Being Ripped Off By Publishers

Do you know what I hate?

It's being ripped off by book and  magazine publishers.

This is all about price.

Recently, I purchased a collection of Japanese manga (comic book) stories called Naruto.

It was a collection in book form of previously published material from a Japanese magazine called Shonen Jump.

To be honest, the brand name is unimportant, or where it is from - this is a global rant.

Anyhow, after I bought the book and finished reading it over a couple of days, I noticed the price, or should I say prices, on the back of the book.

It was $9.99 in Canadian currency.

But, only $7.95 in U.S. dollars.

What the hell? Or, if you prefer, WTF?

In case you are unaware, the Canadian and U.S. currencies having been trading at or around par for quite some time now. Like since 2007.

So, why am I forced to pay an extra $2.04 for a book available cheaper in the U.S.?

At first I thought - well... maybe this book was printed before 2007.

Well, the original material was first printed in 1999 in Japan. but, the first edition of the collected works in English was printed in 2003.

That explains it, right? Wrong. My copy is the 23rd printing from April 2010. If Canada and the U.S. weren't at par at the time, we had a stronger dollar than the U.S.

So why am I being asked to pay more?

For years, back in the 1980s and 1990s - when Canada's dollar sucked when compared to the US, people like myself who collected comic books often had obscene exchange rates imposed on us by Marvel Comics and DC Comics.

While the difference per dollar may have been about $0.30 in exchange, these publishers, and others, often were asking for 40 cents more on the dollar.

It got so that I couldn't afford my hobby, and I was forced to choose which books I really, really wanted to read and began cutting back on what I purchased.  But what did it matter - the publishers still got my money - and more. But that also meant some books lost a reader. And probably a lot more than just me.

It's either pure and simple greed, or publishers are too cheap to pay for a new cover to the magazine or book, as that means higher printing press rates.

So... instead, you cheap bastards make the consumer pay.

And you are right... if I don't like it, I don't have to purchase your product.

After 40 years, I stopped collecting comic books. I have close to 40,000 comic books. Some old, some rare, some shrewdly purchased, and some bought new from the comic stores.

And books from book stores? How's business folks? People still reading a lot? Or is there a reason why you also sell coffee there and offer free wi-fi? Is there a reason you also sell toys like LEGO there? It's a book store. Books. Paper.

I prefer to purchase used books because I am tired of being ripped off by publishers. Which is sad, you know, because as a writer, the last thing I would want to do is hurt another writer.

But your narrow-mindedness is causing me to call a halt to the purchase of new books, too. And I hate doing that.

Now... I know major book seller Indigo (here in Canada) is also concerned about the outrageous price difference regarding Canadian and US currencies... it offers discounts on the larger, more expensive books and proffers on-line deals... but I don't care... most of the books I purchase are simple paperbacks... mysteries, comedies... books that aren't affected by their deep discounts.

I don't blame Indigo... at least they are doing something, when really, they don't have to.

But... we all know where the real problem lies, don't we? The place where everyone is concerned that print is dead... that no one is buying books anymore because no one is reading.

You're shooting yourselves in the proverbial foot.

Do you know what I hate?

I hate being ripped off by publishers.

Walking Behind Women In Shopping Malls

Do you know what I hate?

It's walking behind women in shopping malls.

Do you see that photo above? I'm at the very back of that line, I'm hungry, and this is my daily nightmare.

Now hopefully that 'woman' crack wasn't too sexist a comment. It's an observation thought of every day as I walk through a busy shopping mall at lunch time searching for food or LEGO or Easter eggs or hair color (I'll deny it if directly asked).

I'm a quick walker, but I also have my wits about me. That means I observe when there are idiots on their cell phones ambling along the pathways like drunks on a bender, or small children walking without their parent's guiding hand ambling beside me so I can avoid them.

I purposely walk about 1-1/2 meters away from the store entrances/exits because people (women) frequently come barreling out of the stores without a care for what is walking in front of them.

I don't want to take anybody out with my 200-pound-plus frame and superior walking power. Despite body fat, I have a lot of muscle. I also have a purpose, and I know what it is when I enter any mall.

So I am observant.

I swerve out of the way of the children, incessant phone talkers, those people who walk slowly four abreast oblivious to the fact that there are other people in the mall.

And sometimes... I am forced to walk behind women. It happens every day I am in a shopping mall.

Normally - especially in the summer when the clothing is shorter - I enjoy walking behind women. I don't dawdle or ogle, but I look and admire briefly, with just the right amount of testosterone and intelligence so as not to be obscene.

I observe, because that is what I do. I look and I learn.

But despite my appreciation of the female form in all its glories, as mentioned, I really do hate walking behind women at shopping malls.

Why? Because women at shopping malls, whether alone or with a gaggle of other women like to stop suddenly in the midst of their walking.

Oh! There's something to look at! A sale on something I don't need or want! But it's on sale, so I'll actually be saving money!

Because I am ever vigilant, I am able to quickly side-step these bouncing Betty's, but it's still annoying. I'm getting older and pretty soon I won't be able to dodge my balls quickly enough to get out of your apparent right of passage.

I'm not saying I have the right of way - I don't. This is a shared information superhighway.

I am observant. I am wary of where I am and that there are other people in the mall - why can't they? Why do I have to avoid other people? I'm the faster and heavier vehicle on the road. I will run you down and you will possibly get hurt. I don't want to do that. You don't want me to do that. So why do you put yourself in possible harm's way?

It's like driving and being aware of your surroundings. I'm a damn good driver who no longer speeds. I've never smashed into anyone - but that's because I provide myself with enough time and space to react properly.

I expect other drivers to do the same, and to a large extent both male and female drivers do just that.

But at the mall, all bets are off.

So I have to dash to a side to avoid rear ending these women, which only sounds a lot more interesting and fun than what it really is.

It keeps me on my toes, but it's hardly fun for me.

If more people were aware of their surroundings and actually gave a rat's ass about other people, fewer people would get hurt or become an annoyance.

Why should I have to look out for your well-being as well as my own? It's not fair and I hate having to be responsible for everyone when all I want is to get rid of my grey (I'm not going grey!).

Kids, the elderly, pregnant women, women with strollers - whatever. That's cool.

I know it's rough, and I have no truck with you. But when I walked the malls with my son in his stroller, I was always aware of where we were. I didn't want him to get hurt.

And I don't want to hurt anyone... but can you give me a break, please?

Yeah, yeah... women like to shop while men go to malls to purchase. No problem. Just be aware.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
(Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5)

Do you know what I hate?

It's walking behind women in shopping malls.

Easily Solvable U.S. TV Police Dramas

Do you know what I hate?

Easily solvable U.S. TV police dramas.

There is nothing worse than sitting down for what one supposes is a police drama - well, written, well-acted and thought-provoking only to have it spoiled early on in the broadcast.

If that seems like a paradox, it's not.

What spoils it for me is how often a whodunnit is solved because of who has been cast in the show.

Maybe I'm going to spoil it for you, too, but if you are watching a police drama, check out the actors.

I don't mean the usual cast, rather I'm talking about the special guest stars.

As soon as you see a well-known actor appear in a role longer than a cameo, you know who did it.

No well-known actor worth his salt is going to be hired to play a minor role. No! They are being hired to play a major role. And... 9 times out of 10, that person is the criminal.

Don't believe me - check it out. Everything from CSI, to Law & Order and all points in-between.

It's ridiculous.

Perfectly well-written and acted shows ruined by the casting director.

Hunh. Maybe I should say I hate casting directors.

If you to find that this fatal flaw in casting to be true, might I suggest you watch a British cop drama - all over PBS on Masterpiece Theatre and others. DCI Banks, Midsomer Murders, Frost, Lewis, Inspector Morse, Cracker, Lovejoy... shows I suggest because unless you live in the United Kingdom, you probably don't know these actors or guest stars and as such, there will be no clue as to who actually did it.

As an aside, I believe only Midsomer Murders actually has proper sound pick-ups. I find I have to crank the volume up quite high on all the other shows, as their outdoor sound quality is appalling.

Do you know what I hate?
     
Easily solvable U.S. TV police dramas.

Racism

Do you know what I hate?

Racism.

Today, I received my first racist comment on one of my blogs. Hell... right below where people are free to leave comments, I state that comments about race et al are not welcome. Is racism blind? It would be better if they were blind to race.

I published it within this - You Know What I Hate? - blog only to admonish the anonymous commentator.

I have no idea why I am surprised about receiving a racist comment. It wasn't directed at me, but was more of a casual offhand remark which is perhaps more surprising, as in this day and age, it's real easy for anyone, should they wish, to track down who exactly is doing what on the Internet.

And yet.. I was surprised. By the 21st century, overt racism has been replaced with acceptance and understanding... or perhaps, for some, it's just gone into hiding.

It would be ignorant of myself to have assumed racism doesn't exist - it does.

A very good friend of mine described the phenomenon of DWB. Driving while Black here in the greater Toronto area.

He's not the stereotypical Black dude gang-banger we see on television or the rapper type on the music videos, rather he is a well-spoken, educated young man with a family who, like myself, lives in a community that is largely White dominated.

It is because there so few Blacks in the area, whenever he drove his own car there, he would be pulled over by the police for a 'routine' check. He wasn't pulled over because he was breaking the law, but rather because the police suspected he, a young Black man, was up to no good in the predominantly White area.

Toronto does not have segregated areas. I should state that, up front. But, the farther one gets from the city of Toronto proper, the fewer visible minorities there are.

When my family (of Indian descent) moved into the current part of Etobicoke (now part of the City of Toronto) back in 1973, we were pretty much the entire minority population... although there was one another family farther down the block, and a Filipino family around the corner. Otherwise, it was Ukrainian, Italian, and Canadian White - which is a term I can't explains, but if you saw the folks, you might understand. I'm just describing the area... I never really noticed anything else, except that the kids were curious about me and asked questions and learned.

While my friend who happens to be Black, after the police determined he 'was supposed to be in the area' because he lived there, they simply let him go on his way. No explanation about why he was stopped. No apology for the inconvenience.

So... racism exists.

In my family, I have a White wife, a mixed son, aunts and uncles from India, The Bahamas, Trinidad & Tobago, French Canada, English Canada, Americans, Scottish, Irish, English, and mixes of all of those. Canada is a melting pot. I was engaged to a Buddhist Japanese woman at one time.... Jewish grandma... it's a whole grab bag. My friends are from all corners of the world and of every race, color, creed and sexual orientation (and then some). They are rich, poor, richer and poorer for better or for worse married, divorced, single, thinking about changing their situation and from a variety of professions that would make your head spin. But, unless they have no idea who I am, none of them are racist.

Despite by taste for racism, race means nothing to me. The same with religion. Despite having a political science degree, I'm not likely to care about one's political affiliation. Sexual preference - whatever. Love and do as you will.

As I get older, it seems to me that more and more people to whom I am exposed to in my daily life are not the type to care about race - it has given me hope to think that such archaic racial stereotypes or fears would be on the way to extinction.

And then... I'm reminded we aren't there yet.

Do you know what I hate?

Racism.

Kid's Birthday Party Gift Bags

Do you know what I hate?

It's kid's party gift bags.

There used to be a time when you as a kid were invited to a birthday party and you (your parents) would shell out for a gift for the lucky bastard getting older. The parents of the birthday child would shell out a few bucks for a birthday cake - maybe they would take the kids out to go bowling or some other activity, but often enough the kids would all hang around the house playing board games just having fun.

But no longer. Not only does the family of the parents have to organize an activity where they can rent a room outside their house, but they also have to pony up cash to purchase gift bags for all of the kids who came to the party!

What the hell is that? The Oscars? Cannes?

When did it come to this? Where kids EXPECT to receive a present just for showing up to a birthday party?!

And it's not just a simple gift bag! No! Parents are now out to outdo one another, with grander and grander gifts filled with more crap, tissue paper and a fancy gift bag to give to a six-year-old who could care less!

On many an occasion, the amount of stuff in the gift bag far exceeded the $20 limit we spent on a present for the birthday child! 

When did it become less about having a pizza slice, some cake, and singing happy birthday to a friend?

When did it also have to become about giving presents to the guests to thank them for coming?

I'm not a rich guy. But when it comes to my son who will be turning seven in December - there's no expense I wouldn't spare to make sure he's happy! But why do I also have to impress his friend's parents?

I don't.

I want to go on record that I have never purchased gift bags for any of my son's friends when they come to a party.

And you know what? The kids don't care. The important thing for them was that they had a good time.

Rather than taking everybody out and away from the house to go to a 'games activity' center, I bring in the activity.

Two years ago we brought in a company that carted in some animals that the kids could not only pet - but they were taught about the animals! A blue-tongued skink and I enjoyed each others company as he fell asleep in my arms.While I can't recall the exact company we used - here's a Toronto listing: HERE. I'm sure you can find something similar in your city. Prices were decent for the hour-plus show.

Since my son's birthday is close to Christmas, we bought a few small pre-cooked gingerbread cookie kits and had the kids construct their own - we supplied the icing/glue.

Last year we brought in a company (Bugs Without Borders) that specialized in bugs! I fricking HATE bugs! But there I was petting a giant millipede that normally would have been crunching under my old Adidas!

The kids played with the bugs gently - they learned about the bugs - they even received a small kit from the company that had a bug in it that they could feed and raise. I'm pretty sure ours grew from a maggot and escaped it's plastic cage and later found its way spattered with a bug swatter!

And... while it seems like the kids got a gift - they did - but it wasn't me going out and buying a fancy gift bag filled with junk from a dollar store. Don't get me wrong, dollar stores are great - but kids don't NEED that junk. If they want it, you can but it for them. They don't need it given to them.

I will state that one of Hudson's friends gave his guests a mystery LEGO pack containing a minifigure—Brilliant!—but that's still $5! Multiply that by 12 kids and that's... let's see... twenty plus the square root of my blood-pressure... a lot of money! Money that need not be spent - especially after having spent money on the party proper!

This year - no gift bags again. We are taking two of his best friends out to Medieval Times here in Toronto. They can have food without forks, all the mead they can drink, can watch some great jousting and sword battles and maybe dad can slap a wench on the ass.

Stop the insanity. No more gift bags. Who the hell do we need to impress? No one. Just your own kid(s).

Gift bags, my ass.

Do you know what I hate?

Kid's birthday party gift bags.

Being An Immigrant

Here's a comedy skit I wrote, that's part of a 40-minute routine I call: A Passage To Etobicoke or The Great Off-White North. It's about immigration... and what it was like for my father who arrived in Toronto, Canada back in 1968 two weeks before my mother and I... and then what it is like for me nowadays trying to cross the border from Canada to the US to catch a hockey game in Buffalo between the Sabres and my beloved Toronto Maple Leafs.
Oh... My parents were born in India, I was born in England and I'm about as Canadian as it gets... and I want nothing more in life that to simply be Andrew. While 9-11 did change a lot of things... my ability to cross the border was a bitch a long time before that tragedy.   
It's supposed to be comedy, so I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of laughing, or telling why not. In both parts of this skit, I play the immigration dude talking first to my father and then to myself.... in case you couldn't tell.
 

Scene 1

(Music: Led Zeppelin – The Immigrant Song)

Talk to the audience (intro).

It’s like the ultimate Canadian success story. An immigrant family comes to Canada for a better life than the one they left behind. It’s true that my family wasn’t leaving because of a war, famine or persecution, but with jobs a plenty and a healthy atmosphere to raise a child, what’s not to like about Canada?

I have to tell ya the truth, however. Me standing here in front of you is all a bit of a fluke, really.

My parents, Ron and Lynda got married in India, and honeymooned in Europe. In fact, it’s quite possible I was accidentally conceived in the back seat of a Fiat while touring Rome. Those backseats are notoriously cramped... I suppose that makes me part Italian. Hunh... Never thought of that before.

It was while visiting England that the guy at the airport mistakenly stamped “Landed Immigrant” status on all our passports. Mamma mia! I thinka we’ll a stay here in a da England.

I was born in England thanks to that Roman holiday in which the convertible was probably not the only thing with its top down. Realizing what an amazing opportunity fate had laid out for them, my folks quickly sought to get away from England—to a land where a brown guy could get a fair shake. They applied to three countries: Australia, the United States of America, and of course, Canada. Guess who said yes first? Of course, that was a very fast four years later in 1968.

Can you imagine my accent if we had moved to Boh-ston? Or gawd help us all, to Australia? We’d all have to learn how to speak a new language!

Once in Canada – Toronto, as a matter of fact, we moved into the middle floor of a Victorian house on Collier Street just north and east Yonge & Bloor.

Unlike a lot of other immigrants that arrived in Canada in subsequent decades, my family and I whole-hardheartedly embraced all that is Canadian.

Back in 1968, Pearson International Airport was known as Malton Airport, using the call sign of YYZ – a really cool Rush song. In fact, if you listen to the syncopated base line of that song, you’ll hear YYZ tapped out in Morse Code. A fucking American taught me that.

Anyhow, the time is now 1968. The Leafs didn’t win the Cup that year, but probably would next year. My dad arrived at the airport two weeks before my mom did with me in tow, and a little English Cocker Spaniel named Tin-Tin—who had to remain in quarantine for 30 days.

SCENE 2

(Dance To The Music – Martha and the Vandellas)

(I’m an Airport Border Guard)

“Hi there! Welcome to Canada! Did you have a long trip?

(pause)

Yeah, yeah, I bet! So… where ya comin’ from?

(pause)

Uh-uh. Uh-huh…. Groovy, man! Do ya have a pad to crash at?

(pause)

Far-out! Do you need any drugs, man? Canada has some primo weed ya know!

(pause)

Now, now. No offense taken, man. Not everyone likes dope, man. Maybe you’d prefer a psychedelic? Like here’s four tickets to tomorrow’s Leafs – Canadians game.

(pause)

Uh…

(pause)

It’s like for hockey, man.

(pause)

What’s field hockey? Nah, this is for ICE hockey, my brother. If you ever want to be a true Canadian you should check it out.

(pause)

Naw. You’re welcome, man… (yell as though person has moved away)

Are you sure you don’t need any grass!?

(FADE TO BLACK)

SCENE 3

(FADE TO WHITE)

Intro – Andrew to audience

Nowadays, in 2012, crossing the border – specifically the Canada – U.S. border – while driving is, for me, a battle of wits against an unarmed opponent:

(Music – The Beatles – You Know My Name)

Pause maybe 20 seconds

(Smiling – and looking a far… but waving other cars past)

“Aw fuck…. Here comes another fucking rag head – minus the rag, this time.

(waving cars)

… go ahead, go ahead…

(smiling)

Everyone knows he’s going to be trouble…

(waving cars)

… I know you are sir… keep going, keep going… you too sir…

(smiling)

It’s why all of the real Canadians behind him have moved off into different lanes… Aw, fuck… this is it… I better play this one by the books. We don’t need a repeat of 9-fucking 11 here in Merica!

Next! Passport!

(scans it)

(peers down as though staring at the driver’s side of the car.)

(Do a voice – Monty Python – Bridge keeper)

Before you may cross this bridge – three question you must answer me.

What! Is your name?

(pause)

John… Andrew… Matthew… Stephen… Joseph… uh, right.

(glances at the passport – now open)

Citizenship?

(pause)

Yes sir, I know it’s all here in your passport. It’s part of the border guard testing procedure that we perform on everyone attempting to illegally enter Merica from that 9-11-lovin’ turd of a country – Canada.

(pause).

I don’t know that you aren’t trying to enter this country legally sir.

(pause)

Canadian, huh?

(waving passport down like into the driver’s face)

Says here you was born in London, U.K. I got a cousin who went to U of Kay – Go Wildcats! He took pre-med nursing, but said it hurt his tits too much so he dropped out after a semester.

(pause)

Not… the University of Kentucky? … United Kingdom? … Never heard of it!

(quick pause)

Oh – oh – England! Why didn’t you say so?  (Aussie accent) Toss another shrimp on the Barbie, Ken!

(laugh – laugh)

You don’t have my accent though sir.

Oh wait, I see your passport is issued in Tokyo, Japan… what the hell were you doing in China?

(pause – pause)

Uh-huh… now “sir”, you can see the problem here, can’t you?

(pause)

(sigh)

Well… the passport implies you are Canadian.

And your name? John Andrew Matthew Stephen Joseph… sure, why not?

But born in England? A passport issued in To-ki-oh, China? And… while you and your passport photo match – putting you all together… you don’t seem to make any sense.

Look… let’s just continue….

(pause)

Okay… Question Number 2
(Do a voice – Monty Python – Bridge keeper)

WHAT! Is you favorite color?

(pause)

Very good, sir... It’s very nice that you spelled color and favorite with a “u”. We don’t do that here in ‘Merica.

Okay, next…

Question number 3.

(Do a voice – Monty Python – Bridge keeper)
Why! Are you coming to the United States of ‘Merica?

(pause)

Uh, no sir… it’s not obvious. Why should it be obvious?

(pause)

(takes something from driver)

Hockey sweaters? Leafs versus Sabres?... I have no idea what you are talking about, sir. I have no concept of this ICE hockey of which you speak.

(Pause)

Uh-uh-uh! … Why don’t you park your car over there and the nice men with the rubber gloves will be more than happy to take care of you….

(pause)

What?

(pause)

Do I like NASCAR? Of course I like NASCAR! Eeeeeeeeeee-wwwwwweeeeeeeee! Thi is ‘Merica, boy!

(pause)

Uh-huh)

(pause)

Okay…  that’s alright! Okay, now! That’s great!

Yes… Jimmy Johnston is Number 48!

I also would have accepted: Tony Stewart is a fat fuck, but we love him anyways.

Here’s your passport. Enjoy your stay.

(pause) (and wave at the car)

…Just don’t stay too long, ya raghead.

Inconsiderate People

Do you know what I hate? It's inconsiderate people.

This did NOT happen to me, but rather something my friend Em observed this past November 11, 2012.

Em was at the Toronto Remembrance Day ceremony with her family...

Let me present the story in Em's own fantastic words:

"... During the two minutes of silence, a guy's cellphone began ringing. 

Not just that - his ring tone was "Another One Bites the Dust." And loud. With lyrics. 

And he didn't want to let on it was his phone by turning it off, so it went on and on. 

The little guy in front of me started grooving to it. 

Dear God.  Answering the question 21st century style posed by Wilfred Owen, in one of my favorite poems from WWI - what passing bells for those who die like cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns, and the dumbass ring tones of the neuronally challenged."

Amen, Em. Amen.

Do you know what Em and I hate?

Inconsiderate people.