There’s a reason.

Let me take you back twenty-six years to early 1986.  I’m working as a [...]]]> In a recent appearance on CTV News Channel, I made a disparaging, borderline unfair remark about the city of Red Deer, Alberta.

There’s a reason.

Let me take you back twenty-six years to early 1986.  I’m working as a stand-up comedian, based out of Edmonton, and touring a national chain of comedy clubs called Yuk Yuk’s.  The way the Yuk Yuk’s deal works is this: When you’re on tour, you play the big city room on Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.  Monday thru Wednesday, you do one-nighters in the satellite towns nearby.  If you’re doing the weekend in Edmonton, one of the one-nighters is in the city of Red Deer.  You’re doing Comedy Night in a place called the North Hill Inn, located right on Route 2 (the main highway between Edmonton and Calgary, where Red Deer is basically at the halfway point).

Sounds good, right?

You couldn’t be more wrong.  Don’t mistake the venue at the North Hill Inn for the venue in the Ritz Carlton .  The North Hill Inn’s entertainment venue is a country bar.  (Remember, I’ve taken you back in time to 1986 – both the room and the inn might now be a Target store for all I know.)  At this early stage in my career, the powers that be who book comics for Yuk Yuk’s have decided that I will be the emcee for this particular show.  It’s my job to go out and do about 20 minutes of material to warm up the crowd for the first act, and come back between comedians to keep things rockin’ and rollin’.

Except that when the North Hill Inn isn’t being used for the two hours a week when it poses as a comedy club, the North Hill Inn is, as I mentioned, a country bar.  A country bar that, in 1986, was blaring the #1 song in the world, “Bop” by Dan Seals, through their speakers onto a jam-packed dance floor.  Unfortunately for me, the dance floor at the North Hill Inn is also the stage at the North Hill Inn.  And there’s no real stage, per se.  There’s just a badly done parquet floor, surrounded by a driftwood fence.  There’s not even a platform to stand on.  You just stand in the middle of what amounts to an animal pen, holding a microphone, while the light from a disco ball occasionally hits your face.

It gets worse.

Look out at that dance floor, my friend.  Packed full of Red Deer’s glitterati, drunkenly dancing their faces off to “Bop” by Dan Seals.  Size up the crowd for a second and you realize that the country bar in the North Hill Inn is the kind of place where one can expect to take a pool cue to the face if one says something out of line.  So here they are, making the animal pen look even more like an animal pen when the DJ realizes it’s showtime.  And boy, this DJ is a punctual fellow.  So he started “Bop” about 45 seconds ago, much to the delight of the drunkards who flocked to the dance floor as if someone had yelled “free oversized belt buckles”, not realizing when he hit the “Start” button on the turntable that the song was going to run long and take us about 3 minutes into our scheduled time.

Never fear, my intrepid comedy fan.  Our DJ tonight (who probably had a name like “Duke” or something similar) knows exactly what to do.  He grabs the needle on the record (look it up, kids, it’s how we geezers used to listen to music) and drags it across the album in a moment reminiscent of the infamous format change from the first episode of WKRP in Cincinnati.  Just as the song had started.  Just as the last of the staggering stragglers had finally reached the animal pen dance floor to dance to the number one song in the world.  There was the kind of silence that usually precedes a riot, followed by some angry voices and people starting to shout things like “Bull CACA”, except this crowd didn’t know how to spell CACA, so they said a different word altogether.

Then DJ Duke, Master of the Microphone, begins his introduction to the menacing mob.  (I remember these words as if I were typing them from a dictation.  This is verbatim, without a word of exaggeration.)  DJ Duke, fighting to be heard, says, “Well, we’re gonna put a stop to all the fun and dancin’, and bring on some fellas gonna tell ya some stories.”  And with that, he clumsily gets down from the DJ booth and walks over toward the still-busy dance floor, motioning for me to come take the microphone.

That was it.

No “please welcome Neil Hedley”, no “give a warm round of applause for your emcee”, not even a “please don’t kill him, he’s already been paid.”  The line about the fun and dancin’ is my introduction.  I’m standing there to get the show started while people are deliberately bumping into me in an attempt to make it clear that they were not happy I was there.

Back to 2012 – there I am on CTV News Channel, discussing the Wild Rose Party; an independent party running – and contending – for the leadership in Alberta’s provincial election.  One Wild Rose candidate had said in recent days that he had a good chance of winning his district because he was the only Caucasian candidate on the ballot; another said that gays were bound for the eternal fires of Hell.  So when it came up on CTV News Channel, I looked at anchor Brad Giffen and, recalling my night at the North Hill Inn, said, “That’s a whole lotta Alberta rednecks – they’re doing Red Deer proud.”

Shortly after, I received this note on Twitter, from the official Twitter account for the City of Red Deer:

{sigh}  Here we go again.  Twenty-six years later, and I’m still explaining jokes to people in Red Deer (or as they spell it, “redeer”).

My wife and I were at a mall in Etobicoke, a suburban area in the west end of Toronto, when we headed up to the food court.  As she always does, [...]]]> There’s irony in me writing this piece, when I just wrote something for Sympatico today repeating a call for a color-blind society.

My wife and I were at a mall in Etobicoke, a suburban area in the west end of Toronto, when we headed up to the food court.  As she always does, Tatiana headed for the kiosk called “Caribbean Queen” in search of fried plantains. They seldom have them, which irritates her to no end, as in most places in the Caribbean the dish is at least quite common, and in some regions is even considered a staple.  She approached the person behind the counter, and it was obvious from his reply that he’d never heard of plantains at all, much less a fried one.

We then started looking around at the other stands in the food court and wondered aloud about their authenticity.  Every once in a while, just as a gag, she’ll go to a Taco Bell and try to order something in Spanish.  Hilarity ensues as you realize that usually, no one behind the counter at a Taco Bell in Canada speaks Spanish.  I, on the other hand, go with her once every couple of weeks to Antojitos, the Colombian bakery in Mississauga, and the young muchacho behind the counter compliments me as I place my order in nearly flawless Spanish.  He’s actually been tracking my progress, and offers rave reviews when he notices my Spanish has improved.

I could care less if the person behind the counter looks ”authentic”; for example, I don’t care if the guy making my souvlaki looks Greek (whatever “looking Greek” is), but I feel like he needs to establish some “Greek cred” with me if I’m going to truly enjoy the experience.

I don’t think that makes me racist so much as a culture-ist, or maybe just a culture snob.  But it’s there, nonetheless.  If someone’s going to take you to a five-star French restaurant, one expects someone to speak French.  And if you ask to speak to the chef at your favorite Jamaican restaurant, and a redheaded guy with freckles walks out and starts conversing in a thick Irish accent, you’re probably going to be a little thrown off, no?

Some restaurants go all-out to make their patrons feel like they’re living certain experiences.  There are jungle-themed restaurants where the staff are decked out in safari clothes, and a pirate-themed place might feature a “serving wench” who’ll offer ye some bounteous grub with a hearty “arrr” thrown in for good measure.  And of course, every great restaurant at Walt Disney World is its own special brand of immersion.

I wonder then, why the authenticity matters so little to the people at some of our biggest chains (like Taco Bell, for example), or even at smaller places that make their money on “authentic” cuisine from foreign lands.

I’m not saying that Chinese food places have to exclusively hire Chinese people, or that Italian restaurants should fire everyone who’s not straight off the boat from Calabria.  But wouldn’t it make the customer’s experience more thoroughly enjoyable if you could offer them a taste of the country that extended beyond the menu?

If I’m at a Jamaican restaurant and I have to explain to the server what “rice and peas” is, that’s a server who shouldn’t be dealing with the public yet, because they destroy the authenticity of the experience for every customer they come into contact with.

You could make a similar argument about a bartender who’s never tasted any kind of alcohol, or a vegetarian working at a steakhouse.

I’ll take it even a step further: I find it annoying when a server can’t offer me the “inside scoop” on menu items.  When I go to order the specialty of the house, and the server says “I don’t know, I’ve never tried it, but I hear it’s good,” that tells me this particular server is a clock-puncher, and has made a conscious decision not to go the extra mile so they can offer better customer service.

If I’m at Taco Bell, and the kid behind the counter doesn’t know the difference between a burrito and a chalupa, I’m going to Tim Horton’s.

Wait – does that make me a racist?

Tonight, I can’t help it.  Until about 10:40 Sunday night, I was watching the Oscars and hanging out on Twitter.  And I very quickly became disgusted.

I was hopeful that from what I was seeing in social media with things like the Bell Canada #LetsTalk Day [...]]]> I keep saying I shouldn’t write when I’m angry.

Tonight, I can’t help it.  Until about 10:40 Sunday night, I was watching the Oscars and hanging out on Twitter.  And I very quickly became disgusted.

I was hopeful that from what I was seeing in social media with things like the Bell Canada #LetsTalk Day on February 8th, and with the anti-bullying campaigns, that people were starting to become conscious of the things they were saying to others, and the examples we’re setting for our kids.

And then I watched some of my friends and colleagues live-Tweeting the Oscars and I wanted to puke.  I now know that a great deal of what I saw on February 8th, and a great deal of what’s communicated in the anti-bullying messages, is hypocrisy.

Consider for a moment that about 97% of the population has figured out that many actors use their craft as a means of hiding behind an alternate persona, because they’re too insecure to face themselves, or too messed up about who they really are.

Then have a look at Twitter on Oscar night.  In case you’re new to the planet, Twitter is accessible to the general public.  So unless your account is marked as “Private”, everything you say there is wide out in the open.

First there was the Red Carpet travesty, when people all over the world were taking a look at celebrities who had gone to a ton of effort to try and look amazing on Oscar night, so that people watching television in sweat pants and stained t-shirts could heckle from their sofas about how awful the stars looked, and how ugly they are.

Then there was the telecast itself, when Twitter was littered (there’s a reason those words rhyme) with references to Nick Nolte, to how unfunny Billy Crystal was, and how Angelina Jolie needs to eat something.

I’m angry.  I really am angry about this.

First of all – Angelina Jolie is an actress.  How do you know she didn’t give up weight for a role?  It’s quite common for actors to gain weight, lose weight, grow or shave hair, and adopt myriad other physical affectations.  So how do you know?  And if the weight loss you found so objectionable was not for a role, how do you know it isn’t the result of an illness?  And if it’s not a physical illness, what if it’s something psychological?  What if her “skinny arms” are actually some kind of signal she needs help?

Are you SO eager to put yourself on a level playing field with Angelina Jolie that you found it necessary to behave like such an ass?

Are you proud of the way you behaved, by making fun of somebody who quite possibly needs help?

Tell you what… how about I follow you to work one day this week, and yell “My God, your ass is huge” every ten steps or so, until lunch.  Or maybe I’ll sit in the break room, and when you leave the room, your co-workers and I will make jokes about how stupid your outfit looks, or your clumsy walk.

Or even better… how about I follow your kids to school, and start making fun of them?

If it’s not okay to make fun of the way your children look, and it’s not okay to make fun of other people you care about, then it’s similarly inappropriate to make fun of celebrities.

Particularly when I saw that some of the live Tweeting I’m talking about was being done by people with deep ties to organizations that purport to care about such things, many of you should be ashamed of yourselves.

I guess the thing that surprised me the most was that some of the people responsible for the slurs and the insults and the insensitivity, are people that I respected.

Note my use of the past tense.

Edited to add:

Emails and comments I’m receiving indicate that people think I’m simply talking about people pointing out that actresses are too skinny.

I’m not.

I mostly wrote this post because I got tired of watching women (and businesses that supposedly empower and/or target women) tweeting the word “Botox” back and forth in an insulting, derisive manner.  You did women a massive disservice tonight, and you owe them an apology.  You know who you are.

My first book.

Officially went on sale on Amazon a little over an hour ago.  (If you click on the cover graphic, a new window will open where you can buy it if you want to, but that’s not what this post is about.)

Yes, it’s an [...]]]>
So there it is.

My first book.

Officially went on sale on Amazon a little over an hour ago.  (If you click on the cover graphic, a new window will open where you can buy it if you want to, but that’s not what this post is about.)

Yes, it’s an amazing feeling.  Yes, I still look at it (even though proofs have been in my house for weeks now) and get kind of a rush.  And yes, I’m psyched about getting out to meet people who want to talk about it, and celebrate its release with me.  (Click here if you want to learn more about that, although again, not what this post is about.)

If you and I know each other, or you read this blog regularly, you probably already know why I’m a mess today.  It bears repeating, even though it’s really tough to type it out.  And I’ll make it quick, ‘cuz I’ve never really been much for wallowing.

A few days before Christmas 2010, I lost my Mom, in circumstances that are still far too raw to talk about.  And I’m left with this really odd combination of sad and angry.  I’m angry because she only got to see the missteps and the mulligans in my life.  She has missed the best year of my existence.  Career.  Love.  Life.  It has all finally come to the place she always prayed for.  And I didn’t get things together in time for her to see it.

I know what many will say to me, that from the “better place” she ended up, she’s been given a front row seat to watch it all, and I believe that – I truly do.

But on days like this, I want to be able to pick up the phone and celebrate with her.  I want to share the tears of joy with her that she’d feel on those seemingly rare occasions in my life where I got something right.  I want to call her up with news that would make her proud – and this past year, I’ve been blessed enough to have a lot of that kind of news.  There have even been times where I’ve almost caught myself about to start an email, or make a phone call.

But I can’t.  That’s where the “sad” comes in.  Poor Tatiana has been wonderful through what I can only imagine has been a confusing time; she had to deal this year with dozens of things that should have given me cause to celebrate and dance with joy, but that started with sadness instead.

And that’s the part that’s making me a mess today.

Sure, I’ll celebrate the day; but while my Mom may get a front row seat, I look into the front row that I can see from here on Earth and see a very empty chair.

I miss you, Mom.  And I’ve set aside a copy of the book for you.  (I hear shipping to where you are can be cost-prohibitive anyway.)

The book has a Facebook page, and its own website as well.  Those will serve as an ongoing Second [...]]]> You might already know that I have a book that “launches” this coming Wednesday.  It’s about the stuff I learned in 30 years of being an ad agency guy and radio copywriter.

The book has a Facebook page, and its own website as well.  Those will serve as an ongoing Second Edition.  So my intention is to never release a new version of the book, or a Part II, but to use the website as the home to every chapter I come up with that didn’t make it into the book before I sent it to the printer.

To that end, it would make sense for an advertising book that talks about the Super Bowl, to have some kind of commentary on Super Bowl advertising.

It’s with that in mind that I excitedly tell you about my panel of Monday Morning Quarterbacks.  Commentary on the Super Bowl commercials from people who actually know stuff about marketing and advertising.  The panel includes Larry MacInnis (Creative Director for CHUM Radio in Toronto), Mike Kryton (Creative Director, AXE Productions in Edmonton), Mark Kaplowe (owner of Kaplowe Studios in Connecticut and the most familiar voice in North American car dealer advertising), and oh yeah… Seth Godin has a thing or two to say as well.

That’s a partial list, and I’m recruiting other members along the way.  We’ll tell you what ads worked, what ads sucked, and you get the bonus of knowing that the people sharing their opinions with you have serious street cred.  (Larry and Mike are among two of the most decorated and celebrated ad men in Canadian history.)

Our Monday Morning Quarterbacks weigh in on – surprise – Monday, February 6th.  You’ll find their comments and be able to join the conversation at whatwasthatnumberagain.com.

First, it’s official: My first book hits Amazon on February 1, and some other outlets as well (which I’ll announce later).  It’s called “‘What Was That Number Again?’ Crimes Against Advertising, and How to [...]]]> It seems this week that I’ve been everywhere but on my own blog.  So a couple of things to pass along.

First, it’s official: My first book hits Amazon on February 1, and some other outlets as well (which I’ll announce later).  It’s called “‘What Was That Number Again?’ Crimes Against Advertising, and How to Prevent Them”, and hopefully it comes in handy for anyone who’s ever had to write an ad for anything.

The book has its own website, whatwasthatnumberagain.com, and even a Facebook page you can go “Like” if you want.  Both locations will have consistently updated content.  I’ve decided that rather than ever put out a second edition, I’ll just keep adding content and writing new chapters on the website.  (That includes something extra cool that happens on the site on February 6th.)

Second, I was honored to be invited aboard the Charles Adler Show this week, nationally syndicated on 14 radio stations in Canada.  On the show, we talked about the piece I wrote for Sympatico about the “incident” at the school in Florida where the Sheriff was called in after a girl gave a boy a peck on the cheek on the school playground.

If you missed it, here’s the audio:

If we were truly committed to saving lives, and it was actually important to us, we’d be taking more serious steps to do something about it.

Imagine what would happen if all cars had one of those breathalyzer locks [...]]]> If we really wanted to make a dent in drunk driving deaths, we’d go about it differently.

If we were truly committed to saving lives, and it was actually important to us, we’d be taking more serious steps to do something about it.

Imagine what would happen if all cars had one of those breathalyzer locks on the ignition – the kind that won’t allow you to start the car if your blood alcohol level is above a certain point.  The technology obviously exists, and the units cost about as much to install as a driver’s-side airbag.  Privacy advocates would no doubt scream in opposition, and the market would complain about what a pain it is.

…sorry to inconvenience you.

Imagine what would happen if a single drunk-driving offense carried an automatic license suspension of ten years, with a repeat offense resulting in a lifelong driving ban; and imagine if a person caught driving with a license suspended for drunk driving were given an automatic ten-year jail sentence.

…but hey, wouldn’t want to keep you “business” people from getting loaded with your corporate Platinum cards (that get paid for with the shareholders’ money).  Forcing you to behave responsibly might impact your ability to close that big deal.

Imagine what would happen if a car manufacturer instituted a policy in their contracts where a single drunk driving conviction meant you had to give the car back.  No replacement provided, you simply forfeit the right to drive that manufacturer’s car, and you couldn’t buy a car from that automaker again.  Imagine if Ford said, “You’re not the kind of person we want driving our cars.”  It would carry the implied message that every person behind the wheel of a Ford was simply a more responsible driver, and on some level, a better human being.  Personally, I’d pay a premium to be a member of that club.

Look, people are going to continue to get behind the wheel after too many drinks.  It’s human nature to occasionally behave like a completely reckless, careless, selfish, ignorant piece of scum.  (Apparently.)  And so, people are going to continue to mark Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s by attending funerals.

One in three people will be involved in an alcohol-related crash during their lifetime.  And according to the Centers for Disease Control, the average drunk driver has driven drunk 80 times before the first time they get busted.  (That’s eighty, as in eight times ten, in case you thought it was a typo.)

To really do something about it is going to take courage.

I wonder when the public, the Government or the auto industry is finally going to summon the courage to say “enough” in a way that actually matters.