Poor Customer Service II - The CIBC Experience - Updated

This blog entry has been updated just because of the comments section - mostly my own - as of early morning Feb. 3, 2012.It's very nice to know that at least with one company... monitoring social media and then dealing with a customer is a good way to do business. McDonalds and KFC - wherefore at thou? LEGO store - thanks for thanking me... keep up the great work.
 

Do you know what I hate? It's poor customer service.

I never thought I would ever have to write this one, but the customer service I have received and subsequently not received from a place I have utilized for decades is annoying.

I have been dealing with the CIBC (Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce) since around 1990 when I first began working for the Toronto Star newspaper upon graduation from Humber College's journalism program (damn fine school, by the way!).

I actually have nothing bad to say about the CIBC as a banking institution. They have been more than fair to me and their customer service has been pretty decent.

My complaint actually revolves around the CIBC Visa department. That's the CIBC's credit card department.

I have actually had a CIBC credit card since 1990. I even took one with me to Japan for three years and used it with aplomb to purchase many an antique piece of art I have. Thank-you for allowing me to do that.

I did cancel it a few years ago when I received a mortgage from another institution (arranged by my wife), even though I did continue to be a CIBC bank customer. That loyalty was rewarded in 2010 when the bank without much prompting offered me a $45,000 line of credit at a fantastic rate... simply because I had been a customer in very good standing. Again... thank-you very much. I owe you. Don't I?

However, in September of 2011 after learning from the CIBC that I could get a better banking account than the one I currently had with fewer bank charges, I jumped at that chance. Unfortunately, one of the things I had to do was open up a CIBC Visa credit card to get that better account. Sure there was a string attached to the bank account, but whatever.

CIBC Visa sent me a statement earlier this month warning me that I had charges totaling $357.22, and that I had missed a $20 minimum payment on January 14, and that I should pay a total minimum payment of $30 by February 14, 2012.

All cool. I should have made the measly $20 payment - but I forgot to do so. My car died (I hate SAAB!) on me and I had no time or even a way to make it to a bank.

However... on Saturday, January 21, 2012, I received a phone call from CIBC Visa. I should note that they also called on January 20 and again the day before that on January 19 - five days after my little $20 payment was due.

I picked up the phone this time, as I was in. By the way... no message was left the other times from CIBC, but thanks to Call Display on my phone, I know they had called.

The call was from some young woman with a thick Indian accent who identified herself, but not clearly.

Just for the record... I am of Indian descent, and although I have never been to India, my parents were both born there.

She began to warn me that I had missed a payment (Heavens! I am a whole seven days late! The sky is falling!), and that she didn't want my credit rating to be affected by any non-payment of bills owing.

First off... my credit rating is pretty damn good. I've also been a CIBC customer for decades, and have also been a credit card user with CIBC Visa for many years. However, according to her records, I am a new CIBC Visa credit card customer and she felt the need to inform me all about how I need to pay bills on time or suffer the wrath of the dreaded credit rating penalty.

Big whoop. I own nothing and am currently in no danger of owning a house or car. How will the threat of my credit rating going down affect me? Truthfully, it won't.

Still... I was late with a payment, and the CIBC Visa department was fair to warn me.

I do think it's ridiculous to call me and harass me for being seven days late. Only the day before had I received my credit card statement informing me I had missed a payment and to please make sure I paid the minimum by February 14, 2012.

But she kept on yammering at me. Chastising me. Trying to make me feel worthless.

Now maybe it was the nicotine withdrawls, or maybe I just don't care for people being dicks, but I had enough.

I told her I would make the $20 payment tomorrow (the 22nd.... which I did), but then she wanted to know how much of a payment I would be making on February 14.

I beg your pardon?
   
That's none of your business, I snapped.

She said it was.

Uh, no. I'll pay what I owe because I missed a payment, but it's no one's business how much money I will be paying for the next credit card statement! I have three weeks plus to think about it! I don't owe any sort of explanation to some stupid bitch in a call center whose weekly salary equals my daily salary (I exaggerate, but you know what I mean).

I told her I don't have to tell her what my future payment will be.

She argued that I had to, that it was CIBC Visa policy.

Bull.

I asked to speak with her manager, please.

She asked: "Why? Why do you want to speak to a manager?"

Are you serious? Why? I'm just thinking that. I tell her because I want to talk to your manager. That should be explanation enough.

She starts up again about the need to maintain my credit rating because I am so new to the CIBC Visa credit card.

Frustrated with not getting my request for a manager, I hung up on her.

I immediately called up the CIBC bank and asked who I could complain to about the CIBC Visa customer service. While they apologized profusely for that department's lack of tack, they are indeed a separate department, and I would have to call them. They politely transferred me and I was quickly picked up by a young Indian man whose name I can not pronounce. Still... his English was good and he was polite.

He heard my complaint, apologized to me, and even noted through his computer that someone from CIBC Visa had indeed talked to me minutes earlier. Good... they now believe I wasn't making up things.

I told him I wanted to talk to a manager to lodge a complaint.

He said no problem - that someone  - a manager - would contact me within two working days.

Two days? Two working days? Is there not a single manager at this call center? Or... could this call center be in India... and it's going to take that long to get hold of some dumb Canadian manager to chat with me?

Two working days?

Uh, people... you dumb asses are working on a Saturday. As well... if I call CIBC Visa on Sunday, I'm pretty sure someone will be there to talk to me... that's also a working day. So technically, someone could call me on Sunday... or Monday if I really want to give them 48 hours and two working days.

But let's suppose the guy meant two business days - even though he did not state that - that would mean Tuesday, January 24, 2012.

It's Friday now. Friday, January 27, 2012. Seven days late. No one has called me back. No one. I know... I have Call freaking Display.

I suppose my request may have been lost in translation over this new interweeb thingamabob that Bob Dole invented a few years ago.

How quick CIBC Visa's customer service department was to get on the telephone to harass a long-time CIBC bank customer for being five days late with a $20 payment. Oh my god... did I cause CIBC to not make an extra couple of million dollars that week? I'm sorry. Please arrange to garnish my salary for a few weeks if that will help. 

But look how slow they are to respond to a customer who wants service from a manager! It's all fine when you want my money, but not fine when I want--no demand--customer service.

For shame!

I will pay off my CIBC Visa, and while I will not cut it up, I will not use it ever again.

Do you know what I hate?

I hate the poor customer service offered by CIBC Visa. You suck.

Poor Customer Service

Here there be: good customer service!!!

Do you know what I hate?

Poor customer service.

I'm a working stiff. I don't just sit on my ass writing these blogs. I do that in my free time. For me - just as it is for you, time is money. And, when I have the time to spend my money, I want to be treated like I matter.

Everybody wants to matter.

For this blog entry, I am going to give you a couple of examples of extremely poor customer service, and come right back with a pair of extremely good customer service examples.

Fair is foul, and foul is fair, right... particularly since I bastardize Shakespeare in the blog description right under the main title.

I am going to write about some Toronto area places. It may not mean anything to you living in another country, but it will help you decide if YOU are getting effective customer service or merely being served one up the butt.

I am going to write about McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) and LEGO. I actually do like all of their products. However...

Perhaps one of the worst places I have every been "served" has to be the KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) outlet located on Dundas just north of the Kipling train station here in good old Toronto. I know the exact location doesn't mean anything to most of you global visitors, but perhaps someone from KFC will take notice and come down with the wrath of Harland on their collective ass.

Considering Colonel Harland David Sanders was a southern gentleman (or so he appeared), it might come as a shock to discover that one of the franchises bearing his shortened kid-friendly name (KFC) has, what can only be described as, deplorable customer service.

And not just once or twice, either... but every single time my wife goes there... which I am sorry to say may be never again. Which sucks, because I do love the seven herbs and spices!

All my wife wants when she goes there is thighs. Not three or four, sometimes not even two... one will do... but at this particular restaurant that has been in the area for at least 39 years - that's how long I have lived here (and longer - I'm sure there was a Scott's Chicken Villa there as a sit-in family restaurant there before that!)... the customer is not always allowed to purchase the meal they want.

On two separate occasions different staff told my wife that it would be 10 minutes before they had her thigh (singular) ready. Fifteen minutes passed. and when my wife inquired, the staff member then went to check in at the back where the chicken is prepared and came out seconds later to state that they do not have any more thighs.

Do you offer thighs for sale at KFC? Yes. Do you always have some ready considering they seem to be a popular item? No. And that's fine. It's not acceptable, but at least I, as a consumer, understand that a popular item may sell out. But does KFC understand supply and demand? Apparently not at this store. 

Now... real customer service would involve everybody coming over to apologize and to offer something for free - as a way to soothe any possible ruffled feathers. But not at this KFC! Nope. Not only did no one offer any gift certificate of free coleslaw or a bottle of pop or heck - a couple of free pieces of chicken - but no one actually offered an apology. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

KFC sucks! Or at least this store does.

Another downer of a place to visit is the McDonald's just west of the Kipling station on the south side of Dundas. In fact... it's about 200 meters west of the aforementioned KFC. Must be some sort of nexus of poor social skills.

Now... I can't say enough positive things about the friendliness of the drive-through staff who take my order. Fantastic!

No mater what, I always get a warm greeting, am asked how I am doing and even have them wait for my answer. They then ask for my order - all done with polite efficiency. I pay at the first window, and move along to the second to get my food.

And that's when it all falls apart.

The young lady who serves me doesn't say a word as she opens the window and hands me my drink. It doesn't matter that I say thank-you as she does so. There is no vocalized sound from her. No twinkling of the eyes. No smile. The drive-thru window slams shut in my face as I await the food, which does quickly comes. I know they don't want car exhaust fumes in their face - that's fine - but still... aside from physically handing me my drink, I have received no indication that I even exist in her world.

Now... was this just a solitary incident? No. I go there at least once a week, and five times in a row, I was 'lucky' enough to be served by her. Wait... it gets better...

The drive-thru window opens up again, and without even seeing if I am paying attention (I usually am), I see her arms thrust out with my bags of food. There is still no vocalization from her. Now I know she can talk because after I quickly say thank-you again (previous time was for the drink), the window is closed again... but not before I hear her yell to one of her co-workers that she is going on a break in 15 minutes.

Apparently forgotten again because she will soon have her break, I place my food on my car seat beside me and hand my son his Happy Meal. By the way, my son always likes the chicken nuggets, but not once has he ever received a dipping sauce... in fact, not once have I ever been asked if I want one or even what flavor might I want. For shame!

Regarding the non-communicative sales clerk at the drive-thru... well, I  can't blame it on the cool weather now hitting Toronto. This has happened a few times before through the summer.

She's just a miserable bitch, and I hate that McDonald's.

I could hate just her, but whomever the manager is has not trained her either, and bears a load of responsibility there. Surely someone observes her interaction - or rather, lack of interaction - with the customers. Surely someone can say something, anything to make her greet the customer as though they matter.

It sucks to not matter... I mean, this is McDonald's!

I've seen some great customer service - like the uber-friendly woman at the drive through at the McDonald's in Brampton on Highway 10 just south of Steeles!

I once asked her to call her manager and told her just how impressed I was with her and her manners, and told him he should watch himself because she should be a manager there one day. He laughed and smiled and agreed with my assessment, wished me a wonderful day and said he hoped to see me again soon.

Now that was customer service. Plus... they always got my order 100% correct. Always. Fifty-two times a year. Sometimes more if I'm getting a breakfast on the way to a magazine interview!

See? This McDonald's I love. It's a pity it's not near me and even a greater pity that not all McDonald's are created equal.

That was a bad and a good description for the same company.

Now, let me mention the final good example of customer service:  The LEGO store over at Sherway Gardens in Toronto.

I do go there often, and I do spend a few bucks there. Probably more than I should.

But proving that a little kindness goes a long way, the staff at this particular store are simply the best. Belinda, Geoff, Tyler, Shannon, Michael, Jason, Lisa, Randa, another Geoff ... cripes, I'm afraid I've left others out - but just know, I have received nothing but stellar support, service and friendship from every single person who works at this store!

With my 6-year-old son in tow, we visit at least once a week. Granted we are smiling and polite - but I am all the time regardless of where I am. ... but the LEGO staff are courteous beyond belief.

They come out from their break or from the back office to say hello to my son and I. We get personal service like we are best friends - and it's not just for me - though I think I do get some preferential treatment - but they are great to everyone.

My wife went into the shop before Christmas looking for a particular item for our son. My wife doesn't like crowded stores at Christmas, and she has no interest in LEGO either, so this may have been one of her first times in this shop.

The first person she sees greeted her with a smile and a hello. After a few moments of not being able to find the LEGO product I told her to get, she asked a LEGO store employee for help (taller Geoff, I believe). She said that her husband (me) may have asked that the store put away a product for us.

I've never done that, but the LEGO store employee asked what her husband's name was.

She began: "Andrew - " and didn't need to finish...

"Ohhh! Andrew and Hudson (my son)!"

My wife was flabbergasted and nodded a yes, making a mental note to lambaste me over my obviously excessive purchasing practices at this store.

While there was nothing there in my name or anywhere in the store's inventory, the LEGO employee went that extra mile.

"Let me check with our other Toronto store."  

One of what we were looking for was there, it was put aside for us, and lo and behold when my wife drove out to that other store, it was indeed waiting for us allowing for our son to have a merry, if not some-what spoiled Christmas. 

I can't even begin to tell you how many times I have recommended this shop to other adults! If I wanted, I could tell my friends to inform the LEGO staff they are friends of mine - but it wouldn't  matter. Fast, efficient, knowledgeable, friendly service from people who like what they are doing. Kudos have to go management for looking for the right fit like a building block.

The LEGO shop in Toronto's west end rocks! Tell them you know me. Not that it matters. They know what customer service is!

Still... McDonald's and KFC... do you know what I hate?

Poor customer service.

Wasting Time

Do you know what i hate?

It's wasting time.

Today is my 47th birthday. Yeah, yeah. Happy birthday to me. Big whoops.

i'd feel better about turning this auspicious age if it was for me having wasted my 46th year on this planet.

First, why auspicious 47th birthday? Well, the number 47 has always been my inside joke. In pretty much every one of my short stories or comic books, the number 47 makes an appearance. Heck, it often appears quite by accident, but it's there. It's my magic number.

i once wrote a story  - a fake letter if you will - that i sent to my friend Rob while i was still living in Japan - all the way back in the month of March 1991. It was a birthday present for Rob, as i said i would write a letter to him for the entire month of March (his b-day is March 31st), except for weekends. Because i quickly got bored writing the standard "hi, how are you?" letters, on the third day i decided i would create a short story.

By the end of the months i was writing several a day and mailing them off to Rob, who luckily for me still has them 20 years later. i had lost quite a few over the years in a house fire and several house moves. Anyhow... it's Rob's fault i'm a writer now. i owe that dumb loveable bastard a world of thanks. 

In one story, i wrote a fake letter from one alien to another, which i am sure is how we both felt about ourselves. Tron Blarg. Remember that one Rob? It was just a stupid harmless letter in which i wanted to use an anagram (mixed up letters of a word to form new words) to state that: Evil is a live vile veil. Kind of cool, i thought. Then a thought hit me... since I had already begun using the #47 in my stories, i decided to count every 47th letter in the story to see if it spelled out a secret message. Would you believe it? It did! What it said is not important here.    

So... my magic number 47 is a prime number. That in itself sounds impressive. A prime number is a natural whole number that is greater than one (1) that has no positive dividers except for one (1) and itself - in the case of my number, it's 47.

The other reason, that very, very, very few people know, is that back when i played soccer between the ages of 7-18, the number i was was usually a 7, with a 4 tossed in. A 4 and a 7. Forty-seven. Look, that's how my mind works. 

So... that's why this upcoming year is supposed to be special. It has to be. Forty-six sucked more than all of my previous years combined and multiplied by as big a number as i can imagine - 8. My mother adored the number 8. Not only was it the day i was born - okay, maybe that was the only reason. But it's also infinity sideways. She always made sure we lived in a house with the number 8. The current house i live in - where she died 17 years ago was an 8, of a sort... it was the addition of the numbers 1+1+6 = 8. Hell, i even carried it out in my first house 5+3=8. 

The whole year of being 46 truly was awful. No one remembered my birthday. No presents. Nothing. It was like i didn't matter. I didn't exist. I was like a ghost walking the world and no one thought to look hard enough at me to give me form.

Christmas - nothing. And yet i had done nothing wrong. i was the wronged party. Yet, i got treated like shit.

New Year's day sucked... and sure enough a few days later my world was turned upside down again. Valentine's day - a massacre. Father's day? Mother's day? What the hell is that? Shouldn't every day be special? Labour day? Don't even get me started. 

It didn't matter that i tried to write more to cover up the pain. The pain still found a way to come back and slap me across the face in ways you readers can never imagine (i hope). i was just starting to get into writing my Japan - It's A Wonderful Rife blog on a near daily basis when i had to stop for a month.

Not writing killed me just as much as the other shit going on in my so-called life. And just when i think it's getting better, my own vivid imagination and great memory brings everything back - my own inner demons to conquer - that will not let me either forgive or forget. It encourages me seek vengeance. You know, like back in the old days, when you were wronged, you slapped someone across the face with a glove and challenged them to a duel. Oh how i long for the old days.

i can slap a guy across the face with a dueling glove. i can count 10 paces (8 for sure!). i'm pretty sure i can aim and fire a gun in anger - especially when justified.

But no. This is the 21st effing century and i live in Canada, so i get to see a therapist to cope with my feelings. What crap. i'm an intelligent person. i can psycho-analyze myself. but i was told not to seek vengeance. despite what so sayeth the lord.

Yeah, yeah, everyone is sorry now. Yay. That was sarcasm, by the way.


Being 46 sucked the big one. i'm pretty sure 47 will too.

Being 46 was a complete waste of my time on this planet. 


Do you know what i hate?


Wasting time.

Mispronounced Words

Do you know what I hate?

I hate people who mispronounce words. Well, more than that, I suppose, I hate the mispronounced words.

I'm not angry at people who are ignorant over the pronunciation of words - hell, we've all done that, and not everyone has learnt every single word in the dictionary...

I'm also not talking about dialects where people might say "y'all" rather than "you all", or people learning English as a second language who might instead of saying "loved" will say "lov-ved". That's just the way things are. However... there are some people who moider (murder) the English language. There are people who say terlet instead of toy-let (toilet); toy-del in stead of ter-dle (turtle), and warsh instead of wash. It's not Warshington (DC or State) - it's Washington (DC or State)! My father in-law used to say terlet and warsh, and while it's a colloquialism, it's something that shouldn't be. 

But what really grinds my gears are the common words that common people say incorrectly.

Words such as:

• Axe. As in I want to axe you a question. Okay, you may - but please don't chop me into little pieces. I suppose the word 'axe' is okay, as it's obvious some people are intent on butchering the English language. The word is 'ask'.
• Whensday. This is a pet peeve of mine. It's pronounced Wed-nes-day (Wednesday). Three effing syllables.
• Febuary. Another pet peeve. It's got four - count'em - four syllables: and it actually has an additional 'r' in it. February. Fe-brew-air-e. Say the syllables!
• Supposebly. Are people dyslexic? That 'b" is actually written as the letter "d"! Suppos-ed-lee (supposedly).
• Pisghetti. What are you four years old? It's spaghetti! Say it, you kindergarten drop-out!
• Youse. It's pronounced "you" or "u" unless you are part of an Italian men's business club in New Jersey, in which case it's okay, and there is no such thing as the Maffia. 
• Spadina. For those of you in the Toronto area where I am from... there's a street and a subway station called 'Spadina'. There are about six people in this whole city of 3-million who actually say 'Spadina' correctly. It is NOT 'spa-die-nah' The proper way to pronounce it is: 'spa-dean-ah'.
• Sang-gwitch. If I owned a deli and someone asked me for a 'sang-gwitch', you would starve and I would be bankrupt... but it would be worth it. It's pronounced 'san-dwitch' (sandwich).
• Artic. This word bothers me, but only to a slightly lesser degree than the ones listed above. People tend to pronounce it 'are-tick' rather than the correct way of 'ark-tick'(Arctic). But unless your day job involves the hunting of polar bears, it's not likely a common component of your everyday speech. 
• For you penguin chasers, the word 'Ant-are-tick' is pronounced 'Ann-tar-tick' (Antarctic).

I am sure there are many other words people mispronounce that I hate, but these are the ones that are popping into my skull (mind the echo) while I write this.   

Look... I'm not saying I'm perfect. I moidalize the word water, substituting the letter 't with a 'd'... and pronounced it 'wah-dur' rather than 'wah-tur' but  that is a Toronto dialect... and it's better than saying 'waaa-dur' and even then, this Toronto dialect of mine is close to the gold standard of English accents. It's known as a "neutral accent", and it's a big reason why the Japan Exchange & Teaching (JET) Programme chose me to go to Japan to teach English as an AET (assistant English teacher).

Oh yeah... we also say Toe-ron-oh (Toronto) rather than Toe-ronn-toe. Dialect! We know you are from out of town when you pronounce more than one 't'. 

Lastly... my wife's name is pronounced 'ray-bee' not 'ra-bee'. Get it right. It's someone's name!

There! Now youse is educated.

Do you have a pet peeve regarding fairly common word mispronunciation? I'd love to know!

Do you know what I hate? Mispronounced words.

Andrew Joseph

Preachy People

Do you know what I hate? I hate preachy people.

Wait... let me revise that. I hate people who preach religion while I am riding public transportation.

This morning while on my daily 90-minute ride of public transportation involving two buses and a subway train in the hogtown kown as Toronto, Ontario, Canada, I was sitting in one of the seats on the train with another like-sized man draped atop of me - IE sitting beside me. Basically, the seats are not wide enough to comfortably accomodate three average-sized men - and there were three of us wedged into the bench seating. Comfortable it was not.

Our ride, however, quickly went from barely tolerable to pain-in-the-ass.

Perhaps five minutes after myself, and three minutes after my new set of drapes beside me, a man in his late 20s or early 30s got on and stood in the middle of the car (we were in the first car where the driver does whatever it is driver's do - work on his electrical engineering degree, I suppose).

In a big booming voice he said good morning to the fellow passengers standing around him and then began to preach to all within earshot about Jesus Christ "our Lord and saviour".

I have nothing against religion. If it makes you happy to be happy, then be happy.

I just believe there is a proper time and a place for everything. if you need to pray five times a day - go ahead. If you wan to fumble with your rosary or whatever you do - do so quietly while respecting the rights of those around you. That's what you want and expect, isn't it? 

But the preacher man on the train? A part of me even thinks it's nice that he feels he wants to help people be as happy as he is here on Earth and later in Heaven.

Howver, ... if this loud-mouth is going to be up in Heaven - along with all of that incessant harp-music, I'm not sure I want to be saved.

I hate that this blow-hard preacher sermonized for the rest of my 25-minute train ride about how his god was great and can make you feel better about life. 

How dare he assume that everyone wanted to listen to him?! How dare he start preaching to people of different religions or beliefs or no-faiths that are happy the why they are? How dare he assume we aren't happy in our life!

Do you know what we aren't happy with? Having someone yell at us for nearly a half-an-hour!

All I want to do is do my crossword puzzle and Sudoku in ink while the drapes beside me adjusts himself to make me more uncomfortable with my heterosexuality and himself perhaps less so.

While the preacher man attempted to engage his captive audience by asking them person question about quality of life and happiness  - and some people stupidly answered him! - one brave woman told him that she likes what he is saying, but could he please stop yelling.

She wasn't rude, excited or angry. She asked in a very nice, polite manner for him to just tone down the volume - not the message. 

But like most self-rightous assholes, he ignored her pleas and the pleas of the 100+ other people loudly screaming within their own skulls.

He says he had a right to say and preach what he wanted and where he wanted.

He does.

But then again... we all have the right to not be offended by content, or noise or anything else as we all paid our money to ride the Toronto Transit Commission's subway train here in Toronto. We all have the right to a nice, quiet and safe ride on the way to work packed like sardines in a subway train. 

But does he have a right to start preaching in a train to a captive audience? Maybe. Is that ethically sound judgement? No. 

What the hell is wrong with people like this preacher man? Why do they think we all need saving? How effing arrogant are you? What? God wants you to go forth and convert the masses? Your god is lazy.

Will your god bring down locusts, cause a flood, have us go to Hell because we don't believe in him/her/it? Your angry, vengeful god is childish if that's what you believe. 

Why can't we just love and do as you will. That was a paraphrase of St. Augustine of Hippo. We don't need people telling us one god is better than the other. Can't we make up our own minds about god and religion? 

Can't we all just get along and do our book reading, crosswords or Bible reading by ourselves? Yes! One woman sitting near me was quietly reading her Bible while all of this was going on!

So... why didn't we all get off the train if we were offended by the preacher man's well-spoken speech? Why should we? Even though we were here first, seats on the subway are a premium! And why should we be further inconvenienced by being delayed getting to work because one idiot won't shut up about his god needing to be in our life. 

Look... if your God is so omnipotent and the creator of the universe and all that (Holy Trinity et al), then why doesn't he just enter us and make us realize how cool he is? Why does he need flawed vessels like human beings to tell other flawed vessels that they need this version of God? And, if God is so perfect, why did he create us to be imperfect? I guess he was afraid of the competition. 

Hey preacher man - your version of god seems needy and clingy while still offering love and support. I already have that in my life. It's called a family.

My family already costs a lot of money... and I'm pretty sure that the 10% tithe your god wants or expects ain't going to be enough for all the wonderful debt your god has saddled me with. 

Basically, God - you owe me. So... is it too much to ask you not have your preacher boys annoy the hell out of a whole trainload of people at 8-o'clock in the morning as we ride to work - or in my case - ride to get to another bus before getting to work? 

Hey! I have no problem with you sending around your flock of converters to my house. I can choose not to answer my door, or I can listen and say "yes, let's talk more" or "no, I'm not interested"... or I can be rude or polite or simply bored. At least I have a choice.

But to corner us like caged rats in a subway car and to start preaching? That's just low. That's actually evil.

Despite Toronto being a very tolerable populace when it comes to religion et al, do you want to know the real reason why we didn't all get together and give the preacher the bum's rush off the train?  He was 6-8" and maybe 280-lbs of solid effing muscle.

Whatever god was looking over me told me to suck it up or I would be squashed like a bug after a plague of locusts hits town... which given the low-level of cleanliness here on the train, bugs in the subway is always a topic I am itching to write about.    

Oh yeah... my god and the preacher man's god are the same - just so much different.

So... do you know what I hate? 

I hate preachy people. Especially those built like they could survive Armageddon. 

Maintaining Anger

Do you know what I hate?

You read the headline - you know what I hate - it's my ability or curse to hold a grudge.

Because I am 46 years-old and married with a child, it is apparently expected that I not act like a child.

I don't think that being pissed off at someone who has screwed you over (in more ways than one) is grounds for "get over it".

Sure it's been seven months, but why do I need to "get over it" and stop being ticked off just because my disappointment and anger doesn't fit someone else's schedule?

I wish I could forget things, but I'm not a stupid person. I have a pretty high IQ, even though I am too lazy to utilize it in a meaningful way - IE be rich, successful, famous or apparently forgiving.

It's been suggested by people close to me that I need to stop dwelling in the past, that I need to live in the now and stop worrying about the future. How zen. I understand what I need to do, but why can't it be on my schedule rather than everyone else's. Am I being childish? Maybe I'm not as good a person as you.

Are you kidding me? How can I not be concerned for the future? I'm broke, owe more money now than I have ever owed. I don't own a house any more or a car and wonder what sort of life or legacy I am leaving my child.

I have no idea what the future will bring and am worried because nothing makes me happy knowing I am no longer in control of my own destiny. The banks are.

Home life? Work? It's just more of the same. I would like to go out and see my friends, but something always comes up. Money. Time. Being a family man. You know... being responsible.

So, with life getting me down, why shouldn't I feel anger or angry over things that bother me? I should concentrate on things that would make me happy? I like to write, but no one seems to offer support from those whom I need it from.

So what if I amuse myself and several hundred people around the world by writing daily about my past life in Japan - ah, dwelling in the past. That's not something I should do. People seem to think that I write about my past because it was the best time of my life. Get real. Have you read any of my blogs at Japan - It's A Wonderful Rife. While indeed fun and a great time, there's a reason why the word 'rife' is in the frigging title.

It's amazing how much of my current self I put into writing about the past me. I suppose I'm the only one who understands that... so it's cathartic for me to write. It helps me figure out what's bothering me now so that I can figure out how to make things better.

So... when I feel cheated out of the better things in life and see constant reminders of it nearly every day... I should just not think about it? I should count the limbs on trees and forget that life goes on around me? I live in the present, believe it or not! Shit bothers me. I put on the happy little smile when I have to, but even I know it's not the same as before.

I no longer own a house and live in the house where my mother died. Ten feet away from where I sit and write this. I am happy that my father has graciously allowed us to stay here - I can't even afford to pay him - really, thanks dad! But I feel like a complete and utter failure.

Do people at work know or care that I have nothing? Just get your work done. So I do, and I do it well.

I'm not depressed - certainly not clinically. But I worry for the future of my child, family and myself. Isn't that something that a man should be concerned about? Caring about the quality of life?

So what if I see things that remind me of being screwed over by the world? So what if I am able to live in a nice house? It's not mine. So what if I need to be angry at someone or something intangible? Am I not allowed to be angry?

Does that make me a bad person? You know I created this blog for a reason - it's because things piss me off, and I wondered if the same things pissed you off.

However, aside from hating my ability to maintain anger, I think I hate people telling me to get over my anger more. Physician heal thy self.

People want me to feel better about life -well, how about proving to me that things are getting better in life. I'm getting older, and sometimes it feels like I'm not going to actually get what I deserve... or god help me, am I getting what I deserve. I must have been a real asshole in my last life.

So... you know what I hate? I hate maintaining anger... but it's all I have. It's the only thing I own, and I own it outright.

Summer

Do you know what I hate? Summer.

I know that sounds ridiculous, but along with the nice hot sunny days and the opportunity to wear shorts, see women in skimpy apparel, and the chance to get a nice tan, there are also a plethora of negatives.

For example: the women in skimpy apparel. As a man... am I allowed to look? If so, how long am I allowed to look? And, since I am 46-year-old, what is that magic number regarding a woman that should prevent me from looking at a women?

Am I allowed to look at a 19-year-old woman? She's old enough to be my daughter and could quite possible the daughter of a woman I slept with. She's an adult, looks nice... can I look without being a dirty old man? I suppose that's why I have a great pair of sunglasses.

Sun tans... sure we all look good with them, but as we have been told ad nauseum these past 30+ years, sun tanning can cause skin cancer... melanoma. Who wants to go out in the sun and get cancer? I do, I do! Nowadays you have to slather on suncreen 101 which if I am correct comes with a suit of lead armour. Sure I can't feel the sun directly on my skin, but I sure feel baked from within my lead shielding.

The smells... I now have an 80 minute commute to work everyday, after my daily work magazine was sold to another company, that god-bless them, has its offices in the middle of nowhere. That's my only knock against this new company, by the way. But, I now have two bus rides and a subway ride. I don't know about you, but I don't smell.... and if I think I might, I have a shower, always using deodorant. It's like brushing my teeth or wearing my seatbelt... it's just something I do automatically.

But apparently, the rest of Toronto is not in agreement with me. The unwashed masses smell. The subway and buses smell... if it's not body odour, it's men believing the AXE commercials will help them get laid if they slather on the body spray, or the women who actually leave a snail slime trail when they walk because they have doused themselves in too much perfume. I am undecided which offends me more... smelling too nice or smelling like they have lice.

I also hate summer because here in Toronto it gets quite humid during the day, and we often get thunder and lightning storms in the evening - just as I'm leaving work. I have no idea how to dress anymore. How do the skimpy-dressed women do it? And why don't I see them when it's raining? I hate not seeing skimpy-dressed women when it's raining.

But my bigger hates for summer come from the great outdoors. I hate bugs. I am bug-bait! Mosquitoes love my sweet blood. I'm often the only one at a party who gets bit... I think that's why they invite me, because it sure ain't for my sunny disposition and lead-covered skin.

Giant flying ants, spiders, flies... just buzz off and die. I hate not knowing where my fly-swatter is!

I also hate Fridays in Toronto. Have you ever driven on a highway on a Friday afternoon? It's a deadstop. Everyone is going to the cottage. I'm not, but I still get caught in the traffic jams. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

And let's not forget that summer is also know as construction season. Forget about the idiot who has bought the house across the street from me and has torn it down and has a crew there from 7AM to 7PM constructing a newer, larger, mansion... forget the noise, the plethora of construction vehicles and the construction workers who part their F-150s illegally on the wrong side of the street making backing out of my driveway a near impossibility... no forget that.

Forget about the City of Toronto digging up and replacing water lines on my street at the same time, and on the main street as well, disrupting traffic, delaying my bus so that I miss the connection to my other bus... no... forget that.

Forget that all highway and road maintenance work is done in the summer - taking out lanes and causing further traffic snarl-ups... no forget that.

What I really hate is that summer is also the time when every freaking organization has a bike-a-thon, a walk-a-thon or a parade, thereby closing off streets and roads and making travel totally unacceptable.

I'd like to go somewhere and relax for the summer... but I can't travel by car - can't even back out of my driveway somedays! I can't go downtown as the roadways and sidewalks are jammed with people doing good work for some charity, or merely showing off their pride. Hey... I applaud those people and their organizations... I just don't like being personally inconvenienced. I hate it, in fact.

I can't go outside without being lathered in sunscreen or bug spray - which will kill you as well from cancer - probably - so why leave the house?

Sure, I'd like to look at the women, but I don't want to be a pervert.

Do you know what I hate?

The summer.