A DAY IN NEW YORK - or How I Spent My Day-Before-New-Year's-Eve

The producers of Lion King surprised us all by agreeing to having me flown to New York for a second costume fitting, this one focusing on the flying harness. Not nearly the adventure in the city of the previous trip, this one was an in-and-out quickie.

5:33 a.m.

Ivy (the cat) stomps over me, purring, and settles in for a cuddle. This is a morning ritual and today, a fortuitous one since the alarm that I had set for 5:25 has malfunctioned.

6:15 a.m.
Into the car













6:22 a.m.
On to the cold, dark highway.














7:20 a.m.
Arrive Pearson Airport

8:00 a.m.
Arrive at gate 155 boarding lounge

8:40 a.m.
Announcement made that 9:15 scheduled departure time has been pushed back to 9:30 due to a 'mechanical issue'.

9:00 a.m.
Announcement made that 9:30 departure has been pushed back to 10:00.












9:41 a.m.
Announcement that departure gate has changed. Migrate to gate 161.

10:00 a.m.
Posted departure time suddenly, and inexplicably, changes to 11:20. No announcement.

10:10 a.m.
Over-priced airport breakfast. Consider having a martini. Decide it's too early, even for me.

11:30 a.m.
Departure, at last.

12:30 p.m.
Arrive La Guardia Airport.













12:35 p.m.
In a taxi to costume shop in mid-town Manhattan.

1:15 p.m.
Arrive Parsons Meares costume shop, 8th Ave & 36th St. Fitting begins. Breakdown as follows:
-Clothes off. Into flying harness supervised by flying technician.
-Hang in underwear from temporary metal frame constructed in elevator lobby of shop.
-Brief lesson in weight control and harness balance.
-Harness off. Detailed costume fitting begins as pieces are added and discussed one by one.
-Strip off full costume back down to underwear. Flying harness on again.
-Full costume back on OVER flying harness.
-Holes are marked and cut in costume to allow for harness attachment points.
-Hang in elevator lobby again, this time in costume.





3:15 p.m.
Fitting finished. Back out onto the street, hunting for a taxi.

3:45 p.m.
Finally manage to flag down a vacant taxi. Driver tells me that his credit card processor isn't working. I tell him I have $30 cash and ask if he's willing to risk it. He is.

4:15 p.m.
Taxi gets me to La Guardia $24 dollars later.

4:20 p.m.
Check in for flight. Upgrade to Executive Class.

4:25 p.m.
Clear security. Begin looking for bar.

4:32 p.m.
Exit secure area. Continue looking for bar.

4:41 p.m.
Martini












4:50 p.m.
Eat something called "Buffalo Chicken Wontons".

4:55 p.m.
Martini












5:35 p.m.
Re-clear security.

6:07 p.m.
Plane departs a full 20 minutes early. Discover I am the only person in the Executive Class cabin.

6:15 p.m.
Flight Attendant begins off-loading excess wines and cheeses on me since I am her only passenger.












7:02 p.m.
Arrive in Toronto forty minutes early.












7:30 p.m.
Fall asleep in arrivals area waiting for Michael.

9:15 p.m.
Arrive back home.

9:25 p.m.
Martini

11:45 p.m.
Asleep

A SCAR IS BORN

The producers of The Lion King arranged for me to go to New York for a costume fitting since all Lion King costumes have been, and are continuing to be built at a costume shop there. When Pam found out that I was going, she decided to tag along, making this her first visit since she went to school in The City That Doesn't Sleep 20 years ago.

My producers had originally planned on flying my in and out on the same day. I suggested, however, that if there were a few days between my arrival flight and my departure flight, I could probably find something to keep me busy.

The result was three days of all-out assault on the city. Shopping, eating, seeing shows, walking, walking, walking and more walking. By the end of it, our eyes were burning from too much input and spinning like a gecko's eyes, independently of each other.

ARRIVAL DAY

Pam is already doing her shopping warm-up in the Duty Free store in Toronto before departure.

A prearranged car is waiting at Newark Airport to drive us into Manhattan. I decided that, though the train or bus is cheaper (and sometimes faster), it's nice to see the city growing larger as you approach it.

We check into the hotel. By this time it is almost 6:00 p.m. I have a ticket to see a show at 7:00. We grab a quick martini in the hotel lounge and I leave Pam drinking alone as she is waiting to meet up with a friend from school whom she hasn't seen for two decades.

Since the hotel is on 50th St. at Broadway, it's an easy walk for me to the theatre where I'm seeing "American Idiot". Passing through Times Square on the way, however, I realize two things: 1) I live in the country. 2) The invention of new lighting and billboard technology has turned night into day as every advertiser on the planet tries new tricks to imprint their message on your corneas.

BROADWAY LIGHTS

The show is short and I'm back on the street by 9:44. I'm a little hyper-active because the music and performances were so energetic and SO LOUD!! I meet Pam and her friend Darren back at the hotel and we hop on the subway to go waaaaay downtown for supper. Darren takes us to a fantastic little Italian place called, oddly enough, Supper.

SUPPER AT "SUPPER"

DAY TWO

Pam, the farm-girl that usually gets up at 5:00 a.m. to feed the horses, sleeps until 8:45! A rare and unusual luxury. Pam is ready to show New Yorkers how to shop, so we start the day at Macy's. It is a miserably day. Pouring rain with gale force winds. The umbrella I purchase is useless. Pam remarks that a wet-suit would be more appropriate.

SOGGY MANHATTAN

After Macy's, we grab a cab down to Greenwich Village. After a brief walk around, dropping into a few stores, we opt to take our soggy carcasses to lunch at Jeffrey's Grocery Luncheonette and Oyster Bar. After some delicious food and two glasses of Rioja Reserva, we're ready to face the elements again.

We spend the next two hours or so in the greatest cookbook store ever, Bonnie Slotnick Cookbooks. She specializes in used,rare, out-of-print, and hard-to-find cookbooks.

COOKBOOK HEAVEN

By the time we leave the bookstore, it's starting to get close to the time for my costume fitting. Another quick cab ride back to the hotel to change clothes and dump the days purchases, and back out onto the street. The rain has finally let up so we walk down 8th Avenue toward the costume shop.

The shop where my fitting takes place is clearly one of the top costume shops around. They built "Beauty & The Beast", "Shrek", "Phantom of The Opera" and dozens of other Broadway shows large and small. They are also the shop where all the costumes for Julie Taymor's latest epic, "Spiderman" is being built. Because of the spidey-show and it's size and complexity, everyone in the shop is a little cross-eyed from exhaustion. None-the-less, they are real pros and are entertaining and fun during the entire 90 minute fitting.

Pam was allowed to take pictures during the fitting but, after some thought, I have decided not to post them here in their entirety because the costume is not finished yet. It seems wrong to me to destroy the magic and the beautiful illusion by showing a half-finished work. Just for fun, though, here are some teasers...

After the fitting, we are back on the street heading toward Broadway to find a martini and some food before our eight o'clock show. We stumble on a restaurant named after Pam's alter-ego, Sophia. It's fate. And the food is fantastic.


After dinner, we head off to The Foxwoods Theatre to see what is only the second public performance of "Spiderman". Before the curtain goes up, we are as wiggly as puppies before dinner. At the end of the first act we can barely control ourselves. By the end of the show, we are speechless. The show is still very early in it's previews and has some problems. The technical elements (and there are MANY) are still not all working properly and the script needs work, but this show, ultimately is mind-blowing. I'm sorry that people have managed to find reasons to poo-poo it.

DAY THREE

We are up at the crack o' crow's piss and start the day with a brisk walk up to Central Park in the cold, but thankfully not wet, morning. We make our way to Barney's for a little high-end shopping. In the shoe department we stumble across what can only be described as mayhem. It seems there is some kind of once-a-year-shoe-event happening and women are crawling over each other looking for deals as their husbands pull out the rapidly melting credit cards. Though many of the shoes are a good bargain ($860 marked down to $400) we decide that most of them look like over-priced hooker-wear and we move on.

Back down near Central Park, we stumble into FAO Shwartz. We do our best to poke around but the place is so full of children that our crowd tolerance dwindles rapidly. Must be time for food and drink.

We head to The Russian Tea Room where I eat a bowl of beet borscht that tastes like my childhood and Pam enjoys tea sweetened in the traditional Russian way with candied cherries.

Yes, that is a flight of chilled Russian vodkas lined up in front of me

It's time to head downtown again, this time to find the Italian mega-store Eataly in The Flatiron district. We take the subway this time and emerge onto 23rd street. We don't get very far before Pam's eye is caught by a display of sweets in a window. We have stumbled upon La Maison du Macaron. Pam has never eaten a real, traditional French macaron. Again, fate.


We each order one macaron, lavender, and an Americano.

Pam eats her first macaron

She immediately returns to the front counter.
Shortly thereafter...

Pam eats her second macaron

On to Eataly which is just down the street. This is the place where you can buy everything Italian under one roof. Produce, meats, cheeses, cookware, pasta, olive oil, sauces etc., etc., etc. As well, there are 5 restaurants serving up all kinds of things made from all the products they carry. I almost buy the t-shirt that says, "La vita e troppo breve per mangiare male". (Life is too short to eat badly)

Contemplating Italy at Eataly

As we are starting to lose steam, we opt for the subway back to the hotel before carrying on. A short (20 min.) rest, a change of clothes and we are back in the hotel lounge, Natsumi, for some fantastic sushi before heading off to see the first New York performance of our very own Rebecca Northan's "Blind Date".

The theatre is packed and the crowd loves the show, as do we. Rebecca rocks New York! We drink with everyone afterward and get to bed late.

DEPARTURE DAY

My eyes aren't opening too easily on the morning of our last day. Could be all the input. Could be the smog. Could be the liquor. Hard to say which.

We wander over to Rockefeller Center since they lit the giant Christmas Tree the night we arrived and we haven't seen it yet. It's big. We make a brief stop in the Lego store so that, once again, I can wallow in the fact that my mother wouldn't let me have Lego as a child. After a brief shop at The Met Gift Shop across the street, we taxi to the upper east side and chow down on some good old-fashioned New York diner food. Mmmmmmm....

We then begin to shop our way all the way down Madison Avenue, cruising designer store after designer store, entering some, scoffing at some, ignoring some. We end up having to do some fast walking to make it back to the hotel in time for our car pick up, but manage to get there just in time to sit stalled in the traffic around Times Square. Aaahhh, New York.

On our way back to Niagara from Pearson Airport, we are so over-stimulated and exhausted that the long silences are only occasionally punctuated by monosyllables.

The wardrobe people said they'd like me back for a 2nd fitting near the end of December. I hope I've recovered by then.

TAMPON WARS - CONTINUED

At a dinner party before I left Calgary, Roberta got her femininely hygienic revenge, as I knew she would. (See post titled "Jell-o Supreeze" for clarification)

There were a number of individually wrapped items inside the gift bag that I received. I'll share the highlights...

The tamponwich
An ingenious creation

Also included, however, were a package of unique post-it notes...

They make great grocery lists

They also work really well as convention-style name tags

There was also a small bottle of something called Glenfiddich Single Malt Scotch Whiskey in the bag. I'm not entirely sure what that's for.

OVER AND DONE WITH MORRIE

My closing weekend flowers, sent by the cats.

And suddenly, in what seems like the blink of an eye, it's over. In reality it was only 15 performances, but when you're in the middle of it, (or climbing the gigantic mountain at the beginning of it) the end seems much further away.

After our excitement with the non-responsive revolve earlier in the week, the closing weekend ran pretty smoothly. Our closing day crowds were pretty typical. The matinee audience was large, boisterous, responsive and quick to laugh. The evening crowd was small, shy, slow on the up-take and required a lot of effort on our part to get the smallest laugh out of them. Still, both performances were good. As I said to Jamie a few days earlier, "The quietest, dullest audience in the world can't diminish my enjoyment of doing the show with you."

It is the tradition of StageWest to formally pass the stage over to the in-coming show by making an announcement to the audience. We decided to split up the closing duties. I announced the next show, a musical revue called "Motown Gold", and Jamie did the 'thank you's'. He thanked StageWest, he thanked the waitstaff and our crew, and then he added, "And I'd like to thank this great actor, Patrick Brown, for coming in for the final two weeks." Thank you, Jamie. Very generous and much appreciated.

I've been telling Jamie for days that, when he gets home, his own bed is going to feel soooooo good. I know he's at the airport right now, anxiously awaiting his departure. As we were leaving the theatre last night, he stuck the last post-it note from the count-down calendar Kira had made him onto his coat, and then posed for a quick picture with my dad.

Jamie & Geo

The post-it note says "HOME TIME"

It was a lot of work for a short gig, but I loved it all and feel blessed to have had the chance.

Thanks for thinking of me, Kira.

COUNTDOWN WITH MORRIE

Kira made an countdown calendar for Jamie out of post-it notes and stuck it to the mirror in his dressing room. It's kind of like an Advent Calendar but, instead of, "how many sleeps until Christmas", this one is for counting, "how many sleeps until I get to go home".

It seems odd for me to be counting down to the finish when I haven't even been performing the show for two weeks yet, but Jamie has been doing it for months and is looking forward to sleeping in his own bed again.

Here he is tearing off the "4" sticker after Friday night's show.

And on a completely unrelated note....

When I went to Theatre Calgary the other night to see Jan Alexandra-Smith performing in "Lost - A Memoir", I was instructed by the parentals to get a photo of the Winnipeg cast of 'Drowsy Chaperone' (soon to be appearing at TC) who have become the poster children for Theatre Calgary's season. Here we are at the front doors of the theatre.

Bad lighting, but left to right there's: me, Debbie Maslowsky, Tim Gledhill, Kyle Blair, Naomi Costain, Dean Paul Gibson, Nadine Rodin, Deann deGruijter and Thom Allison

Jamie Farr Doesn't Come Around

Q: When is a revolve not a revolve?
A: When it doesn't.

In a recent performance of "Tuesdays With Morrie", we were all forced to answer the above question. If this blog were a film, I would split the screen into several segments to show you the action happening in several locations in simultaneous real time. Since that is impossible, I'll do my best to be the director of photography for your brain.

Near the top of the show, while I am on stage delivering a short monologue, the stage should revolve from the 'piano' set into the 'living room' set, with Jamie standing in the 'living room' set as it arrives. As I finish my monologue, I become aware that I cannot hear the very clunky and loud old revolve turning behind me.

A beat passes.

MONTAGE 1

ONSTAGE
I am thinking only of one thing. Before the show, Jamie had complained of not feeling well, citing an upset stomach. I am convinced that he had a gastro-emergency, ran to his dressing room and did not make it back to the stage in time for his entrance. I briefly run through my options: a) continue to sit in my chair, silent, and looking like a shmuck, b) continue talking even though I have nothing to say and can't even begin to imagine the drivel that might spew forth, c) leave the stage as I would normally do at this point in the show anyway. I choose 'c'.

BACKSTAGE
I exit to the wings and glimpse Jamie wandering in circles on the living room set that, by now, should be turned toward the audience. He is trying to find his way, in the darkness, onto the stage to pick up the show where I have left off. So, no gastro-emergency after all but, rather, something that is more complicated. There is no backstage crew to be seen anywhere. Unusual. Assistant Stage Manager, Darcy, has gone to find Kira, Woman In Charge Of Everything, to tell her that the revolve has malfunctioned.

IN THE BOOTH
Stage Manager, Sean, apparently posesses the magic touch that can repair the revolve. Once he realizes that the show is, indeed, going on and Jamie is on stage carrying on with his next scene, Sean makes the snap decision to leave the booth and race backstage to see if the revolve can be repaired. This leaves Sound Technician, Bronwyn, running both sound AND lights. Not terribly difficult in a show like this until you factor in the fact that the sound and lighting control panels are 6 feet apart and she is now required to extend her arms to their full length, left hand on the sound board, right hand on the lighting console, face pressed to the counter inbetween the two.

ONSTAGE
Jamie is plowing ahead with the show even though we are still in the wrong set, so I enter to do my very short cameo as the doctor who diagnoses him. As we finish this scene, A MIRACLE, the stage begins to revolve, though I am forced to leap out of the way of a divider panel which is headed directly for me. We calm down slightly as we are now in the living room set which is where the majority of the show takes place.

MONTAGE 2

ONSTAGE

We have made it through the bulk of the show, along with a great audience that has stayed with us in spite of a bit of a rocky start. Now, however, we are faced with another revolve, into the bedroom where we will play the bitter-sweet death scene. If the revolve doesn't work, it will be a bit challenging for us since Jamie (Morrie) is now supposed to be mostly immobile, relying on my support for any mobility he has. Limping off stage like this could be awkward. The moment of truth arrives and, ANOTHER MIRACLE, the stage revolves.

Now, the revolve in question is very old, and noisy. I am facing upstage and can see it get almost to it's correct position when it suddenly stops, pauses, then squeeks the last 8 inches to land on it's mark. It sounds like this.....rumble, rumble, rumble, rumble BANG/THUD...........rumble.

BACKSTAGE

During the middle section of the show everyone has been huddled around Sean, shining flashlights for him as he works on the revolve. He is pretty sure that it is fixed, but without being able to test it, no one can be sure. As a backup plan, Kira has recruited waitstaff to help push the revolve manually should it fail to function. (Another advantage of dinner theatre, being able to recruit last minute backstage labour). As the cue for the revolve is given, Kira, and said waitstaff, begin to push. Also, Darcy, hoping that everything has been repaired, turns the control knob. The revolve turns, leaving Kira heaving with all her might against an object which is suddenly not resisting. The "BANG/THUD" we hear onstage is Kira, moving not quite quickly enough to avoid that revolve machinery and falling, headlong, into the blackness backstage.

IN THE BOOTH

Sean, hearing the sound of something falling backstage, calmly asks, "Anyone hurt?". He is assured, over headset, that all is well.

After the show, Jamie thanks the audience for staying so focused and responsive in spite of our obvious technical glitches.

Upstairs in the greenroom, Kira calmly explains that the painful sounding BANG/THUD that we heard was actually her, falling down as the revolve moved away from her. Jamie begins to laugh so hard that he can't even speak. (And THIS is something I wish I had a picture of!) The rest of us join in and continue to giggle all the way to our respective homes.

Kira has assured us that when this show closes, in three days, the much used and very tired revolve will be thrown in the dumpster.

LION KING LOOMS CLOSER

I received word from the management offices in Australia that my Singapore work visa has been approved. The official email from the Ministry of Manpower of Singapore includes an endless list of documents that I'm required to bring, appointments I'm required to keep, and other very official instructions. By the end of the email, however, I felt like I owned a hair salon as they kept referring to me as "Mr. Patrick".


1. Mr.Patrick is to inform us of his available date at ...

2. Mr.Patrick is also to bring the following documents to MOM when
collecting his Employment Pass:

3. Before proceeding to MOM for his appointment, Mr.Patrick is required
to bring his Original Passport/Travel Document and Tourist Arrival Card ...

...Wash & Set with Mr. Patrick at 10:00

(Interesting that Ministry Of Manpower becomes the abbreviation MOM, no?)

IN OTHER NEWS

The official Lion King Singapore website has launched.
And tickets are now on sale.

The launch of the website and the beginning of ticket sales to the general public all coincided with the splashy press conference held in the future home of the show in Singapore.

Anyone who really wants to see the opening night performance might be interested to know that Marina Bay Sands has also launched a contest, the winner getting two VIP red carpet tickets for opening night, which seems to be locked in for March 10.

(Sadly, airfare not included. But, hey, what's $2000 and 30 hours of travelling to attend a "Landmark Event"!)

JELL-O SUPREEZE

I pulled off a great prank the other night, one that I'm rather proud of. Not an on-stage prank, but it did involve the theatre. Before I can show you the photographic evidence, however, I need to give you the background so that you can fully appreciate the punchline.

Years ago, when I shared a house with Roberta, on the first day we were moving in, we were standing in the bathroom and she lamented, "Oy mine gott, there's not place to hide tampons in here". I assured her that I was in no way frightened or offended by tampons and that they didn't need to be hidden. None-the-less, she squirreled them away in a corner of the linen closet. To make my point, that night after she was in bed, I grabbed a fistful of tampons and laid a trail of them on the floor leading from her bedroom door to the bathroom door. From that day on, the war was on. She would put them in my pillow, I would put them in her shoes. She would hide them in my desk drawers, I would put them in the candlestick holders. You get the idea. It went on for months.

So, last week, after I was finished work (watching "Tuesday's with Morrie" for the 4th time) a group of people gathered at a pub to share a drink and some gossip to celebrate my birthday. Roberta presented me with a lively coloured gift bag, stuffed with oodles of purple tissue paper. When I'd worked my way through all the tissue paper, I discovered....a tampon. And, just for good measure, a panty-liner. I believe my exact words were, "OK, game on!".

For the next few days, I waited for an inspiration and than remembered that Roberta would be at the Tuesday performance, my first performance, of "Tuesdays...". In a flash, it came to me. Since it is dinner theatre, I prepared a special dessert for her, which I had served to her by my long time friend and Assistant Stage Manager, Darcy.

May I present something I call, JELL-O SUPREEZE.

Yes, it IS a tampon in jello. The two accompanying tampons are drizzled with chocolate.

It had the desired effect. She did, however, take it home with her. I'm afraid that sometime in the future, it may be served back to me.

TUESDAYS WITH JAMIE FARR

It has been an informative journey arriving at my first performance of "Tuesdays With Morrie" after one week of "rehearsal". To clarify, my rehearsal consisted of:

-Two weeks of learning lines and blocking at home with the dvd recording of the show

Then, once I arrived in Calgary my rehearsal schedule was:

-Monday, line run with Kathi at The Auburn.

-Tuesday, line work with Kira playing Morrie. Discuss blocking details on stage with Rejean. Watch the evening show.

-Wednesday, watch the matinee. Watch the evening show.

-Thursday, run-thru on stage with Rejean playing Morrie. Watch the evening show.

-Friday, line work on stage with Kira.(at right)

-Saturday morning, my only rehearsal with Morrie actually being played by Jamie Farr. Watch the evening show.

-Sunday, watch the matinee, watch the evening show.

-Tuesday (the day of my first actual performance) a quick, pre-show line-run with Kira.

After watching the show 8 times, I felt like calling it "Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday with Morrie"!

I don't mind admitting that I was a bit of a wreck before my Saturday run-thru with Jamie. Not because I didn't know my stuff, but because I am coming in as a replacement for the final two weeks of a show that Jamie and Rejean have been playing together for months. The pressure is on me to try and keep the show as similar as possible for Jamie's sake. The challenge being, trying to mimic Rejean without doing an impersonation of him and still allowing enough of myself to come through so that the performance is honest. I didn't sleep well on Friday night. In the end, it went well and I went back to breathing normally.

I have to say that, throughout the entire process, Jamie has been very generous to me. He's been on the road for six months. He's tired and he's ready to go home. (I've been on the road that long and it tired me out. And I'm 25 years younger than he is.) When you add in the extra Saturday runthru with me, he had a 9-show week. That said, once he's on stage there is no hint of tiredness, only focus, energy, generosity and extraordinary commitment.

Our first performance together (for an audience) on Tuesday night went very, very well. I could hear plenty of sniffling and saw many hankies dabbing moist eyes in the first few rows. During our curtain call at the end of the show, because he's a bit of an old-fashioned gentleman, he turned and applauded me as I took my bow.

I'm really looking forward to the short time we will share together on the stage before the run finishes.

Old Mitch (Rejean)

Morrie (Jamie)

New Mitch (me)

AND JUST FOR SOME PERSPECTIVE

This website was created to bring awareness to the number of kids, heterosexual kids, who have been bullied to the point of suicide by homosexual kids.

IT'S CALLED AN INDICATOR

I'd just like to clarify something since there seems to be a great deal of confusion out there. That stick, poking out on the left hand side of the steering column in your car? Depending on the make and model of your car, it probably does a variety of things, but it's PRIMARY purpose is to serve as your 'turn indicator', also called your 'signal light'.

Now, I think the confusion lies in a lack of understanding of the definition of the terms 'indicate' or 'signal'.

INDICATE - To show the way to or the direction of. To point out.
...as in, "I'm using this little stick to indicate my intention to turn.

SIGNAL - A non-verbal action that sends a message. A coloured light as a means of communication.
...as in, "Because I have used my signal light, you are now aware of the fact that I will be turning left."

Let's be clear on the meaning of these terms. The little stick is meant to 'indicate' or 'signal' some action that has NOT occurred yet, your intention to turn. If you use the little stick AS YOU ARE COMPLETING THE TURN, then you have mis-understood the meaning of the words. If it is your habit to brake, and then, in mid-turn, flash your turn signal once or twice, you have created a Turn Confirmation and are not using the little stick to it's intended purpose. I do not need to see the flash of light as you are turning because I can see that you are turning. I would prefer to know that the reason you had been gradually slowing down to a crawl during the last kilometer was because you were intending to turn.

Let's make a pact. You will indicate, in advance of braking or slowing down, your intention to turn, and I will swear not to force you into the ditch, drag you from your car by the hair, and slam my hatch-back down your head a few times.

THE COUNTDOWN BEGINS

There have been a few significant events in the past week or two that have forced me to face the fact that the countdown to departure, whether I'm ready for it or not, has begun. When people have asked me if I'm starting to get excited yet about leaving, I've answered, quite honestly, that I've been intentionally NOT getting excited because my departure is still a few months away. That being said, pages are being turned and everything seems to have picked up a tiny bit of speed, a momentum that, though subtle, is definitely noticeable.

Here, in order, are the events that, collectively, have pulled me toward the centrifugal core of un-stoppable forward motion...

1) I got some bonus money.

Multitudes of people on several continents know by now that the production was significantly delayed. A contract that was initially going to open in October, is now opening in March. In a gesture that speaks volumes about generosity, confidence and commitment, the production company offered some money to help ease the financial burden of such a long delay. A way of partially compensating for income that might have been lost if one turned down work before the delay was announced.

2) I worked my last shift as a server

Yes, another season of flinging high-priced poutine at the ignorant and the indolent is over. How I'll miss growing a beard whilst the Mensa candidates try to decipher the menu. I'll yearn for the sound of ingrates and hillbillys mispronouncing 'tagliatelle', and 'Riesling'. My life will be a little more empty because I'm not running bread and water to a table of people who are so cheap that they're sharing a bowl of soup.

3) The tickets have gone on sale

Not general sale yet, just priority booking special offers, but still, money is changing hands so an opening night curtain is imminent.

For better or for worse, I have other work that will keep my focus (mostly) away from South East Asia for the next few weeks. That doesn't mean that I'm not still compiling a gigantic list of restaurants that I want to eat at in Singapore.

RELIGION IS LIKE A PENIS
IT'S OK TO HAVE ONE
IT'S OK TO BE PROUD OF IT
BUT PLEASE DON'T WHIP IT OUT IN PUBLIC AND START WAVING IT AROUND
AND PLEASE DON'T SHOVE IT DOWN OTHER PEOPLE'S THROATS

Serene Ravine

We were very honoured to attend a staff/family function at Ravine Vineyard recently.

Two of the original staff members were moving on to other projects and so the Harber family, the owners of the establishment, threw them a farewell celebration. Everything seemed to align to make it an almost blissfully perfect evening. A warm summer night that turned just cool enough to send the mosquitoes to bed as the sun set and the full moon rose over the Niagara escarpment. Plenty of Ravine wine as well as beer and spirits on hand. A delicious barbecue of whole suckling pig, fantastic sausages from Mario Pingue, fresh Ontario corn and a pasta salad.

Beyond all of the obvious trappings though, there is a sense of gemütlichkeit that seems to permeate the very soil of Ravine. The Harber family talks a lot about 'family' and since Norma Jane Harber's family has been working the site for 150 years, the idea of family is something concrete and evident, not just a vague concept. Every one of the 30 or 40 people there, staff and their significant others and assorted off-spring, were treated like members of the family. A rare gift in an age of mega-corporations and faceless services. But still, even beyond that, there was, for me at least, an incredible sense of calm and well-being as I wandered the estate, tasting Chardonnay and Merlot grapes, or as I sat with the vineyard and cellar team, around the bonfire which had been lit just at the edge of the vines. Was it the people who were present? Is it the great joy that emanates from the Harbers when they are surrounded by family & friends? Is there actually some magnetic force that pulses through the very soil of the vineyard? Or is it just me?

Ultimately, the answer doesn't really matter. It was a memorable evening, full of as much joy and good cheer as a dozen Christmases. I felt flattered to be included. I think we all did.

It is events like these, events unique to this terroir, that I will long for as I navigate my way through a tropical mega-city on the other side of the world.

TOO SOON FOR THE ACTORS' NIGHTMARE

Since I don't start my contract until January, it seems a bit early to be having the classic actors' nightmare which usually doesn't start until rehearsals are underway. Nonetheless...

I dream that I have to start my Lion King contract early but the news, of course, comes so suddenly that I have no time to learn the lines. The show is already in previews but is being performed without make-up, minimal costumes and unfinished sets. I am sitting in the front row of a theatre in my 'costume' (some weird get-up that seems awkward and uncomfortable) watching the opening of the show, waiting for my entrance. The show looks terribly amateur, with half-finished back-drops and thrown-together costumes and I am frozen with terror, being unsure when my entrance happens.

I go up the aisle to the lobby of the theatre and find Sandra Shamas who is, apparently, the stage manager of the show. We realize that I don't even have my microphone on yet and, as I didn't have time to put my contact lenses in and am still wearing my glasses, she decides to tape the mic to the arm of my glasses. The rest of the cast is horrified and thinks this is a terrible idea. An argument ensues.

There. Perhaps it's out of my system now?

It's not my fault if you're drunk

So, SmartServe, or as I call it, SchmuckServe, is the Ontario Government's way of "training" me to serve alcoholic beverages. Now, let's be very clear about something. In no way do I agree with the fact that policing your alcohol intake is my responsibility. If I'm responsible for your actions after I give you alcohol, then the gun seller is responsible for your shooting deaths, the convenience store clerk who sold you the cigarettes is responsible for your cancer, and the (government controlled) liquor store is responsible for your alcoholism.


But lets talk about the course itself. To call this a course is like calling a made-in-China-princess-halloween-costume a "ball gown". It is like calling a popcorn fart a symphony. It is like calling Miracle Whip, mayonnaise. What we have here is a 2-3 hour course. That's it. Two to three hours. About the same amount of time it takes to get tired of your dinner guests once the table has been cleared. Within this short time period, you will be "trained" in "...safe and responsible practices...". It is only a government employee who could create a package, complete with a workbook and accompanying DVD, that uses up 2 to 3 hours of your valuable time just to say, "If this drunk customer kills someone with their car, you could be held responsible because some other drunk hired a really good lawyer once upon a time." And then, to make matters worse, the government itself makes this training MANDATORY and then makes everyone pay to take it.

But here's my favourite thing... I can take the training on-line by myself, and then, at the end of the 2 or 3 hours, I CAN GIVE MYSELF THE TEST!


So what we really have here is a knee-jerk reaction to a legal system out of control. This "training" is little more than propaganda, a fascist-like handbook for those who are expected to run scared by the threat of possible, future litigation. In short, this course is simply some bureaucrats' way of saying, "Can't sue us, we gave everyone training. Nya, nya."




SmartServe is the impotent indoctrinating the indolent. Or is it the other way around?

America's missing atlas

There is a little known, but serious tragedy stalking our neighbors to the south. It would seem that the cuts to education are deeper and have gone on longer than any of us suspected. I think we all know that education budgets have taken a huge hit in recent years, but I'm starting to wonder if geography was one of the first subjects to go, perhaps as long as 40 years ago.

In my alternate-universe-job as a waiter, I am constantly meeting citizens of Les Etats Loonie who are pleasantly surprised that they don't need to wear the sweaters that they packed. You see, many of these poor things are still labouring (YES, there IS a "u" in laboring) under the delusion that once they cross the border, they will need to get about on cross-country skis from igloo to igloo, hunting down Mounted Police for directions and trading American made blue-jeans for food.

All right, I exaggerate, ...but only slightly. To prove my point, I include the following excerpts from real, live conversations about the mysterious country many find themselves in.
***********************************************************************************************************
THEM: Hi. We just checked in. We're from Connecticut? ... ... ... USA?
ME: Yes, I'm familiar with Connecticut. We get quite a few visitors from your neck of the woods here.
THEM: Really?
ME: Yeah. That's most of our tourism here actually.
THEM: We didn't think people would come this far north.
*************************************************************************************************************
ME: Would you like to have lunch on the veranda or inside the restaurant?
THEM: Oh, inside please, get away from this Canadian heat wave.
ME: This usually happens every year, it's just a little early this year.
THEM: Early?
ME: Yeah. Usually August is when you pray for rain, or cold. Sometimes September, but usually August. That's what makes it good fruit growing country.
THEM: Really?
ME: Usually.
THEM: Hot? Like this?
ME: Mm-Hmm.
THEM: Every year?
ME: Pretty much.
THEM: Huh.
*****************************************************************************************************************
THEM: Is your minute the same as our minute?
ME: Sorry?
THEM: Well, you're metric here.
ME: Yes.....?
THEM: So if I put a quarter in the meter, is it the same minute?
ME: ...(stunned silence)
********************************************************************************************************************
THEM: I packed all long pants. I figured I was coming up north.
ME: You might need long pants in the spring, but you're pretty safe in June in southern Ontario.
THEM: Still, you know, ....north.
ME:Actually, did you know that you are further south right now that Seattle, Washington?
THEM: No kidding?
ME: True. In fact, you are further south than the entire state of Washington. Further south than Minnesota, most of Wisconsin and both Dakotas.
THEM: Really? I might have to look that up.
ME: You do that. Good luck.
*****************************************************************************************************************

WHERE ARE YOUR MANNERS?

I have noticed a disturbing trend over the past few years. Apparently, people seem to feel no shame whatsoever when they steal other people's booze at a BYOB party, which is what most parties tend to be these days. I started noticing this about 10 years ago when I attended the occasional house party thrown by various and sundry Shaw Festival folks, usually actors. I got so tired of opening a bottle of wine, having one glass and returning to find the bottle empty that I got into the habit of carrying the bottle with me and drinking directly from it. Ok, so it's possible that the odd individual may be too drunk to notice that the wine label is different from the one they brought, wine labels being what they are, but EVERY SINGLE BOTTLE disappeared at EVERY SINGLE PARTY!

This past weekend, I attended one of my favourite events: the roof-top party/watching of the annual Pride Parade in Toronto. I had a bottle of Pinot Grigio and came up with what I thought was a rather clever idea. I bought a bottle of soda water, mixed the wine and soda together and poured the mixture back into the two bottles. Voila! Two bottles of pre-mixed, spritzer 'light', one in the soda water bottle and one in the wine bottle. I took the soda water bottle with me to the roof and left the wine bottle in the fridge. After some parading, and sharing around a glass or 3 of my bottle, I decided I should go down and get the 'reserve' bottle from the fridge. Imagine my surprise (actually, I thought I was going crazy) to find it missing. Not wanting to think the worst of anyone at this function, I tore the fridge apart, assuming that it had simply been moved for some reason. But, alas, no. Upon returning to the roof, there was the empty bottle sitting, discarded, forlorn & ignored in the roasting sun.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? Did you ask anyone, least of all me, if it would be all right to 'share' some of my spritzer? And it's not like you sneakily helped yourself to a sly glass-full, YOU DRANK THE WHOLE FUCKIN' BOTTLE!!!! Did you feel that your contribution of food entitled you to some free booze? Oh, wait, outside of a bag of sunchips, some rice crackers and mini-tub of humus, the rest of the food was brought by......
um.......oh yes....ME!!!!!!!! Mm-hm. That big bowl of blueberries you enjoyed. I brought that. The delicious Benedictine blue cheese? I brought that. The super-spicy Genoa salami. I brought that. Oh, and the bottle of wine you stole? I brought that too, BUT FOR MYSELF!!!

Please people, scrape together your spare change, go out into the streets and see if you can buy a clue!!! If you didn't bring it, and it's not on the buffet, IT'S NOT YOURS. And remember, karmic justice is swift and furious. Right now, someone is taking something from you that you don't want them to have, and I am standing on a roof top on Yonge street, pointing and laughing.

Life at the speed of summer

One of the things I find absolutely blissful about country life are those days that drift by, silent, breezy and rippling back and forth through time, as though everything is happening quickly/slowly/all-at-once. The birds squeep, the cats loll in the shade or romp through the yard, the bees buzz happily on the abundant blossoms, and the occasional car going down the road in front of the house is the only reminder that there is a world outside of this little plot of land. It is these days, when I see no one (except for Michael), when I don't leave the confines of the yard except to gaze at the neighbors fish pond on the other side of the hedge, these days that I drink in like ambrosia, knowing that in a few months, I'll be living in a hot, crowded and very noisy country in Southeast Asia.

And so it is that I take extra pleasure in recording my itinerary for the day, knowing that a year or so from now, I will look back on it and giggle.... and then sigh, wistfully.

7:30
Cat begins pounding around on the bed, looking for breakfast. Toss her out and close the door.
8:00
Give up on idea of sleeping in and focus on cat that is now scratching on closed bedroom door. Get up, feed cats, toss them outside.
8:10
While water for coffee is coming to the boil, shuffle through the hedge in pajamas to feed neighbor's cats.
8:15
Pour coffee, park at dining room table with laptop. Surf blogs. Bookmark restaurants in Singapore that I want to visit.
8:25
Let cats in. Let cats out.
9:00
Let cats in. Let cats out.
9:15
Make more coffee. Let cats in. Let cats out.
9:40
Neighbor's dog has been barking for 25 minutes. Stand at back door and yell, "Oh for God's sake, let the dog in!" They do.
10:00
Put load of darks in washing machine.
10:05
Change into gardening clothes. Begin weeding herb garden.
10:35
Hang darks load on line. Put whites load in washing machine. Let cats in. Let cats out.
11:10
Re-wash whites load with bleach because of stray red t-shirt that got mixed in to what is now pinks load.
12:00
Hang whites load on line. Continue weeding.
1:00
Give up on weeding for the day and begin to search for paintbrush with which to apply coat of tung oil to recently re-finished sideboard.
1:20
Abandon plan to work on sideboard as no paintbrush can be found. Go back to bookmarking restaurants on laptop in dining room.
1:30
Let cats in. Let cats out.
2:00
Begin searching recipe books with Michael in order to devise plan for dinner.
2:30
Let cats in. Let cats out.
3:00
Meditate.
4:20
Wash dishes. Fix door handle on back door. Put pork tenderloin into marinade. Let cats in. Let cats out.
5:00
Pour glass of wine.Take laptop outside onto back deck in order to waste time more enjoyably in the glorious, muggy thickness of another Niagara summer.
5:15
Note cats sleeping nearby on deck.

LUV YOUR DENTIST

I love my dentist. In fact, I think I may have the best dentist in the world. I say this because I just had a marathon visit, spending almost 4 hours in the chair having a root canal, then having a crown replaced. I realize that it may be rare for people to cheer for their dentist, but mine continues to do everything necessary to make me the most loyal customer in the history of oral hygiene.

I found Dr. D through circumstance. I was doing a show with his daughter and she suggested that my partner design the children's waiting area in the new dental offices they were building. Part of the contract was some bonus check-ups and cleanings for my partner and I. My first visit was not a happy one. I received the news that my gum disease was so advanced that I was in danger of losing my teeth. This was news to me since I had been obediently having yearly cleanings and check-ups with another dentist for the past eight years. The hygienist who gave me the bad news suggested that if my previous dentist had never mentioned my receding gums, he should probably be dragged behind a car. I have the rope and am still looking for him.

So Dr. D explains my new predicament thusly: "If you think of your teeth as fence posts and your gums as the earth, right now you've got a bunch of ten-foot posts in three feet of dirt. They could start to get a little 'wiggly'." He says the word "wiggly" as though he finds the word amusing, like he might say it to one of his six-year-old patients. There is no cure for this problem outside of some rather painful and expensive surgery. As an alternative, Dr. Dave suggests having my teeth cleaned four times a year. "We can't reverse it, but we can stop it." This is not something a self employed person with no health coverage wants to hear. But appointments were made and cleanings commenced, all under the guise of the aforementioned design contract, even though the freebies and discounts extended well beyond what was originally agreed to.

The good news is that we did indeed stop the advancement of the disease. So much so that I now only go for a cleaning every 4 months instead of every 3 (and I pay for the cleanings now). The bad news is that teeth, like the rest of your body, have a way of acting up as one gets older. I developed a cavity underneath an old crown and the only fix for this is removal of the old crown, root canal and installing a new crown. Now, let's clear up a few things here. Root canals are the most feared dental procedure known to man because people associate them with pain. The pain, though, is usually caused by the symptoms leading up to the procedure, not the procedure itself. That said, I can think of more comfortable things than having your mouth jacked open for 4 hours while someone drills, saws, hammers, laminates, colour-matches and generally renovates your teeth. If, however, you do have to live through this slightly surreal experience, I can only hope for you that it will be done by someone as placid, as professional, as thorough, as knowledgeable and as gentle as my dentist.

Ooh....ooh, and did I mention that he has a machine that takes a picture of your mouth and your old crown, then turns it into a 3D CAD drawing and sends the data to a small machine that looks like a futuristic bread box that carves the new crown while you watch....in 7 minutes!!!! Oh-so-cool.

So the inside of my mouth is still a little tender and the muscles in my jaw hurt if I yawn, but I received a beautiful new crown, the benefit of a 'family discount', and some of the best medical care in the world. What's not to love?

Old and Mouthy

At what age is it that people suddenly decide that it's OK to just speak their mind. To say what ever they want to say, to whomever they want to say it to, regardless of whether or not it's appropriate. I'm speaking specifically of the elderly here. We've all met them, and perhaps even have one or two of them in the family. They are the ones that blurt out things that, had they come from a younger person, would normally incite a fist-fight, particularly since the recipient of the barb is often a total stranger.

"Oh honey, you shouldn't wear that, it makes you look fat."

There are, of course, those people that have been out-spoken their whole lives, but those individuals tend to be the smaller percentage and are in a different category all together. They usually come with a reputation, built up over a life-time, and are often the local 'old coot' or 'bitter spinster'. They work hard to maintain this reputation as it keeps the unwanted at arms-length.

"My goodness, you're as black as the ace of spades, aren't you?"

No, the people I'm curious about are the ones that seem to flip a switch, waking up one morning and deciding that they have nothing left to lose. They fear not for their jobs because they no longer have them, they fear not for their personal reputations because they're old enough to not give a shit about status, and they fear not what others will think of them because they seem to be able to focus purely on themselves and their own needs.

"Are you pregnant, dear, or just spending a little too much time at the buffet?"

I remember watching Tina Turner on television with a room full of people when my Grandfather caused me to nearly swallow my tongue by announcing to the room, "A nigger with red hair? Now I've seen everything!" Try as I might, there was no way I could impress upon him the myriad of social taboos he had just unleashed.

"Heavens, you're so short you must have a hard time finding clothes that fit."

I have a theory about this. I believe that our world shrinks as we age. We need less space, we consume less, we do less, we see less, we hear less, we begin to create a smaller and smaller world around ourselves. I think that eventually, we judge everything by how it affects us and our shrinking world. We pay less and less attention to the opinions of the masses, the pundits, the press, the family, social mores and political correctness and comment loudly and clearly on those things on which we have focused our microscope.

"Don't bother bringing me coffee unless it's hot enough. I don't like coffee that isn't hot enough. Is it hot enough? I hope it's hot enough."

Perhaps these folks long for a time when the aged were venerated and given elevated status. Or perhaps a culture where us young'uns line up to hear them dispense the wisdom of their times. Perhaps I too will long for such a time when I am shuffling and mumbling.

"When I was your age..."

Is it wrong of me to tell them to shut up?

How To Get Good Service

It is a common misconception that the servants in the great estate homes of turn-of-the-century England kept their heads down and their mouths shut. Not true. It was not unheard of for a servant to tell a Master or Mistress that they had over-stepped their bounds or acted inappropriately. Lady Astor and her maid of twenty-odd years were known to have regular, epic shouting matches. The point being that an unspoken contract exists between those who serve and those who are being served and it is important that BOTH sides understand how the system works.

Part of being 'in exile' is working in the service industry, namely, restaurants. Day after day, I witness people who don't understand what their obligations are in the unspoken contract between server and customer. If you want good service, you need to fulfill your part of the bargain. And here's the great thing about it, ...IT'S EASY! Servers love serving 'diners', those people who dine out regularly, know how a restaurant works and enjoy discovering what a restaurant (or a server) has to offer. Even if you don't dine out often, using these simple tips will give the impression that you do and you WILL notice a difference in the way servers treat you.

1) ALLOW THE HOSTESS TO SEAT YOU
This may sound overly simplified, but people fight their seating choices all the time. Understandable if you're right next to the bathroom or stuck in a back corner, but how bad can any one table really be? A good hostess will cycle customers through the various servers so that no one server gets overwhelmed with too many people at once, thus limiting the time and attention spent with new tables. If you have special requests, make them with your reservation or tell the host immediately upon arrival.


2) LOOK YOUR SERVER IN THE EYE
Again, this sounds simple, but it's very common for people to address the air or the table when speaking to a server. Also, we know you're excited to be out for the evening, or perhaps you haven't seen your friends for a long time, but your server is only going to be at your table for a few minutes and then you can carry on with your conversation. Put your menu down, stop your conversation and pay attention. Part of your server's job is to 'read' you and they have a very short time to do this. Help them help you by giving them your attention. The sooner the menus can be dispensed with, the sooner your evening can really get under way.

3)KNOW WHAT YOU WANT
If your server asks if you are ready to order, and you say, "Yes", don't sit staring at the menu making "erm" and "uhm" sounds. If you're not ready, it's all right to say so. And don't ask your server, "What do you recommend?". Many servers will just suggest the most expensive item or push what ever the kitchen is trying to get rid of. At least narrow your choices down to 2 or 3 and ask for details about them, or ask the server if they have a preference between them.


4)DON'T REWRITE THE MENU
With all due respect, if you want it the way you have it at home, then stay home, or open your own restaurant. It's one thing to ask for your salad dressing to be on the side, it's another to start pulling apart the menu creating your own dish out of scavenged pieces of all the other dishes. Good restaurants, and good chefs work hard to give a range of choices to appeal to all tastes. Try it the way the chef created it, open up to the experience, you might just like it. And please don't ask for salt & pepper if it's not on the table. Chances are that if it's not there, the chef feels that the food is already correctly seasoned.

5)DON'T HELP
Unless you have completely re-arranged the table setting or have your chair pushed so far back that access is impossible, you don't need to move glasses or coffee cups for access. Let the staff work around you, just be aware that they are there. And please, please don't stack your plates when you are finished. You are not helping and it's a sure sign that you are not a 'diner', especially if you top the dirty stack with your napkin. Keep it in your lap until you leave.



OTHER TIPS
-Pull your chair in, knees under the table. People need to be able to reach the table in front of you and they need clearance behind you. A dining room is a shared space. You're not in your living room.
-Calling your server by name doesn't automatically make them your friend. Demonstrating that you know how to dine out will gain you much more respect and attention.
-Instead of asking if there are any "specials" ask what the "daily features" might be. Good restaurants have 'features', roadside cafes have 'specials'.
-Use your words. I am so tired of people who look at me and say, "Water?" or, "Bathroom?", that I now just stare blankly back at them until they articulate what they want. "Please", "Thank-you", and "May I" have not gone out of fashion.
-Your screaming child is probably not what the other diners in the restaurant planned on for their evening. Take it out of the room or get a sitter.
-Once you have finished coffee and dessert, leave. If the evening is going very well and there is so much more to talk about, a bar or lounge can't be very far away. While you are spending that extra 40 minutes chatting after dinner, someone may be waiting for your table. And if the restaurant suddenly seems very quiet, it's probably because you are the last people there. It's time to go home.

A WORD ON TIPPING
This is a hot-button issue for some people and it is those people that need most to pay attention.

Menu prices reflect the cost of running the restaurant. Servers make a much lower minimum wage than everyone else because their tips (theoretically) make up the difference. If servers in North America were paid like servers in Europe, the menu prices would be much higher and your service would more often come with a hefty helping of attitude.

Be aware that your server pays a percentage to the bartender, hostess and bussers based on what your table BOUGHT, not what you TIPPED. If you cheap-out on the tip, your server's tip-out is being covered by what the other tables may or may not have left.
Unless you have a habit of eating at one-star restaurants, it should be a rare occasion when a "zero-tip" or a "teach-a-lesson-tip" is called for. Frankly, if you are not happy with your service, it is your obligation to say so early in the meal by calling for a manager and requesting another server. If your food was improperly prepared, but your service was good, tell a manager, don't penalize the server. If the hostess was rude or the busboy spilled coffee on your dress, tell a manager, don't penalize the server. Shorting the tip is like lecturing a cat, you might feel vindicated, but the problem is far from solved. And, if you do bring issues to the attention of management, you may find that they can be convinced to compensate you with a round of drinks or free dessert.

Bottom line - Usually your service is going to be at least adequate, which means you will leave an adequate tip (10%). Most often, your service will actually be good which means you will leave a good tip (10-15% at lunch, 15-20% at dinner). Now and then, your server will blow you away and totally make your night at which point you will feel really good about yourself when you leave a stupidly generous tip. Remember, if you can afford to spend $200 on dinner, you can afford to pay the person that served it to you.

Wal-mart, the entrance to the mouth of hell

I went on a search for a new bicycle yesterday. I love my old 'granny bike' with the wide-ass comfort seat, but it has no gears and, frankly, it's just too much work going up hills or against the wind. As I was doing my comparison shopping, I decided that in order to make a proper sweep of the city, I should check stock and prices at Wal-mart. I don't know why I do this to myself. I don't like Wal-mart. I don't like what it stands for....the whole lie of the "more for less" philosophy. And I certainly don't like the fact that they're now a grocery store that specializes in nothing but processed, pre-packaged foods. But what really hurts my soul (and causes me to vow, every time, that I will never return) are the people that shop there.

I continue to be astounded at the number of fat people, women mostly because they are still the shoppers in the family, who are piling frozen dinners and other assorted 'bargains' into their shopping carts. And let's be clear, the majority of these bargain-seekers are not a little chubby. They are obese. They are fat enough that they have given up wearing anything but elastic-waist pants and slip on shoes/sandals. Their faces are set into a permanent frown from the weight pulling the corners of their mouths down. Those that have finished their shopping are gathered outside, lined up against the wall of the store, smoking and waiting for taxis or husbands to ferry them away. Making one's way to the front door is to navigate the chaos they create, a death-maze of shopping carts, baby strollers and ragged children darting in every direction screaming an endless litany of "I want, I want, I want...".

Those that are not the XXL shoppers fall into 3 categories: the frighteningly skinny, the terrifyingly old, or the tragically normal. The skinny are generally women who, for some reason, tend to favour a poofy hair style, even though this makes them look like a Q-tip with arms. A smoking Q-tip with arms. A smoking Q-tip with huge, circular eye glasses and arms.

The old are usually just that. Old, old, old. Now, I've often been criticizing for criticizing the old, being chided with, "Now, you'll be old one day too." That's true, I will be, as will we all. But I won't be old and clueless. I know plenty of old and older people with a pulse, a quick wit and an awareness of what's going on around them. The Wal-mart Old shuffle through the aisles unaware of anyone or anything around them. They drive their shopping carts into your ankles much in the same way that they drive their overly large cars into the rear-end of your economy, gas-saving, hybrid at a stop sign. They stop dead in front of you, blocking your progress, for no apparent reason. Much the same as they do in their cars. They hold up the cash line for ten minutes, digging through their change purses looking for those two pennies that will save them from being tipped over by the weight of the .98 cents in change they might get.

Sprinkled throughout this potpourri of human horror are the normals, those individuals who don't think that The Bay or Sears are over-priced, but shop at Sqaul-mart because they feel obligated to save a few cents. They have succumbed to the false barrage of "Save, Save, Save" which inundates them daily. Occasionally, I turn a corner and spot one these 'normies' and breathe a sigh of relief. Then, I start to wonder if just being in the store itself, the entrance to the mouth of hell, is what might eventually turn them into a gigantic-food-consumer or a shuffling zombie. How many visits will it take before any trace of normalcy disappears forever and their life becomes an endless search for the cheapest possible made-in-China-crap or a two-for-one sale in frozen, deep fried food? It is usually at this point that I run for the parking lot, swearing never to return and checking myself for signs of white-trash infection.