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.

Not Being Able To Type

Do you know what I hate?

It's not being able to type.

I bring this point up after yet another effing blog article of mine was published with a bloody typo in it. Not your everyday type of typo, but one in the bloody headline.

I look like such an ass.

You would think that a very easy to use, brilliant blog provider such as Blogger.ca would have a proper spell check on it - but no... it only appears when you switch to the HTML view.

Ah crap. I'm not blaming Blogger.ca.

I blame myself. I tend to actually spell check everything nowadays... but not the headline.

I did it last on an article I published about 10 minutes ago on Japan - It's A Wonderful Rife... my blog about Japan. It's there under the Favorite Blog section and is well-worth the read even if you have no interest in Japan as there is often some cool stuff you could use to amaze your friends.No... I don't really believe that, but ya can't blame a guy for trying to amp up the readership.

I had written the piece about three hours earlier with only the title in mind. It was the first thing I wrote. Actually... I had written that title down about two months earlier, as I often jot stuff down onto the blog template and save them as drafts because I usually have topics to write about well in advance of me actually writing them.

As such... whatever the heck I wrote down... I did it a while back and obviously did not feel the need to double check the spelling of it.

I feel like such a schmuck.

And do you know what bothers me the most about the mistake? It's the fact that I... a writer of three blogs, have had 20+ comic book stories published and a few hundred magazine articles published and even more newspaper articles published by a national paper here in Canada... have no idea how to type.

I can even play the piano and accordion and the clarinet (all woodwinds and keyboards and brass, actually) and have nimble fingers. But... I can't type.

I use four fingers. Three on the right (thumb, index and middle) and the index finger on the left. The index finger is your nose picking finger in case you wondered.

I'm quick... hitting about 65 words a minute.. or as I frequently joke, about 65 mistakes a minute. I say that joke often enough because it's true to a degree... so you think I would check for mistakes.

It really ticks me off. Here I am trying to enlarge my reading pool, and I do a rookie boner mistake.

While readership on THIS blog is low, but steady, I have been making decent strides on the blogs I do on Japan and the other secret one written under a pseudonym.... with those two getting over 40,000 hits a month.

And to make mistakes because I can't type?!

Do you know what I hate?

Not being able to type.

Speeders

Do you know what I hate?

I hate speeders.

I'm what is known in the parlance, a nice guy. Damn near everyone likes me upon meeting me.

Now, I'm going to admit to you that in my youth, I have been a speeder. I was Lightning McQueen before there was Lightning McQueen.

I wanted to be A.J. Foyt, the Mad Texan who won a ton of Indy 500 races - just because we shared the same two initials! True.

I've driven fast. Very fast. Scary, holy cow, what the hell just passed us fast. I've used a Laser/Radar detector. I've driven my then new Hyundai Tiburon to the point that I was pushing it past the point where the speedometer stops counting.

Despite the reckless abandon I showed, I was a very good driver. I did not swerve in and out of traffic, I signaled even if there was no one around me (just good practice), and I never, ever hi-beamed anyone to get out of my way. I never sped during rush hour, and certainly never (almost never) sped during the day time. I never sped on city streets, either. If I sped, and when I sped, it was at night when the roads were clearer.

To me, it was like playing a video game, though I never, ever raced anyone - and while I am an extremely good video game player, I am aware that you get multiple lives. Just not in real life.   

And... despite all of this, I never got a speeding ticket - except twice for going 62 in a 50 kilometer per hour zone. I used to laugh, thinking how they should have seen me hours before doing nearly 200 kph more than that.

I admit this here, because I acknowledge how very wrong I was. In my youth.

I was reckless, and not only could I have killed myself, I could have injured or killed others. I was stupid. Very stupid.

My car was not tricked out. I didn't have roll bars. Special tires or brakes. At any point in time in my activities, I could have lost control or had a tire blow out on me. And then it would have been game over.

And then I became a father.

All of a sudden, I discovered a lane on the roadways that I had previously called the pussy-lane. Yes, such colorful language. The slow lane.

Hunh. Here, I could go the speed limit or just below it, if I chose. Cars did not expect me to move over, and no one could begrudge my legal speed - and no one ever did/does.

Thank to my son... I slowed down. And stayed there. I was immature, and now, at the very least, if not mature, I am less immature.

Now I ride in the slow lane and watch people whip past me at 30-70 kilometers over the speed limit and I shake my head in amazement that anyone can be that stupid and reckless.  

I am one lucky stupid son of a bitch. And I aim to keep it that way by continuing to drive the legal speed limit and obeying all the traffic laws.

So, by mentioning this here, if you are like I was - slow down. I was lucky once upon a time... but one's luck can run out when you least expect it.  

And so it may seem as though I hate myself, well, I hate the way I used to drive, and my lack of respect for others on the road.

Hopefully, I haven't lost your respect, and even if I have, that's okay, I deserve it. But...

Do you know what I hate?

I hate speeders.
   

Improper Use Of The Turn Signal

Do you know what I hate?

It's people who drive who have no concept on how to properly use their turn signal.

No... I'm not talking about the dumb sap who has left his/her turn signal on and is driving with it clicking left for five kilometers. Rather, I am talking about people who truly do not know how to properly use a turn signal. And it freaks me out when I have to watch them drive.

The turn signal on a motor vehicle is to let people in your lane behind and in front of you, as well as in the lanes beside you, that you have the intention of changing lanes. It means you want or need to get into another lane. It means you may need to slow down to properly make the lane change or possibly even speed up a bit to make the lane change as smooth and safe for every one involved.

Let me present you with a scenario and ask you to answer an easy question.

You are driving along and you realize you need to get over one lane. There's traffic. What do you do?

Do you:

1. Just start moving over and hope for the best? 
2. Wait until there is an opening and move into the other lane?
3. Wait until there is an opening and then signal and move into the other lane?
4. Signal, and when someone lets you in, you move into the other lane?

These are obviously simplified version of the rules of the road... you should use the mirrors, shoulder check et al. 

If  you chose any option other than #4, you are a poor driver. I'll explain.

Option 1: How the hell did you get your license?Failure to signal is a good way to cut some off and possibly kill yourself or the person you are cutting off. Idiots.

Option 2: Again... no signaling? What is wrong with you? It's a courtesy to the cars behind and in front of you... you know... in case they might want to know if it safe for them to change lanes?

Option 3: What is the point? Yes, you are finally getting some manners by signaling... but why are you waiting until the coast is clear. On a busy roadway - like a Toronto rush-hour commute, it is never clear. You will never be able to change lanes. 

Option 4: This is how you safely and properly make a lane change. How many people actually do this? Surprisingly here in Toronto, not as many as you would hope.

On any given drive in and out of work, I will be cut off no less than three times. It's okay, though, because I drive like I am going to be cut-off, so my defensive driving prepares me to react. I also have great reflexes - like a cat! Meow!     

Look... I was no angel behind the wheel as a young man. I've taken my cars as fast as they will go. I've owned a laser-radar detector. But let me tell you... when you are traveling nearly 240 kph and you have a quarter-mile head start on a cop using a radar or laser on you... you are still going to blow by the cop at an excessive speed. You can not slow down fast enough. I was stupid and lucky to have never been caught. Or killed anyone - including myself.

So... I'm not a great driver... though I suppose since becoming a family man, I have learned how to be a better driver. Hence this rant.

But back to the hate... signal... await an opening... and make your lane change when you are sure it is safe to do so.

Don't forget to give the wave, either. 

Do you know what I hate?

It's the improper use of the turn signal.