just barely before the movie starts.

Naturally I would think your mind would say "I was late, clearly I don't deserve as good a seats as that strapping curly haired Adonis."

Let me stop and explain for a second, by Adonis I am not referring to my manly good lucks, but rather my ability to inspire women to plant vegetables, and ultimately my inevitable future death on the tusks of a wild bore... but I could see how you would make this mistake.

Now continuing with my point...

For some reason a vast number of people don't think this way, they believe that they should have prime seating, and so, even though there are a lot of other sitting options open and available to them, they choose to sit next to me.

When there are other seat choices, I should not be forced to share an arm rest and leg room with you. And yet I sit there quietly, not saying a word.

That is until the other day when I decided to stand up for my principals! To become the Dark Knight of Obscure Social Taboos! Defender of the anal retentive, voice of the neurotic!

I do hope you read that last paragraph with the enthusiasm my exclamation marks instructed you to give it. As the author I am instructing you to go back and re-read it if you failed to properly the last time around.

So like I was saying, this small group of people decide to sit in the row myself and Amanda in, no big deal, until the guy at the end of the group makes a motion for my seat.

Again normally I would let this slide and just be secretly bitter for the rest of the night, but for some reason I felt inspired on this night.

I quickly put my popcorn down in the seat before he could make his move.

Caught off guard he looked at me, trying to size me up.

"Is someone sitting there?" he asked.

"Yeah, yeah someone is," I said before I could even think about the words I was saying.

"Really?" I must've had a bad poker face, he wasn't buying it at all.

"Yeah, really, someone is," I don't cut and run on my lies.

Backing down the guy led his group to one of the wide open rows closer to the screen. Perhaps it was wrong of me to deny this man the seat he sought. Perhaps, but with empty rows why should we have to cram together?

Karma looked like it'd catch up to me in the parking lot after the movie. Throughout the previews the man who had been denied my 'taken' seat looked back at me, seeing if someone was going to sit in that chair.

I should mention that the guy was tough looking, and by tough I mean street tough, not shrunken scrotum needle jabbing weight lifter tough. Admittedly he wasn't the best choice to test the whole 'standing up for principals' policy on.

"He kind of looks like he wants to stab you on the way to the car," my girlfriend whispered to me.

I was starting to get a little worried.

That's when a group of young teenage girls walked into the theater, and naturally, they wanted to sit next to me.

Fearing for my life and needing someone to occupy the 'taken' chair I didn't object.

But now I needed to sell this thing.

Whenever the tough and dejected seat suitor turned back to me, which was far to often, I would turn to the young girl beside me, trying to fake like we knew each other, like we were talking, like maybe, just maybe we were friends.

The only possible logic behind my friendship with this girl would be a) that I was an online predator, or b) that I had fathered her at the ripe old age of eight. Yet I felt my life was riding on me selling this, and so I tried.

"Ehauh" I mumbled in her direction, over exaggerating hand and mouth movements for my audience a few rows up.

The girl looked at me, not sure whether to feel sorry for my apparent turrets, or to ready her mace.

Once the movie got started the seat suitor seemed to lose interest in me, and I breathed a sigh of relief, that is until the movie came to an end.

Practically knocking over my girlfriend I tried rushing to exit with the teenage girls, trying to look like I was following their story about a trip to a mall.

I can't say I sold the role, I can't say my girlfriend was to impressed, but I can tell you Babydoll's are 40% of from now until Tuesday, and I can tell you I'll think twice before defending my principals again.

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The Art of (Advising) Discretion

2008-01-29T14:00:00.000-05:00

I love when you’re watching television and they'll run a warning before the show, you know "Warning: This show contains violence and mature subject matter. Viewer discretion is advised."

Viewer discretion is advised... well thank you, thank you Mr. TV Network for advising me to use my discretion, a word that means to make my own choices. I'm really glad you are giving me permission to do this, you know, because I've been sitting on my couch mindlessly wishing you'd let me make my own decisions in life, so thank you for letting me know for the next hour that I can.

Of course what the network is saying is there might be something coming up that will scare you or jar your senses in some way, and that you may not want to watch.

This particular warning came last night as I sat down to watch one of those movies full of death at the hands of swords, guns, and the like. Basically the kind of overblown Hollywood popcorn flick that makes you scratch your head at who this is disturbing or offending. The only answer I can think of to this question is, "someone whose loved one was killed by an evil, eye patch wearing, reincarnated samurai." If this describes you, let me extend my heartfelt sympathy for your loss, I'm sure the one robotic armed samurai with the unexplainable Scottish accent will one day get what he deserves.

For the rest of us I find it hard to believe this violence demands our discretion, so let’s sit back and be mindless like Hollywood intended.

What's ironic is that certain commercials don't run with such a warning, like "The following commercial will make you feel really guilty for not adopting a village full of African orphans, viewer discretion is advised."

I was thinking about this late last night when I was innocently watching my movie on television, sitting at my home in Toronto when a Workplace Safety and Insurance Board of Ontario ad (WSIB) came on. For those of you from the area you’ll probably already know what I am talking about, for the rest of you I'll explain.

The Workplace Safety people have begun running ads whose messages are all "there are no accidents". They begin with a person doing a job; say a construction worker welding or a retail employee climbing a ladder to stock shelves. As they do their job they will look straight into the camera and tell us details of their life like "on the weekend I'll be getting married, but I won't be walking down the aisle, because..." and then they'll explain what’s wrong with the situation.

Then suddenly, in a flash of carnage, an accident (sorry WSIB I've got to say there is such a thing as accidents) will happen in gruesomely real detail.

Last night it was a chef who slipped on a wet floor while carrying a big pot of boiling water. She slams her head off the stove before colliding with the floor, the scolding water burning her limp body.

My mouth was still left gaping in shock (something I swore only happens in cartoons) as we faded back into the film of pyrotechnics and computerized guts, for which my discretion was to be used on.

My point is Hollywood's brand of violence and destruction doesn't really disturb me because for some reason I feel pretty secure genetically mutated (to cure cancer... somehow?) sharks won't chomp me to bits. Yet these workplace safety ads scare and disturb me to no end. It's the small accidents in life, those random things that are chilling.

In fact thanks to WSIB I have begun compiling a list of jobs I will never, ever do. I just cross my fingers they never run a commercial on improperly grounded microphone's killing comedians.

So run your redundant discretion warnings not before staged fights between rich actors, but before the truly freighting and upsetting. Why warn me about a car chase involving stunt men when you spring on me real life pictures of dead people in the news every day?

It reminds me of this show I was addicted to back in college called City Confidential. The concept of this true life documentary is that at the beginning of the show they'd introduce you to some big city or small town in America. They gave the history of the place, profiled the locals, some of the areas 'hot spots' like local bars or restaurants. They'd engulf you in this feeling of "what a great place," and then suddenly they'd rip it out from right under you.

See City Confidential is the story not only of the city, but a mystery that captivated the place. And like most captivating mysteries, Confidential's always revolved around murder.

What ultimately made the show was narrator Paul Winfield. His voice was one part wise old man simply telling you a story, and yet another part was laced with this chillingly playful tone that causes every turn of phrase to make your skin crawl.

Lines played on the location, "...and a mysterious death that had Newport caught up in a story with more twists and turns than the corridors of a seventy room seaside castle." Often still they'd simply use a play on words that'd be humourous if it weren't for the subject matter, and even when dealing with grizzly murder there'd always be a contradiction in the level of playfulness in the narration that’d be creepy and powerful. A lot is lost when it just sits before you on a page, but all the same, we cannot forget the ultimate example, "actually, the police had already ruled out Satan as a suspect."

They were real people, the exact same type who dot our lives, living in neighbourhoods eerily similar to ours, and their stories of events crashing down into murder were again, all too real.

And this is why when I walk in a forest late at night or a dark basement it’s not the themes from Psycho or Halloween I hear in my mind, it's Paul Winfield, narrating my every move.

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This Column is Not Password Protected

2008-01-22T14:00:00.000-05:00

I am not going to lie, I am a bit forgetful. In fact this is not even the topic I set out to write about, but after several hours of brainstorming on the other topic I went to the fridge to suck back some pineapple juice and totally forgot the purpose of this column.

It may have been about anniversaries.

Nope, no that was something else I was supposed to remember from a few of weeks ago.

Phone numbers, dates, and addresses forget it. I am not going to be showing up at your party, I have probably already forgotten the address you had me write down.

Okay fine, you got me, I didn’t write it down, are you kidding me? The amount of time it takes to find a pen with ink, not worth it. Besides even if I remembered the address do you really think I will remember what it relates to?

The problem is the world is becoming less and less forgiving of the forgetful. It seems like these days every time I click my mouse I am being bombarded with a request for five separate passwords, two security authorizations and my favorite childhood pet’s name or I will be hauled away on charges of identity theft.

Could we take it easy with the passwords? I mean just a little? If I want to read a newspaper article online, for free, do I really need a username and password? Am I really worried about Billy from Chesapeake, Virginia stealing my identity to read about a farm worker who was attacked by a herd of pigs? No, but if he did he would find the story is not as amusing as he had been led to believe by the headline and he probably should have been focusing on the column he was due to finish.

Right, where was I.

I am not going to remember your passwords websites, I am just not. So stop asking me to set them up. In Junior High well most kids were worrying about memorizing the periodic table I was trying to figure out whether I had to turn the lock on my locker once or twice. If I can go two weeks without accessing my coat do you really think my password reminder phrase is going to speed this process along?

But your websites care, in fact they care so much they keep adding more and more security features for me to bungle my way through.

Passwords must now be made up of three lower cases letters, two upper case, four numbers, but not four numbers that can be added together to make an even number, oh and two of those lower case letters must be consonants, so long as they are not touching an uppercase vowel. Symbols are not acceptable.

Once through the password phase my bank would like me to list such tidbits as my top three favorite books, my favorite high school teacher, and whether or not I enjoy a juicy avocado. Upon entering this personal verification data the computer informed me that I am incorrect, that who I had believed to be my favorite high school teacher is not in fact the case. For the past few years the computer informed me, I had been lying to myself.

I try entering another name.

The computer will have none of this. Bold red letters have now filled my screen informing me that if I ever wish to view my money again I will now have to call a 1-800 number.

Sheepishly I call the number.

“I’ve been looked out of my online banking,” I say.

“Alright Mr. Robertson, could you tell me what your last three purchases were?”

“Uh, no… no I don’t think I can”

“What about your special four letter identity code should you be unintentionally locked out of the mainframe?”

“I’m sorry, was I drafted to the CIA and forgot about it?” I ask.

The man informs me I will have to walk down to my bank branch in person to sort this out. And so I strap on my shoes and head down to that building attached to the ATM.

“Good to see you again Mr. Robertson, let me guess, locked out of your online banking?” the teller says warmly.

“Afraid so,” I mumble. The teller types some things into her computer.

“Alright just enter your new password here sir,” she says, handing me a keypad. I do as told, trying to remember what a consonant is.

“Going to remember it this time Mr. Robertson?”

“I’ve got this one right here Rose,” I reply tapping the top of my head.

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow Mr. Robertson,” she says with a sigh.

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A Cidiot's Guide to Gas Prices

2008-01-15T14:00:00.000-05:00

So the cost of a barrel of oil hit its all time high and I was paying for it out the nose at the gas pumps. I mean I was literally paying out the nose, let me warn you people, have a firm grip of the twenty dollar bill when you go to snort cocaine.

No, I don’t really do cocaine… I might, if I weren’t so poor from paying my petroleum dealer around the corner.

A lot of you are asking why? And by 'why' I don't mean why did I make that last joke if it wasn’t based on a firm bed of truth, but rather why are we paying more for gas now then we ever did?

Well folks, good news, I’ve come up with a theory:

They are having trouble finding the crude oil.

See a lot of the gas we know and love comes from places like Texas, Alberta, and Saudi Arabia.

Now in Texas a little thing known as Creationism has been catching on. Creationism is the belief that all life and the universe it exists in were created as is at the birth of time, and nothing has changed since.

Some in Texas say Creationism should be taught in schools instead of evolution. This argument has less to do with what these people believe in, and more because it’s a lot easier to get a good mark in grade ten science when you're not memorizing terms like “Thermotogales” and “Halophiles” and instead can score an A+ by circling “God did it” all the way through your multiple choice quiz.

I should note that a Halophile is a creature adapted to thriving in conditions with an extremely high concentration of salt; it is not someone who has a strange and unstoppable turn on for guys who play Halo. To any of my more nerdy readers I am sorry, I did not mean to get your hopes up about the chance of getting a date to this years prom.

Although you know ironically many Halo players live off an inordinate amount of salty snacks.

But I digress.

Alberta, that flat and fun loving Canadian province also seems to be catching Creationist fever, they are opening a museum dedicated to it.

Not to be outdone Saudi Arabia is getting into Islamic Creationism. It’s similar to Christian Creationism, although notably with less arguments ending in “what would Jesus do/think/say?”

But what does all this have to do with gas prices?

Come on people, do I have to spell it out for you? I sure hope not, because spelling things out isn't exactly my strong suit... well, unless accompanied by spell check.

Any creationist will tell you fossils are dead animals who couldn’t get on board Noah’s Ark before the flood came, just going to show they should’ve booked their tickets through Travelocity.

Now fossils, when soaked in mud and sediment and left to sit for a few million years will produce gasoline, if you like the sound of this recipe I recommend Rachael Ray's zooplankton recipe found in her book, “30 Millennium Meals.”

Unfortunately we are told Noah’s flood happened much more recently then four hundred million years ago, so Creationists can’t rightfully believe in gasoline.

Therefore there are a lot of Creationist oil companies having trouble finding any gas out there.

“How’d drilling go today?”

“Came up dry, just a bunch of global flood victim bones.”

And so you see, we are faced with mass shortages of petroleum.

Really? Is this true?

No, but that’s okay! We’re fed all sorts of lines about why oil is so much. Increased demand from third world countries, wars, hedge funds buying and selling oil contracts, a declining US dollar, one lone oil platform catching on fire off the Gulf of Mexico… are these excuses really more plausible?

Now where did I leave my rolled up twenty…

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Oh No!

2008-01-08T14:00:00.000-05:00

From time to time I make poor decisions a much smarter man would avoid, decisions that almost always lead me to end up on the receiving end of my girlfriend's frustration.

Not long ago my girlfriend Amanda and I were at the movie theater. Now before I go on I am not sure if you know this about me but I'm a sucker for the up sale at the movie theater. You might be asking yourself, why would I know this about you? Well I don't know really, it just seems like every time I walk into a theater every teenage popcorn merchant can sense it.

So I start off saying the word "Medium", medium popcorn, medium drink. Then out of nowhere, the hook comes.

"For just a dollar extra you can get the large?"

Sold.

I arrived wanting a small thirst quencher, I leave with enough sugary liquid to satisfy the thirst of a small African country... and bring about a diabetes epidemic among the locals.

This night was no different, I settled in with my girlfriend, a mountain of popcorn, and a cup that holds ten times more liquid then your bladder. We sat there and watched the commercials. And by commercials I don't mean product placement within the movie, or the trailers for the upcoming movie, or the commercials for products they show before the trailers. I'm talking about the pre-commercial commercials they show you while you wait for all of the other ads to start.

So we're sitting there and it's about five minutes to showtime (showtime: the time the first batch of commercials end and the lights dim for the official commercials) and my girlfriend goes to grab the drink.

Now what happened next was not my fault in any way and even if the video surfaces from the kid in the back row who was playing with his camera phone, even if it comes to light like a grainy Zapruder Film of the incident... there would be no proof to implement me.

Amanda reached for the cup. The condensation causing her grip to slip slightly as she lifted it from the cup holder, sliding straight into the lid. As her hand went up the lid decided it didn't want to carry on this journey. It slid off, her hand lost its grip.... the entire drink, bright red Kool-Aid went splashing down upon her lap, ice cubes clinking to the ground around her feet.

Amanda's face looked like she had just been dealt a Tropical Punch from the Kool-Aid Man himself. The flavour had been Cherry, but my guess from the look of it all over her brand new white shirt, that it wasn't Kool-Aid's 'Invisible Cherry' flavour. I'm sure to Amanda it was their 'Changin' Cherry', though I'd like to think of it as 'Rock-a-dile Red'. Yes, there's no pun to Rock-a-dile Red, but when else will I ever get to say it? Try it, right now, we'll wait to continue the story. Come on, I'm giving you the one opportunity in your life to say Rock-a-dile Red.

Done? Okay, so my girlfriend was soaked, sticky, and stained red from shirt to skin with the stuff. But as you recall it wasn't my fault. So how did I end up in trouble?

The laughing probably didn't help, the "Oh Yeah!" Kool-Aid impressions may not have aided my cause, but it was the next words out of my mouth that probably did me in...

"We've got like two minutes before the movie starts. We'll move down like a seat, you run to the washroom, dry yourself off a bit. I'll go, get us a refill of Kool-Aid."

"A refill?" she asks.

"Yeah, I mean, with popcorn we're going to need a drink."

"Derek, you expect me to stay here? After this?"

I did. Apparently we didn't see eye to eye.

It was a quiet drive home, and not a "Oh yeah!" was heard that night.

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Welcome to 2008

2008-01-01T14:00:00.000-05:00

Hello, and welcome to 2008. I'm very glad you could join us, I know it hasn't been easy and unless you are one of those babies featured in Baby Genius' (and the sequel that begged the question, "wait, what? Someone watched the first Baby Genius movie?") it's been a long road to get here.

This is the one time of year where we sort of stop and reflect over the past year, then look forward and wonder what the new year will have in store for us. This is of course right after you find yourself peer pressured to shot gun your beer, and slightly before you vomit in that cute girls purse.

And no, let me be the first to say 2008 will not include getting her number.

So what will happen in 2008? You and I may be new here to this year, but fiction has been taking their audiences here for decades.

The Manchurian Candidate, a film released in 2004 warns us that a manipulative mother and some shadowy corporation might attempt to get said mother's son elected as Vice President. There's this whole other thing, kind of important I suppose, about Denzel Washington being a brain washed assassin, but really the only thing I can focus on is why the Vice President? I mean sure as VP you can go around shooting friends in the face and have no one so much as bat an eye, but still, why not aim for say... the guy who runs the whole country? The Manchurian Candidate proves once and for all that big, hulking corporations can't get anything done, had anyone bothered to read that memo Stienberg from the Evil Schemes and Planning Department (ESPD) sent out they would've known President is the most powerful position... president.

There's also Isaac Asimov's 1955 story entitled Franchise, where elections in the United States are a thing of the past. Instead a computer goes over data on everyone in the country to select the most suitable person to be President, and they are 'elected.' Now, I don't want to spook you here but Mr. Asimov's story takes a scary turn in accuracy when the entire country is plunged into anarchy when no President is chosen after months and months of running the computer. The problem, the search for the president is stopped every few minutes by Microsoft Window's Vista User Account Controls.

Feel free to quote this insane prediction to friends, just don't mention you heard it from me.

What else can we expect from 2008? The 1987 book Intervention by Julian May tells us June 20th, 2008 humans have their first contact with aliens. Mark that on your calender now, the last thing you want is to confuse an alien with a telemarketer and prematurely hang up, thus causing humanity to never know whether we are alone in the universe or not.

This will also be the year the Soviet Union returns according to two sources, a 1996 novel (The Next War) and a 2001 video game (Ghost Recon).

And don’t forget one more date to mark in your calender, March 28^th the UN bans Hand Guns (Francis Anderson’s 1992 novel, Future Undetermined).

So 2008 is predicted to be quite the year, full of commies, aliens, US election scandals and you’ll have to face it all without your trusty handgun.

Good luck out there.

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Merry Christmas

2007-12-25T14:00:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas friends and readers, and also readers who are friends, and friends who tell me they read but really don't.

And for those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Tuesday!

I have nothing for you to read here today, so you have no excuse to avoid your family. Spend time with them. They're the only ones you got. Unless of course you are a celebrity, in which case you could adopt a whole new family from Africa in 3.5 business days.

Rock & Tackle

2007-12-18T14:00:00.000-05:00

From the fall of 2002 to the summer of 2003 SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) hit Toronto. The disease developed first in China and was then carried over via a Toronto woman who was back in China visiting her family.

Less then 20 percent of all SARS cases in Toronto were fatal, yet an even bigger fallout occurred. The city's hotel occupancy was cut in half, tour bus business' teetered on the brink of bankruptcy, and everything from shopping malls to major theater productions were hit hard.

The city was in a crisis and the economy was in trouble, enter the Rolling Stones.

Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and... those other two guys came up with a plan to headline a massive concert to help revive tourism and the economy within the city. This is where our story starts.

Let me set the stage for you, July 30th 2003. The former military base Downsview Park was played host to 500,000 audience members and fourteen bands for a day long concert.

My brother Will, our friend Dan, and my girlfriend at the time arrived at 6am.

A few hours later we were all let in, going through security checks we rushed the stage, everyone laying down blankets and beach towels to mark their little piece of the park.

The ground was littered with them, with small patches of grass between. This made leaving your blanket for any pricey refreshment or piece of merchandise a difficult maneuver.

Bounding over blankets you felt like something out of some lame, forgotten, arcade game. Atari's Blanket Dodger 3000.

If you made it over beach towels and blankets you had to face another obstacle, what we dubbed the gauntlet. A crush of people in an incredibly small corridor pushing every which way. If you were to loose your footing, as I nearly did several times, no one would see you again until the poor volunteer who is picking up empty water bottles the next day discovers your body, all smushed to a pancake like Wile E. Coyote on a work day.

So truly there was very little incentive to leave your spot under the scorching sun. Waiting some seven hours before the first act took the stage, waiting over twelve before the big ticket acts like AC DC and The Rolling Stones performed.

The monotony and sweating felt like we were part of some mass sauna sit in. We had packed lunches that were quickly disappearing simply because it was the only thing one could do.

Off in the distance, over on the other side of the stage someone had brought a beach ball, throwing it into the crowd it bounced its way around.

I watched it with fascination, suddenly feeling less judgmental of a cats strange love for a ball of string.

I waited and willed the ball to come over, to have something to do, to see how far into the crowd I could hit it, to see what way the wind would take my mighty volley.

Hours went by, but the ball never reached me.

Several feet (or five beach towels) away from us a group of guys were forming a human pyramid.

Now maybe it was a love for Egyptology, maybe one too many viewings of Bring it On, or perhaps just shear boredom from waiting six hours in the hot summer sun... we may never know for sure, but for some reason my girlfriend was compelled to join in.

"Be back in a second!" she squealed, the idea of doing something beyond controlling the rationing the last juice box bringing joy to her words.

Before I could say anything she was off. Bounding over towel and blanket alike she began claiming her way to the top of the tower of human.

She tops off the pyramid. Like an angel topping the Christmas tree. She's my angel I thought, the sunlight causing her to radiate beauty. I was simply lost in thought until...

"Take it off!" shouted someone in the crowd.

"Take it off!" joined another, and before long we were in full blown chant mode. A crowd of the countries most stoned, the countries most drunk, or simply the nations most sun burnt were all chanting for the girl on top of the pyramid, my girl, to take off her top.

Everyone is chanting, and she, the drama class geek, is soaking in the stardom, toying with the crowd. With me.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I take off running towards the pyramid.

Now I haven't put much thought into what I will do once I get there, and 'there' is fast approaching. I am only a couple of feet away, my eyes locked on my girlfriend like bull on matador. Her top is now off, and with it so am I.

My feet leave the ground as I hurl myself toward the human tower, arms spread.

What happens next I like to think of as a tackle, though onlookers may describe it as a belly flop. The human pyramid collapses like a house of cards, a mass of body parts land atop of me looking, I can only imagine, like a game of Twister gone horribly wrong.

Now somehow this made her view me as overbearing, over protective, and just plain over. As she disappeared into the gauntlet I was prepared to give chase, until I noticed that beach ball heading my way. Deciding I had waited to long not to be a part of this I braced myself, connected, and sent the ball flying into another part of the crowd.

By the time I had finished and turned around my girlfriend was swallowed by the sea of people. Yes bouncing that beach ball had cost me the ability to run after her, you know I guess we all give in to the crowd from time to time.

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The Snowball Effect

2007-12-11T14:00:00.001-05:00

I never took up skiing till I was thirteen. Call me crazy but in those thirteen years never once did I have the desire to slide two anorexic sleds to my feet and haul myself down a hill towards the awaiting snow covered pine trees.

When I was thirteen though skiing was all I could think about, for there was an upcoming school trip to the slopes, and my lack of skiing ability would not stop me.

How hard could it be right? You go down a hill from side to side, I mean it wasn’t exactly rocket science… or talking to a girl, I figured.

Just to be on the safe side though I decided I needed a lesson, and after some convincing on how important my new found career in skiing would be, my parents saw it that way too.

The lesson was a mere hour long and to my frustration we never got off the bunny hill, still I knew I was ready for bigger and faster things, for in my mind, the ski trip with my school, a mere stepping stone to the Olympics!

And so my first ski trip began with promise. I went up with a pack of friends, but within seconds of arriving at the top they had already started back down.

I on the other hand didn’t see the rush, I stood there at the top of that hill for some time, just taking in the scenery below, trying to figure out which parts of it would hurt less to crash into then the others.

Finally I started down and the scenery grew larger and larger.

It was coming closer at an alarmingly fast rate, as was one skier who had the misfortune of being in front of me.

Our skis were about to touch and as he turned to look at me, an expression reserved for serial killers and door to door Jehovah’s witnesses etched into his face. I knew I had to do something quick.

I swerved.

Next thing I knew I was in a ditch, my skis and my legs in one big knot.

Within seconds I noticed two people staring down at me from where I had fallen.

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t get up,” I said as I tried to untangle my skis.

The two began panicking and calling for help.

“No, no, it’s just my skis are all crossed and…”

They weren’t listening.

Soon I had gathered my own little audience, watching me, discussing me, taking bets on my injuries.

I was about to explain that it was just my skis… about to, till I noticed a small group of girls I went to school with had gathered. I decided paralyses might be less embarrassing then the inability to untangle myself.

It was a good theory, till the ski patrol showed up with snowmobiles and stretcher in toe.

As they went to action saving my life, I wondered when the best time would be to break the news of the mix up to them.

They were well trained, those heroes of the hills, for I was untangled in seconds and ready to be lectured.

I learnt a valuable lesson that day so many years ago… when you are out of control, let the other guy get out of YOUR way.

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Lincoln in the Audience

2007-12-04T14:00:00.000-05:00

I am down in the

United States

right now, doing what I love to do when I am in this country, explore the television offerings from the country that created the medium.

There is one trend I’ve noticed recently, a lot of shows on the History Channel have been showing different theories about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, inspired I assume by the upcoming sequel to Nicolas Cage’s film National Treasure which deals with missing pages from John Wilkes Booth’s diary.

It feels like people have gone Abraham Lincoln crazy, at least on the History Channel, VH1 isn’t exactly running ‘I Love the 1860’s’ but at least on one network Lincoln is in vogue.

The theories range from lone gun man to Confederate conspiracy, each with their very own show. So I got to thinking, why should I miss out on this bandwagon. Why can’t I have a show presenting what may have really happened to Abraham Lincoln?

So I’ve got my diligent researchers here at Cidiot to look this thing up and I now present to you my theory of what really happened the night Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, a theory which I hope the History Channel will purchase for adaptation into a two hour prime time event.

The basic facts are these: On April 14^th, 1865 President Abraham Lincoln and his wife attended the play ‘Our Amercian Cousin’. It was here that Booth snuck into the Presidential Box and shot Lincoln with a .44 caliber Derringer.

But what were Booth’s motivations? Did he act alone? These are the questions historians have set to answer for over a century.

Submitted for your approval (but more importantly for the approval of the executives at The History Channel) is one such theory. John Wilkes Booth did not set out to murder the President of the United States that fateful day. Instead he merely wanted to take in a performance of a play that was making a cultural impact.

See Booth was born to a family that lived for the theater. His father an actor, his mother an actress, he was raised on Shakespeare and breast milk… as this was a period before there was such a thing as the Gerber Baby and so William Shakespeare and breast milk had to fill a void canned baby food would eventually dominate.

Lincoln as we know also attended this performance of Our American Cousin but because of pressing Presidential business he arrived late. It’s not that he meant to be late, but when you are the leader of a country in the midst of civil war punctuality can occasionally be difficult.

And so poor Abraham Lincoln missed the beginning of the play and was forced to ask those around him in the Presidential Booth what exactly was going on.

“What did I miss?”

“Wait, who is she again?”

These were the questions reported to be whispered by Lincoln, who was by all accounts a loud whisperer, a fatal flaw that irritated many in the audience below throughout the first act.

These loud whispers bothered none more then Booth, a student of the theater who really didn’t appreciate the narrative being disturbed by the lanky man in the balcony. But what could be done? You cannot exactly shush the President of the United States.

During the intermission the President got himself caught up on who was who and why different characters were doing what they were doing. Meanwhile Booth’s girlfriend got him to calm down a little. Eyewitnesses say that had the night ended here disaster would have been diverted. But there were still two more acts in Tom Taylor’s play.

In act two the President revealed another personality quirk, something I have dubbed the Parrot Chuckle. For instance when the character of Lord Dundreary (the 19^th Century Biff Tannen) delivered the mixed up aphorism “birds of a feather gather no moss,” the President would laugh along with the rest of the audience only that mid laugh he would repeat the last half of the funny line, in this instance “gather no moss.” Occasionally this would be followed by a knee slap, a shake of the head, and the words “God how do they come up with this stuff?”

This drove John Wilkes crazy, and eventually he snapped. Raising a finger to his mouth and looking up at the Presidential Box he issued a loud and forceful shush.

The President did not take notice. He continued Parrot Chuckling through the next act and a quarter as Booth’s shushing became louder and more constant to the horror of his girlfriend.

It should be noted that although Booth’s night at the theater had been ruined, he had not been pushed to homicide yet. This would come about in act three, scene two.

When we piece together eyewitness accounts we learn that President Lincoln performed the equivalent to the modern act of the teenager who sits through a movie text messaging the whole time, he began dictating a telegraph.

“Dear Ulysses STOP I am watching that American Cousin play you were going on about STOP You were right man, that Edward Sothern is pretty LMAO funny STOP Some people are coming over to hit the pipe after STOP Major Rathbone will be there STOP Should be off the hook STOP Join us in the west wing smoking room?”

John Wilkes Booth snapped, he got up and stormed off to the Presidential Box.

The timing was unfortunate for two reasons. One, it meant John Wilkes Booth missed his favorite line, "Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap..." And two, it meant the last words that Abraham Lincoln would hear were “Sockdolgizing old man-trap.”

And so was the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, killed not for decisions made in office but for a general disregard of theater manners. Perhaps a far less dramatic end than history often leads us to believe, but for anyone who has ever sat near an obnoxious audience member, it’s a relatable tale.

Alright History Channel, my cell phone is on and I am ready to start receiving my residual cheques.

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Game, Set-up, Match

2007-11-27T14:00:00.000-05:00

The singe life (remarkably this has not yet been the title of a short lived sitcom), a time that many in a long term relationship seem to romanticize… well I suppose romanticize what with its root word conjuring images of flowers, chocolate and a healthy dose of door holding, isn’t exactly the right word. It’s about the freedom, the seemingly endless options, and the lack of a significant other to argue with.

Myself (a long term relationship participant)… well I just don’t seem to remember single life that way. Sure yes like anyone I had my good single times, but really all I can remember is the amount of work.

There’s the whole asking a girl out… except, you know, you don’t just ask her out do you? You have to sound slightly more modern then Richie Cunningham asking a Mary Beth or Mary Sue to be his date to the Sock Hop. Yet you need to make it clear you’re not asking her to hang out as a friend.

You need to lay a ground work of flirting, but of course even this needs to be measured. You don’t want to come off as a “macho pig” (to quote Jessie Spano, naturally) but at the same time you don’t want to deliver some half hearted compliment about her shoes that gives off that flamboyant friend vibe.

If you pull off the proper levels and feel you’re winning her over and decide now is the time to convert this into something, well then you have to prepare yourself for rejection.

It happens… sometimes a girl will in fact deem you not worthy of getting a free meal, drink, or movie out of. But you know, that’s not exactly how they’ll put it. Granted I can’t really predict how you’ll be rejected. If I could I’d be pretty mad, that’d kind of be the worst superhero power ever. “What’s this? Rejection sense tingling… sir, do not approach that woman! She is going to tell you she is just getting over a really serious relationship!”

Superhero jokes, now maybe you can predict some of the reasons I was rejected in those crazy days of singledom. Let’s jump back a bit and pretend none of this has happened…

Granted I can’t really predict how you’ll be rejected. There are of course a few tried and true lines.

“Let’s just be friends,” a classic (with several variations). Guys let me translate, when a girl says let’s just be friends she’s simply saying “makeovers yes, making out no way in hell.”

Then there’s the next level of rejection, the “you’re like a brother to me.” Again allow me to translate. “You’re like a brother to me,” meaning: it’d be a crime for me to be with you, so don’t even try.

Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t view being single as all doom and gloom. Sometimes you really do connect with that other person and phone numbers are exchanged.

Or maybe not anymore? For all I know I’ve been in a relationship so long that I’ve become dated, maybe it’s all gone digital now. Exchange last names and Facebook one another. Which actually would be handy. I have to admit there have been times when I guiltily realized I didn’t even know the girls full name and we had past the point of asking.

But if sending a message on Facebook really is the in, are there rules for this? “Hey man, be careful, you don’t want to look over eager. Wait 1 day to add her as a friend. Now if your going to wall post that bitch wait 1 more day, but a private message man, 2 days.”

I haven’t asked around, but I assume there are rules. I mean with the phone number there were always rules; everyone had their own opinion, their own advice. “Wait this long till you call her…”

So no, I don’t miss the wild single days. For all the fun times, it really is a lot of work in-between. However I was recently asked to serve as wingman for a friend.

Oh to be a wingman. For a guy whose in a relationship the role of wingman is like retiring from professional hockey and then coming back to play in the old-timers game. You don’t want to come out of retirement, but you’re happy to strap on those skates for a night just to remember the rush, to prove to yourself you’ve still got it.

As a wingman you aren’t out to get the girl, you’re just there to make your friend look good. Which I guess thinking about it maybe old-timer’s hockey game isn’t the best analogy. You’re more the team that’s scripted to loose to the Harlem Globetrotters. Yeah, that works better… you’re the Atlantic City Seagulls.

Now for those of you unfamiliar, the role of wingman is a complex one. You are required to wear many hats all at once... though not literally as a guy who dons a lot of headwear all at once is probably not a good choice for wingman.

Here are the (remember figurative) hats:

The Coach

You’re Mickey Goldmill, the trainer, the motivator. Sure you’ve retired but you’re there to help those who are still in the game to realize their potential. If you can also somehow tie in a montage of punching hanging carcasses of meat and dramatically running up a flight of stairs this is always a fan favorite, however it may not improve your point man’s game. In fact some studies suggest fists soaked in carcass juice may turn off women.

The Secret Agent

No, you’re not James Bond. You don’t get the woman in the end. You’re 004 or something, the expendable character that helps Bond gather intelligence. Does the target have a boyfriend? Is she looking for something particular? Is her crazy-hot ratio off? It’s your job as wingman to get this information.

The Kamikaze

You’ve got someone to go home to at the end of the night, so go head first and embrace the crash. Open up the lines of communication at any cost, put yourself in the embarrassing or awkward position and don’t look back. If in the course of so doing you crash and burn, and this crash and/or burn sets your point man up perfectly, even better. Your buddy will be sure to buy you a Purple Heart from the bar for your sacrifice in the line of duty. And to clarify Purple Heart I am of course making an analogy of beer in place of the metal of honour awarded in the United States to those who are wounded or killed in the well serving their country. I am in no way making a reference to some sort of girly drink, as the good wingman knows that fruity drinks shall only be secretly consumed in the company of their girlfriend, not out with the guys.

The Blocker

From time to time your buddy will face obstacles while working his magic, another guy will try and get the girls attention, or maybe the girl’s friend will try and get her away from your point man. Whether you have to run conversational interference or you just need to tackle them, let nothing touch your QB.

The Hype Man

Like the guy in a rap group with the same name, the hype man is there to back up his point man. When he needs to take a breath, you jump in to fill the break in the conversation. When he makes a joke, you laugh. And like any good hip hop hype man you’re there to build up the excitement levels of your audience… though advisably not through the traditional rap method of call-and-response chants, this tends to confuse and scare the girl you are talking to, especially I have found if the girl your buddy is targeting is in a Starbuck’s and you begin your call-and-response by quoting a 1989 ‘2 Live Crew’ song, “if you believe in having sex, say ‘hell yeah!’” A more recommended advisable way of building excitement is to talk up your friend, really sell him. Though who knows, maybe it was just my delivery of 2 Live Crew that steered me wrong.

Yes sure it’s a tough job in its own right, but someone has to do it, and in the end, isn’t it a lot less stressful then asking the girl for her phone number? Or is that ask a girl for her name so you can search Facebook’s database for her and send a friend invite?

Call me old fashion but it just doesn’t have the same ring, I guess that’s what happens when you leave the game. There’s no way of predicting whether you’ve permanently retired or whether you’ll pull a Michael Jordan, nevertheless I’ll still be out there, serving as wingman. Setting my Globetrotter’s up to pants me as I go to take a free throw. It’s all in the name of entertaining the audience.

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Here's a Tip...

2007-11-20T14:00:00.000-05:00

Etiquette dictates that I shouldn’t have more then a very brief cell phone conversation in public. Sure you can talk in public with the person next to you, but if you want that conversation to happen over the phone, it’s just not right. Apparently it’s rude of me to rob nosy people of the ability to hear both ends of dialogue. Two people talking in the same public space side by side, go for it. One person in the same space on the phone… well it’s just not proper etiquette to stop eavesdroppers from having full conversational enjoyment. It’s downright barbaric.

And when you aren’t using your knife it is to be left on your plate, sharp side facing inward.

Never, ever outward.

And your drink must always sit on the right side of your plate. What, were you raised by wolves? Don’t know how to follow proper etiquette? I mean come on, if we all started putting our cups on whatever side of the plate we just so happen to feel like, well then we’re no better then the common dung beetle.

Etiquette is an extension of the childhood game of ‘tea party’ in which little girls, dolls, and select teddy bears do their best to kick it high society style. There are strict rules on how to conduct themselves in such a game, and if Mr. Cuddles the stuffed giraffe can’t pull himself together and act refined he’ll most certainly be shunned.

Some of these kids grow up and retain this need to uphold the laws of basic human decency, the things that civilization itself is built on… basically whatever makes them feel superior.

There is, I should add, no word on whether or not your average teddy bear grows out of tea party stage or not, although I am sure telemarketing being what it is that eventually we’ll have reliable sample numbers from our cotton brethren.

Etiquette can be learnt we’re ensured. You can read books, pay to sit through lectures. You can become refined! You can tip everyone from your tattoo artist to your mail man!

Oh the tip, the act of giving someone a little extra then the cost, something for them to keep and fail to mention on their tax returns. The bonus for a job well done.

I suppose the original meaning behind the word tip, 16^th Century German for “to give unexpectedly” was not something the etiquette police learnt between afternoon teas.

To give unexpectedly we do not. The tip is a strict process. The proper percent has been outlined for you, calculated and set in stone, each service its own rules and regulations.

Two dollars a suitcase, not one! What the hell is the matter with you? You clearly can’t function in proper society.

No, we are not to believe in the phrase ‘to give unexpectedly.’ So much so that those blessed with a clear sense of civilized and uncivilized have invented a view backronym’s to help justify the word. “To Insure Promptness”, “To Improve Performance,” and so on.

The thing is we aren’t really sure why we tip anymore, are we? Even with all the guidelines to what percent you owe the bartender who got you a beer with extra head after chatting up the nearby brunette… we really can’t conclusively say why we’re doing it.

At some point in my naïve adolescence it was taught to me that the tip was a means of rewarding someone who goes above and beyond the call of duty, who gives you an amazing level of customer service and who really, truly deserves something extra. The tip I learnt, was on a sliding scale, depending on this service.

I guess this system only exists if you are dining alone, because I am pretty sure a waitress can get your order wrong, spill coffee on you, greet your every request with a why-don’t-you-just-die stare, and mock you for ordering milk… and if you attempt to leave without a gratuity left at the table, your fellow diners will react in shock. Rude and cheap may be bandied about. You’ll be told off for clearly having no idea what it is like to be in the service industry. And if you don’t crack and offer you 15% bonus to the waiter, your etiquette superior will forcibly cover your tip for you.

So it’s not about customer service. Maybe it’s because these professions are paid so poorly? But then I don’t remember anyone in the Sporting Good’s Store passing the hat when I went to buy shoes made by a kid in Cambodia.

I have worked in the service industry, a full service gas station. One without a canopy, exposed to all sorts of weather. It’s a job without a chance to sit, where I would be on my feet all day. A job where I’d be berated for every slight climb in the price of gasoline. And I second hand inhaled the stuff all day long, putting my brain cells at risk, and possibly paving the way to kidney issues or cancer.

Really I probably wasn’t paid enough for all that. And from time to time I’d refill your washer fluid, clean your windows, pump your gas, and check your tire pressure all well it rained and hailed. I’d do it quickly (I tend to move faster when jagged pieces of ice are falling from the sky) and somehow with a smile. In return you’d give me a tip. I appreciated it, it motivated me some days to offer the same quality service to the rest of the customers.

But more often then not there was no tip. For the majority I’d pump the gas they want, tell the price, and take the money, transaction over. Just doing the job. Sometime’s I would even do my job below your reasonable level of expectation. Exhausted I’d be slow, swamped I’d forget to screw your gas cap back on. In fact I will even let you in on a secret, something you may suspect from time to time while dealing with someone in the service industry. There were times when I really didn’t care about you, dear customer. Yes, there’s something far more important in my mind then you sitting in your yellow hummer demanding answers to why you pay so much. Something on my mind that I much more care about. And sure I’ll go through the motions for you, because you are what stands between me and my pay cheque.

Why would I deserve something extra on those days?

Maybe it’s too much to ask when it comes to the rules of the tea party that have been dictated. But I’ll ask all the same. Can we all try clearing the stuffing from between our ears and remember that a tip is an unexpected gift? It’s a reward for doing your job well, and…

Oh you know what, I’m sitting here at this café writing and it just occurred to me, I completely forgot to put something in the tip jar for the barista who burnt my bagel. The poor girl. Hold that thought, I’ll be right back…

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Baggage Claims

2007-11-13T14:00:00.000-05:00

If you've followed my career in comedy you'll find I seem to spend a lot of time talking about the baggage carousel, the lamest of all types of carousels which lacks both colourful, ridable animals, and organ music.

The baggage carousel is that moment of truth, that time when we discover whether we'll be wearing our carefully planned wardrobe for the duration of the trip, or whether we'll be sporting the ill fitting tourist trap t-shirts with the graphic that leads one to believe the shirt was commissioned back in the early to mid 1980s, you know, when people we're to busy worrying about the red menace and to coked up to care about simple things like taste.

And so if you've ever been out to see me perform stand-up you've probably heard me rant about the fear induced by this particularly slow moving device.

In fact just last February I wrote and directed a short film about about this very topic (Baggage, starring Evan Brandon and Kristen Dealy).

Now I've never had my luggage lost, although I thought I did once on a red eye home from California. I was incorrect, or so the airline informed me, my bag wasn't lost, they were only 'temporarily delayed.'

Temporarily delayed? So what, my bag was going to join me in Toronto but something important came up and it'll be with me at its soonest, most available time?

This isn't a story about my bag having scheduling conflicts, nor a story about my film or my stand-up. No, this is the story about how I met my girlfriends father.

We'll start at the end and work our way back, Momento style...

The End

As I am standing there, trying to identify the shape of my suitcase from the suitcase lineup diagram the woman trapped in the lost luggage cubbyhole has handed me, my girlfriend taps me on the shoulder.

She's standing there with her dad, a suitcase between them.

"Derek, this is your bag," she informs me.

"Ha, where did that come from?" I ask the father, the daughter, and the woman whose midwest accent almost hides the fact she hates her job.

My Girlfriend's Version of Proceeding Events

Okay, so if you believe my girlfriend Amanda (and I am by no means encouraging you to, please wait till my version of the story for a plausible explanation) here's how it all went down.

We stood there, waiting on my bag, slowly everyone around us got theres, but not me. From time to time a strange looking dark green suitcase would rotate by.

"Is that yours?" Amanda asked.

"Are you sure it's not yours?" She asked the second time around.

"Derek, we should at least check this one," the third pass.

Now I know my suitcase, I am familiar with its look, design, and shade of green. This was not it. I wasn't going to humour her by checking, risk the actual owner running at me convinced I was stealing his luggage.

Soon it was just the two of us and another guy further down the carousel. Why he wasn't taking his dark green bag I don't know. And where was my slightly smaller light green bag?

"Let's just check this one..." my girlfriend was saying, or something similar. I didn't fully hear as I was wandering up to the cubbyhole window to discuss with the woman on duty the case of my missing bag.

In the background Amanda was on the phone to her father Jeff, who had been waiting in the parking lot to give us a ride.

"Hey dad, we're still at baggage claim, Derek thinks they lost his bag."

Meanwhile the woman at the counter was busy dealing with me, "it shows on the computer that all of the luggage from that flight has been loaded onto the carousel." Her voice was half matter-of-fact, half pleading with the universe that this wasn't something that would lead to her filling out more paperwork.

As the woman and I began to discuss the case of my missing suitcase Jeff showed up to get the scoop from his daughter.

"Derek is pretty sure they lost his suitcase."

"What about that one right there?" Jeff asked at the dark green suitcase which was so clearly not mine.

"That's what I keep saying, but Derek says its not."

At this point Amanda grabs for the suitcase, pulling it off she checks the tag.

As I am standing there, trying to identify the shape of my suitcase from the suitcase lineup diagram the woman trapped in the lost luggage cubbyhole has handed me, my girlfriend taps me on the shoulder.

She's standing there with her dad, a suitcase between them.

"Derek, this is your bag," she informs me.

"Ha, where did that come from?" I ask the father, the daughter, and the woman whose midwest accent almost hides the fact she hates her job.

What Really Happened (aka Derek's Version of Events)

I've landed in Minneapolis, Minnesota to meet my girlfriends family. I am waiting for the seatbelt sign to go off so that I can get out of my chair and gracefully hit my head on the above storage compartment.

So now I wasn't there, so I cannot be 100% sure about the following events, but this is what I've pieced together.

A guy with earmuffs and a bright orange vest, possibly two of them, unloads the suitcases. My slightly smaller, slightly lighter green suitcase is still there at this point. I don't believe these vest wearers to be in on the take.

They load everything up onto their little car and one of them drives off with it.

Now there's probably another guy who handles placing the luggage onto the conveyor belt, the guy who drives the little buggy is probably not aloud to help, a union thing. So here's a guy who controls the flow of the luggage, and he's all alone.

Now I cannot say for certain his motives, as I have never met this dastardly man, yet here is what I have deduced.

At some point this man lost or damaged his own suitcase, one his wife gave him as a gift, yes it wasn't the most romantic of gifts but he needed a suitcase, he had been hinting and hinting, and so she got him one. But now it was lost and/or stolen.

As fate would have it my suitcase was a deadringer for his. All his dread about the wife finding out was put on hold, if he could just bring this one home no one would know.

But then he would be doing a disservice to the actual owner of the bag.

Thinking fast he grabbed another suitcase, a darker green, a little bit larger. He took everything out of it, not thinking of the fact that he was now robbing someone else of their suitcase (the other guy waiting further down the conveyor perhaps!), he put all of my stuff in before transferring my name tag to it.

'My' suitcase went down the conveyor, shooting out onto the carousel.

We stood there, waiting on my bag, slowly everyone around us got theres, but not me. From time to time a strange looking dark green suitcase would rotate by.

"Is that yours?" Amanda asked.

"Are you sure it's not yours?" She asked the second time around.

"Derek, we should at least check this one," the third pass.

Conclusion

I know what you're thinking, how could I know this? Well I drove for several hours with my girlfriend and her father, several hours from the airport, hearing the whole way about how I didn't know my own bag, how I should trust my girlfriend. Several hours of time to think and figure out what really happened at that baggage claim...

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How Much is that Poppy in the Window?

2007-11-06T14:00:00.000-05:00

On November the 11th it's known as Remembrance Day here in Canada (as well as Australia and the United Kingdom), in the United States its Veterans Day, still elsewhere its Armistice Day, while in South Africa it is simply Poppy Day.

It's a day when citizen's of countries all around the world stop to remember those who gave their lives in times of war and in times of peace keeping.

As the South African name for the 11th notes, for many the poppy is a symbol of remembrance. This is due to battles that took place during the first world war in an area dubbed Flanders Fields, in which the bright red corn poppy of Europe grew in the untold wastelands of death and war.

In Canada a poet by the name of John McCrae wrote a poem simply titled "In Flanders Fields" which utilized the haunting imagery of the poppy. Before long both the flower and the poem became in their own right both national symbols and symbols of remembrance.

Each November Canadians donate money and pin a red poppy to their coats, jackets, and shirts. It's a symbol of respect and a vow not to forget.

Now where is all this going and what possible, horrible, mixed up thing have I gotten myself into with such a symbol you may be asking yourself, and as such let me begin by saying don't worry, I did not tarnish anything.

See a couple of years ago I met a girl by the name of Emma whose birthday just happened to be November the 11th. This got me thinking, and before long I thought of the the perfect gift to give on this day, real live poppies, one for every year.

Simple plan right? Visit a florist, pick them out, pay some money, and maybe write a quick card.

I got to work the day before as I was heading to a beach for the first day of principal photography on my first film, the feature length Love Squared. I had a long list of local florist’s phone numbers, and I figured it’d take only one or two down the list before I found what I needed, then I could get back to thinking about the days scene.

No such luck.

The first woman on the phone said she sold poppies. As my mind breathed a sigh of relief I realized the woman was saying something else, a very important something else.

“Wait, do you mean cut poppies?”

Cut… what did she mean cut? Like cut from the ground? How would that make sense? Did many of her clients come over with spades in hand to dig out their own bouquets? I decided I better play it cool so she wouldn’t try to take advantage of me.

“Yeah, uh, you know, I’m just looking for real poppies, you know, real ones, like, you know, the live kind.”

As it turns out she did know, and she didn’t have any.

Not worried I moved on to the next number on the list, and then the next, and then the next.

It was around this point my assistant director decided to give her two cents worth, “they don’t sell poppies because they put people to sleep, like in the Wizard of Oz.”

Several crew members jumped on her comment. There was no way poppies put people to sleep, yet she refused to be told otherwise. As they debated whether the flowers were magic or not, I decided to hit the next place on my list.

Still no luck, no explanation why.

My assistant director was beginning to feel validated when I hung up, “see, it’s because I’m telling you, they put people to sleep.”

The debate raged on.

As I asked yet another florist, and got yet another no, I was forced to put the woman on hold as someone kept calling my name. Turning around Mike, my trusty editor who had made the mistake of offering to come visit set on a cold November day for an exterior shoot on a beach (a mistake he would only make one more time I believe), motioned for me to give him the phone.

“Hello,” he said, when I finally did. “I just have one question, is the reason you don’t sell poppies because they put people to sleep?”

Mike hung up, successfully putting to rest the Wizard of Oz Syndrome theory. Everyone now much quieter, I called the next person on my list.

Or so I thought, I had accidentally dialed the same person as Mike had just been talking to.

“Do you sell poppies…” I began.

“This isn’t amusing,” shot back the woman whose voice suddenly became familiar.

“Oh no, no, I must’ve dialed…” The line clicked.

The crew (aka people who clearly work harder then me) were well into setting up for the first shot and the actors were getting into their wardrobe. Everyone was doing what they were supposed to be, and so naturally I decided to distract one crew member with my poppy frustration.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to buy poppies here,” he said matter-of-factly.

Illegal? No, it couldn’t be… could it? I began to get worried as I called my next florist, what if all these calls about poppies were illegal? What if word got back to the police?

“Say I asked if I could buy poppies, would that be, let’s say, on the level?”

The old woman on the other end of the line sounded confused, panicking I hung up.

Later that day I casually raised the subject to one of the actors, trying to feel out if poppies really were illegal.

“Illegal? No, they’re extinct.”

I stood there confused, my mind reeling from a sucker punch.

“But what about poppy seed bagels?” was the sentence my mind finally put together.

“Not really from poppies.”

I walked away, vowing not to discuss this topic with anyone else, I went back to calling.

The second last florist on my list finally shed some light on the poppy dry city, “Sorry dear, poppies are out of season.”

Out of season, how could poppies be out of season?! The one day of the year that they mean the most and they aren’t in season?! These are the questions I wanted to demand of her.

“Thank you,” is what I said.

That night when the shoot was over and done with I turned to my friend Donna who has a knack for knowing what I don’t, surely she could settle once and for all if poppies were truly out of season.

I told her what the woman said to me.

“Yeah, it’s true, dogs generally don’t give birth in the fall.”

It was at this point that I gave up, the poppies had managed to outfox me this time. I settled into a conversation about the mating habits of dogs, but in my mind all I could think was they were out there, somewhere, just beyond my reach. My white whale, the poppy.

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