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.