Ya freakin pussy!

As I turned away, and headed for the safety of the dishpit my eyes began to well up. It was enough already, and that one last comment broke my back. Of course, you didn't know that, because your comment was actually harmless enough, but when combined with all the other "funny" comments, and the various trickles of venom being trickled from a myriad of muttered sources, the culmination begins to feel like a weight I cannot carry.

I'll freely admit that I may be a delicate little pussy, but I have seen people far tougher than myself reel in the face of some delightful quip from a half drunk moron, or watching the life being sucked out of them by an angry co-worker, or overlord.

As I look around the dishpit I check my watch, take a deep breath, and head back out unto the breach.

Maybe its just me. Maybe I'm too sensitive for this business. Or maybe I'm just tired. Or maybe I'm just getting old and soft.

Either way, tomorrow is another day.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Is There Anything More Delusional Than Earth Hour?

Image by Aloriel via Flickr

Oh, god it is upon us again, that most pointless liberal led exercise in self delusion known as Earth Hour.

While I will freely admit to not being an expert on the dynamics of electrical power, I do know a few things, the first of which is that the cost of storing electricity is prohibitive. The second of which is that it takes a huge amount of power to shut down a hydroelectric or nuclear power station.

To simplify, unused electricity is not "saved" , it disappears, unless you have a medium like a battery in which to store it.

So for all you folks out there who think that Earth Hour is anything more than a vain exercise that is more attuned to making a spoiled community in the developed western world feel good about themseleves, think again.

The cost of storing electricity is prohibitive, which is one reason why we are not all driving electric cars, among others.

Time and again, you will be told  how consumption dropped during Earth Hour. The thing you will not be told, is that the production of power stayed exactly the same, and that while you were walking around in your feelgood candlelight, your local nuclear plant or hydroelectric dam was producing the exact same amount of power, regardless of whether you were using or not.

Don't let me burst your bubble, symbolism is important, and if you want to turn your lights out so that you may feel better about the environmental degradation that we commit every other hour of our lives throughout the year, then go right ahead.

Just don't dare look me in the eye and tell me that you are making a difference. Because you're not.

The exact same amount of power is going to be produced during Earth Hour, whether you consume it or not.

By all means, enjoy your pointless circle jerk in the dark, but keep in mind that the only thing you're really doing is lowering your hydro bill by a penny or two.

Truly, Earth Hour is little more than living proof that perception beats reality every time.

Bread and circuses, indeed.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

My Summer of Sam

It was late July 1981, and finally the pieces were being put together, a grim realisation was setting in that a serial killer was on the loose.

My adolescence was in a shambles that would make Holden Caufield feel better about himself. My parents had divorced and I had moved from Tsawwassen to Richmond, and was by now living with my Dad. Tsawwassen was the kind of place where a Canadian  Brady Bunch might have been filmed, a little beach suburb of Vancouver, an idyllic and tree lined end of the road.

Richmond, at the time, was known for its malls and ditches. I was fifteen and I was the new guy in a strange school and I hated everything. As often as I could I would take the thirty minute bus ride to retreat my former home, where I had friends, I could get in to parties and be a fringe player with the cool delinquents and escape the isolation and quiet desperation of my new life.

One day, the Vancouver Sun printed a picture of all the missing kids. The police were finally admitting that a serial killer was on the loose. I looked at the pictures and wondered what was going on, but I didn't feel at all threatened. I skimmed over the faces, unaware.

One night that summer, I was waiting for one of the last buses back to my new and meagre reality. I think it was Tom Vanderwater, or maybe Jim Rogers, but someone was with me. Behind and below the bus stop was a mall, a sort of sunken affair a few feet down.

A man pulled up in a vehicle in the silent and empty parking lot of the mall. The suburban streets were desolate. The man asks us where the Guildford Mall is. Now, the Guildford Mall is way out of my world, somewhere east in Surrey or Coquitlam or some other place I never go to. We give him general directions. Then he asks where we are going. My friend is going home, and I'm going through the tunnel and home to Richmond.

He then offers to give me a lift, if I show him where The Guildford Town Centre is, which is at least an hour out of the way, and why does a guy want to go to a mall at midnight? All of this is academic 'cos I'm not getting in that car, no way no how. This shit is creepy and my momma didn't raise no fools, or did she?

It took a long, long, long time for me to understand that there could be any possible connection between this creep in the car and his bizarre request and Clifford Robert Olson, but the truth is that a number of the bodies were found just beyond the other end of the Massey Tunnel, within days of this encounter. At that time the tunnel was the gateway from Tsawwassen to anywhere.

I'll let you draw your own conclusions, I know I've drawn mine.

In another ironic twist this property in Richmond was owned by the father of a guy I knew from Tsawwassen, Eugene Knodler.

In the strange and hostile adolescent world of a new school the few friendly faces stand out. I had carved out a few friendships, and Darren was one of them. As we sat in the woods, no doubt passing a joint around, he suddenly turned to me and said "Hey, did you hear?!".

"Hear what", I asked?

"About Judy, that guy killed her"

"Judy?, Judy who?"

"Judy Kozma, you know her".

And indeed I did. I would not dare insult her real friends by saying I hung out with her, but in that most friendless year of my tenth grade Judy had stood out. She was a girl who didn't treat me like a piece of garbage at school, and that was a rare thing in those dark days. Thats why I remembered her, and why I still do.

And that is the way it was for me in my own little Summer Of Sam.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Ann Coulter, Professional Victim?

Image via Wikipedia

Ann Coulter is a brilliant self promoter, the Paris Hilton of political porn.

Her formula is as simple as it is infantile. Piss off everybody, while leaving a shred of the tried and true "I was only joking, and why are you all so uptight? " defense in every utterance.

While I may be a bleeding heart, I am also intelligent enough to recognise that Ms. Coulter and her odious and divisive brand of shameless self promotion in no way reflects the opinion of those who support our current prime minister. Seriously, some of my best friends vote Conservative.

Ms. Coulter's views are clearly unCanadian, from her assertion that Jews are unperfected Christians, that women shouldn't be allowed to vote, and that Muslim countries should be carpetbombed. As offensive as Ms. Coulter may be, her brilliance should not go unnoticed.

She has made a career out of manipulating every outrageous situation she ever created for her own personal benefit, and she just pulled it off again.

She made some purposely racist comment ("I was just joking") in regards to question about a remark she made several years earlier when she proposed that Muslim people should not be allowed to fly and if they didn't like it "they should take a magic carpet".

A few days ago a Muslim student at The University Of Western Ontario asked Ms. Coulter what she should do, given that she did not own a magic carpet. Ms. Coulter replied that she should "take a camel".

And, the game was on.

Ms Coulter immediately claimed that she wanted to give a thoughtful answer, but she was being heckled, so the best she was able to come up with was a quip. After all she's just a girl who by her own admission is too stupid to risk enfranchising with the vote, yet alone taking responsibility for her own past stupidity, and "why is everyone against me, I'm just a girl?".

The outraged left falls into the trap by issuing a warning to Ms. Coulter about Canadian Hate Speech  Law, that prohibits inciting hatred against identifiable groups. This outrages Ms. Coulter, because she makes her money by inciting hatred against identifiable groups. I figure that if you want to bust someone for committing a crime, the last thing you do is give them advance notice.

Like a true reptilian, she counters with the absurd threat that the letter she received constitutes an act of hate against an identifiable group: psychopathic douchebags who enjoy enflaming the stupid.

To top things off, the trademark Offended And Outraged Group International  had to show up and force Ms. Coulter to cancel her dark circus in Ottawa.

Point, Ms. Coulter.

Now she gets to go back to US network television and claim that she had to flee Canada in the face of violent protest that forced her to cancel her speech under the threat of arrest by the Canadian government.

Way to take the bait, you reactionary idiots. I say let the woman talk, her stupidity speaks for itself.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Sunday, Brunchy Sunday

Image by Ed Yourdon via Flickr

The Boomtown Rats aside, for those of us in the hospitality industry, it is Sunday that we don't have a liking for. Years ago as I quaffed a frosty in my local I watched a Hall Of Fame bartender, a veteran of considerable charm, wisdom, competence, and patience deny service to a clearly unqualified customer.

After vanquishing the drunken rogue, she leaned in to me and said "I don't know why, but Sunday is always a freak show". And she was right.

I have probably toiled in at least two dozen restaurants over the years, and I cannot recall a time when I enjoyed working Sundays. Though it could be much worse, I could be working the most despised shift in all of restaurantdom, the dreaded brunch shift.

My current employer runs an excellent Sunday brunch, and I have the utmost respect for the people who stand guard in this most treacherous battle. As often as not, Sunday Brunch sales exceed Sunday night sales in a shorter time period, but in the world of brunch every nickel is hard won.

Picky clientele, refilling coffee, eggs done just so and couples with two weekend papers tucked under their arms so that they may ignore each other in sync, while blaming you for their loveless trap. And the strollers, don't get me started on the strollers, yet alone the cargo.

Brunch is nothing but a congregation that celebrates the death cry of hope, catered by a hung over mob of angry and bitter miscreants not unlike myself.

And Sunday night is not much better. Make no mistake, I don't worry about the customers I know on Sunday night, I worry about the people I don't know.

Its Sunday night, and I have the closing shift. As I take off my coat the debit/credit card machine crashes, and those heroic soldiers who work brunch are out of gas and trying to figure out their cash in the face of the fact that they have charges sitting in the crashed debit machine.

Just to add to the fun, we forgot to clear the till from the previous evening, so it takes awhile for all of us to figure out the algebra of what is going on financially. Enraged, I ask myself who the idiot was that worked last night? After a careful investigation, I discover it was me.

We went through three scenarios before me and the Ace Of Bass figured it out.

In the first scenario, she confessed that she had made $900 on sales of $1300. That didn't sound quite right.

In the second scenario she made crap money, but we couldn't find it. Being the class act that she is, The Ace was willing to swallow the loss and walk away.

And finally the realisation that, like a bad Star Trek episode, there was a charge stuck in cyberspace, an updated version of a grainy Spock showing up on our radar screen, trying to tell us something. A financial piece of data for which there was no hard copy, something that had been billed but not collected.

It is one thing to get screwed in this business, but getting screwed on a brunch shift is the most cruel thing of all, and I have the deepest respect for The Ace and Smasher and everyone else who makes brunch work at my bowl of rice. I'm not sure I could do it.

Then again, after this initial problem was dealt with I was then informed that the busser was ill and wouldn't be joining us and I had to kick out some moron who I had mistakenly served and was now cruising the bar, annoying all and sundry who help me pay my rent.

Throw in a call to a 1-800 number over a cheap cordless VOIP phone where nothing can be heard in a crowded bar in a vain attempt to fix an apparently unfixable debit/credit card machine. "For extreme anger press what?"

And that was hour one of my Sunday shift.

But, such is the nature of the business. If you want that Saturday night shift, you have to play a little ball and work Sunday night. Ditto for Friday and Monday. And ditto for brunch.

In a just world, the sun don't shine on the same dogs butt every afternoon.

The smart people who make schedules know that a balance must be struck between seniority, credibility and fairness. Some effort should be made to cut the pie fairly, while taking into account a number of divergent factors, including the fact that each and every name on the payroll  has rent and bills to pay.

Luckily, I work for a person who strives to find this balance. That is why I work Saturday night and Sunday night. Ying meet yang.

It is also why I was able to book off  fourteen weeks in the last twelve months. Working Sunday may suck, but not being able to go to Africa, Asia and Central America sucks quite a bit more.

I must admit though, once in awhile, I long for those puritan times in Toronto when opening on Sunday was prohibited by law.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Do We Care Or Don't We?

If the house of your neighbour burned to the ground, what would you do?

I'm pretty sure that I know what you would do. You would open up your home to them, and you would give every possible comfort. And so would I.

Its called human instinct, and it is built into our DNA.

Many years ago, the brilliant Joseph Campbell recalled a story about a police officer in Hawaii, who risked his life to save a man from falling over a cliff. Later, when the officer was asked why he risked everything to save this man his simple reply was " I knew that if I let go of him I couldn't go on living".

Plainly, when the heat is on, something kicks in that makes us do the right thing. In the critical moment our connectedness is crystal and our separateness evaporates.

It is built in to all of us, and those that would let go are the exception.

So the next time that you're on a crowded rush hour subway train, remind yourself that the vast majority of people on board would save your life, if only they had the chance.

Indeed, the hero does have a thousand faces.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Is There Anything Dumber Than A Tagger?

Image by Overig via Flickr

In my opinion there is no lower form of urban moron than the protein deprived douchebags who refer to themselves as "taggers", unless you consider their even more pathetic offspring, the so-called "scratchiti artist".

Make no mistake, there is a huge difference between legitimate graffiti artists and these no talent crack babies, who feel that their meaningless squiggles emblazoned upon the private and public domain are something other than a declaration of their own impotence in the public realm.

When I was in Asia one thing particularly struck me about the populace. Pride was taken in the in the cleanliness of the most humble abode and business.

Some people didn't have much, but they took the utmost pride in keeping what they did have pristine. I saw this throughout Asia, and I also saw it in Ghana.

It is called pride of place, and I can assure you taggers that you will get it when you grow up and take some soul crushing job to pay off your car loan and mortgage.

And when you wake up one morning to find that someone has spraypainted GY2E on your front door or on the hood of your precious vehicle, you might understand. Feel free to come after me, I'll be waiting for you.

And know that if I catch you trashing someone's stuff, I'll be waiting for you, and you will be subjected to an experiment that determines the fatal dose of spraypaint.

Look, I'm sorry about your small penis, but I think that you should go back to your original plan of trying to kill your parents, and leave the rest of us alone.

The public domain is not yours alone, it belongs to all of us. Sadly though, in a society of adult children, the greater good yields to the needs of the childish.

While, unlike Stephen Harper, I don't advocate torture, I am willing to make an exception for taggers. You should all have your balls tied to a TTC streetcar and be given a tour of the city.


 http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Amateur Night

Image via Wikipedia

For those of us who toil in the honourable profession of delivering to you various potations, libations and less tangible articles of sustinence, there are certain dates on the calender that cause the icy hot dread of anticipation to flow through our veins.

New Years Eve is nothing but an overpriced gouge that can benefit the house, but is generally a wasteland for servers and bartenders, the kind of evening where publicans should consider themselves fortunate if the guest is cognizant enough to actually sign their charge or navigate the complexities of a post midnight debit transaction, yet alone leave a tip.

Mothers Day is another good one. An annual plague that is visited upon dining establishments , as opposed to bars. "Hi, we're an unhappy family that never go out, and the stakes are really high. No, we don't have a reservation, but we do have three strollers and a very limited budget."

But the mac daddy of all the barf encrusted dates on the calender is St. Patricks Day. It brings out the absurdity of drunken Irish temerity in people from all around the world in North America.

The truth is that in Ireland, St. Paddy's day is no big deal.

So as the clock strikes six tomorrow, I will take a moment of silence in memory of all my comrades heading out onto that Guiness laden, puke infused, 5% tipping battlefield. Its just one shift, and as you engage the battle, remember that, as sure as the earth is turning, last call will come.

As for me, the miracle of scheduling has granted  the day off. They don't call it the GREGorian calender for nothing.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Glances At A Map

On the wall to the left of my little desk is a map of the world. Every once in awhile, I look at that map and shake my head in disbelief.

I don't know what it is, but sometimes I forget that I went to some amazing places in the last 12 months, and I find myself looking at the map trying to convince myself that I actually did go to Cambodia, that I actually did share a meal in a remote African village.

Sometimes it all feels like a weird dream. I look at places that I have been on that map, and for an instant I forget that certain locales are no longer dreams, but realities that I have experienced. Would someone please pinch me, so that I may wake up, because, surely the past twelve months are not real.

Four continents, a few charity projects, and empowering  and challenging myself to make my life about something.

It was one year ago today that I put a post on a blog for the first time.

What a long strange trip its been.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Promises, Promises

New water pump at Omenako Methodist School, Suhum,  Ghana.
Photo courtesy www.ghanacommunity.com


Not the maker of plans and promises, but rather the one who offers faithful service in small matters.  This is the person who is most likely to achieve what is good and lasting.    - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Promises are easy to make. Often though, keeping them is a more complicated matter, and the most arduous promises are the ones we make to ourselves.

We can't all be who we think we are, but the measure of our credibility is largely intertwined with our ability to keep the promises that we make to others, and of greatest import is the promises we utter only within. You can lie to other people, but you can never lie to yourself.

Lately I've been asking myself a lot of questions about why I write this blog, so I looked at the text on my landing page to remind myself about what my goals really are. Honestly, it seems that lately its been more about what I think and about my travels than my original purpose.

Lately, I have been trying to get caught up in living up to my creed. I have recently sent some cash off to the Omenako School Project. Ironically, Omenako has now reached the point where they could actually begin to consider my original and impractical offer of the donation of a laptop. And it has spawned a new website.

The school has a roof, windows and doors. The physical infrasructure now exists. We can now fathom the possibility of a library and an internet connection. In addition, someone else has donated a computer. I am proud to have played a small role in creating this ongoing project in conjunction with some awesome people from inside and outside Ghana.

Omenako, however is a communal promise, something that an accidental and impromptu group made to each other. And it is a promise being kept.

As Toufic walked me through his village of Larabanga, I made a promise, not to Toufic, but to myself. I was enveloped in need and I began to see that supporting Toufic might create a domino effect. He was involved in helping to build the school in Larabanga and he volunteers as a teacher there.

In short, he pays it forward.

And, once again I'm asking you to do the same. Toufic needs to pay for another semester of schooling.  The goal is $800. I'm putting up half, so that means a total goal of $400, and Cayelle pitched in $50, so we are already down to $350.

Make no mistake, there is nothing I hate more than asking people for money, I think its connected to my Leo pride. Ahhh, foolish pride. But sometimes a donation is an investment.

And this is an investment that I believe in.

Donations may be made in person or through my paypal account @

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

ps: If you want to see where Toufic lives, watch the first five minutes. And I'm happy to say that I ate the exact same meal in the exact same place. I was treated like an honoured guest and it is among the road moments that I most cherish.

Why Voting Is A Waste Of Time

Image via Wikipedia

Ahh, the vote, that great panacea bestowed upon the masses, so the deluded may feel engaged and the stupid may feel enraged.

Under our Canadian parliamentary system we have elections. And I must applaud our principles, but the key to change is not voting, it is the open door provided by Elections Canada and other bodies of oversight that really make our system work. If you think that going behind some curtain every few years means that you are engaged in the process, you are sadly mistaken.

Ditto for all of the professional protesters in this country. While protest has changed the course of history, protest only works when people have been crushed into oblivion and are willing to lay down there lives en masse.

Lets face it, in a country where the HST is the big issue, this ain't gonna happen, and I'm grateful for that.

Voting is more nuanced, a placebo to keep people of average intelligence engaged in the illusion of participation in the outcome of the country.

It allows them to have passionate and pointless debates over Pinot Blanc in restaurants, it sells newspapers, and it makes frogs less aware that the water temp has just been increased.

For example, in more than 80% of the Federal Ridings in this country, the result is a foregone conclusion before the campaign begins. While this does change with the fortunes of time, the results are still easily predicted and generally accurate.

In my own riding, I know who is going to win and an election hasn't even been called, and the chances are that many of you could make the same claim.

On the upside, Elections Canada is a wide open door that allows each and every one of us to truly participate in our democracy with a minimum of effort and expense.

I know this because ten years ago my name was on a ballot in a federal election with a ragtag group who used the internet to cobble together a campaign that led to us getting Official Party Status.I am proud of the fact that  my name was on a ballot in a federal election. I did not expect to win, but I stood up for my beliefs.

My point is that the rule of our democracy is highly open to grassroots participation, and that we can all do better than simply regurgitate whatever biased media opinion that we choose to expose ourselves to.

Participation in democracy involves more than sitting at a dining room table, a bar, or a keyboard and complaining.

Canadians don't seem to understand that real change involves getting off your ass. This has led me to the understanding that your opinion is as worthless as mine, and my efforts are better expended on trying to help people in other places.

Lets face it, Canadian Politics is little more than a useless pussyfest, and people truly do get the kind of government they deserve, and the powers that be are quite happy to watch you get angry at each other around your dining room table. Its the way the system works, and it is so much easier than getting off your ass and actually doing anything.

Now, is there any of that Pinot Blanc left?

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

A Night In The Life

Image by Premshree Pillai via Flickr

Look, I'm sorry that you're angry about the fact that your group booked a reservation for 10 - 15 people and thirty five showed up, and now the staff is angry that they can't do their job because you and your friends have overwhelmed the small space that we and our treasured regulars call home. And when I say "regular", I mean anyone that we know by name. You don't have to come in every day, if one of us knows your name you have "status" with all of us. It is just that simple.

When I heard you demand to speak to the manager, I shook my head, laughing about the incongruity of the situation, because there really isn't one. Our unspoken rule is that if you have a problem with someone you should talk to them about it. So naturally you were referred to the "manager" that you had a dispute with.

However, make no mistake, there is an owner. A fine and benevolent person, who shoulders the weight of trying to keep the joint going while the rest of us waft carelessly in and out. And you are free to talk to her, as I directed.

However, I've got to warn your naive self that this isn't The Olive Garden. Your complaint will not be forwarded to Corporate at our Head Office in London, Ontario, where a fake letter of profuse apology for transgressing the unwritten law will be issued with a $25 Gift Certificate (valid only Mon, Tues, Weds, alcohol  AND GRATUITY not included).

And I really hope you do call the owner, because a couple of things happened after you left that she might wish to discuss with you, not the least of which is having to clean up your friends vomit from a table. (thanks 180, I owe you bigtime)

I've worked in this business for decades, and I am very happy to be where I am, with the people I'm with, and I do genuinely like 99% of the people that come in to the bar. We have built a simple little sanctuary with the guidance of a fine hand, and you're welcome to join us.

But, please, don't make a ruckus. There is a lot of nice people who come in here, and they don't want to be bothered.

And come to think of it, neither do I.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

The Art Of Cheap Flights

During the past twelve months, I've visited Africa, Asia and Central America. Along the way, I've made some big mistakes. I've had two knives and a bottle of tequila seized because they were in my carry on, and not on the same trip. I way overpaid for a hotel in Hanoi, because I messed up the conversion rate. My biggest mistake was not having a frequent flyer account.

By simply registering, I would now have enough miles racked up for two domestic return tickets anywhere in continental North America, or be well on my way to enough mileage for another big trip almost anywhere. In addition, I would have "status", meaning that I could access airport lounges and get free wifi, snacks and beverages from many airports around the globe while waiting for my flight.

But between the screwups, I have learned a couple of things along the way about searching for cheap flights. When selecting flights I have a long term vision, so if you have to be in Bangkok in three days this might not be the best strategy, but then again it might help.

My first move is to go to farecompare.com. The reason that I love this site is that if you enter a city and then click on the date a calender pops up. The beauty of this calender is that it displays possible prices on a potential date and you can scroll through the calender. This allows you to see when the peak and low fares are for any given destination.

However if you search Farecompare, be sure to click unselect all in the search parameters, otherwise a whole bunch of browsers will open to each site being searched. It is really quite annoying.

The second move is to take the itinerary based on the cheapest flight dates from farecompare.com and stroll on over to cheapoair.com. In a recent example, I searched a flight to Damascus, Syria using the same cheap dates. Farecompare quoted $1732 US and Cheapoair quoted $1361 US. All fares quoted are final cost.

Personally, I don't like to book online, so I take the cheap itinerary in to my travel agent. If she can match it within $50, I book it. And of course she can, because we are all accessing the same information

And if you're willing to travel on a more short term whim, then I would suggest that you sign up for email alerts at http://www.airfarewatchdog.com/ . The reason that I love this site is that the alerts are specific to where you live. I live in Toronto, and a cheap fare from Wichita to Phoenix is of no interest to me.

Happy Travels

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

We're All Canadians

During the 2010 Winter Olympics, some multinational Canadian coffee chain was running a commercial that depicted a black man contacting and meeting his family as they arrived at an unidentified Canadian airport.

The message seemed to be that he had come here with nothing, was starting a life and had established himself to an extent that his family was now able to join him.

One Saturday night this commercial ran with the volume on in the bar that I work in. It caused one patron to mutter derisively, "yeah, you come to this country and get everything for free". The thing that made me laugh and cry at the same time, was that these words were uttered with a thick English accent.



I don't mean to point fingers at English immigrants. I've heard the same garbage from Greek, Irish, Italian people and members of pretty much every other white skinned nation that you can name.

I used to work with a gay racist bartender, and it always made me shake my head. How can you be a member of a minority, and hate minorities?

A few years back, The Toronto Star conducted a major study that showed that immigrants commit fewer crimes, access welfare to a lesser degree and create more jobs than the average Canadian per capita.

Many people fail to understand the real reason that we have immigration in this country. The basic fact is that we don't fuck enough, so we have to import people from foreign countries to contribute to future growth so that we may maintain the health of our long term obligations, such as our Canada Pension Plan.

Apparently, foreigners like screwing more than we do, and judging from the pasty and aging Brit douchebag and fellow citizen who decried our immigration policy in the face of this commercial, I'm not the least bit surprised that this country is incapable of having enough sex to sustain itself.

Lets face it, hate is a big turnoff.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Typos and Stupidity, There Is A Difference

Image by nofrills via Flickr

I was just reading my Asia blog from start to finish and I was very disheartened to find a bunch of typos, which I fixed. The  thing that really gets under my skin is that I know that there are more typos in the many blathering words.

While I am agonised by my own typos, "I forgive those who typo against me". I know what you mean, it was an accident and who really cares?

But grammatical stupidity is a different matter, and here are the two things that irritate me no end.

The first is the inability to use a contraction properly. Would've  is a contraction of two words, would and have. Ditto for could and have, and an encore for should and have. But if I see another post that says "would of" when they mean would've, I am going to scream.

My second peeve is the use of the word unique. By definition it means that there is nothing like it. Unique means one of a kind. Therefore words like very, quite, and (gasp) totally should never be placed in front of unique. However, there are a few allowable negative adjectives like almost.

My advice is that if you want to use the word unique, just leave it alone and let it stand by itself.

Class dismissed, and here is a salutation that spellcheck won't catch.

Good buy, I would of gone on longer, but I felt this post was very unique.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Amazing Happens When You Say Yes

Image by sointula via Flickr

In the early 1990's, I had a great job working in the salmon fishery on the North West Coast of British Columbia. I was attending school in Toronto at the time and this gig was a perfect opportunity. I was in my early twenties and this was a great student job.

The job entailed doing something I knew nothing about in a world that was unknown to me, but I had one trump card. The person who offered me the job was a friend who absolutely knew what he was doing, and in retrospect the subtext of his offer was also "come with me and I will teach you about my world". I am so grateful that I took him up on his offer.

Make no mistake, I had no free ride, but I also felt a great personal responsibility to my friend who had recommended me to be a part of  "the crew".

I took a leave of absence from my job bartending, got on a plane, visited my family, and embarked on a venture in to the unknown. What I experienced in that first year compelled me to get on that same route in that same direction for another five years.

I learned to drive a forklift, I learned that the difference between a coho and an early run spring salmon is hard to detect. I saw why the sockeye salmon is the regal member of the family. I was a fish out of water, but I challenged myself to learn and try to fit in. To soak it in and realise that I was being given an opportunity to educate myself.

I also met a lot of fishermen. A few jerks, but like the rest of this planet, mostly awesome people.  In hindsight, it was also pretty special to learn a little more about West Coast native culture.

I loved it so much that I spent a couple of winters out there, one in a cabin with woodstove heat. You chop it, I'll light it, dude. We would search the island for shwag left over by loggers.

In that moment when I said yes to my friends adventurous offer a door opened up to experiences that you can't buy, no matter how much cash you have.

I could probably write a whole blog about the myriad of experiences I would have during my time spent in the West Coast fishery, but this is one memory that sticks out.

It was early morning in Johnstone Strait. Off in the distance mountains sparkled with authority, aproned by unending evergreens. Two whales jumped playfully in the strait. A few feet away from my yellow gumboots, porpoises glided through the water, their swishing creating the only sound in the docks silent dusk.

And I thought to my mid twenties self, "no matter what happens in your life, you are probably not going to top this, so you should strive to equal it".

And I have, at least a couple of times. I hope you have, too.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Hey, Obruni

"For the people in this village, life is hard, but beautiful, too. I've said before that travel changes you. It changes the meanings of words you took for granted. Words like community, because, here, without community there is no survival, and no life. Words like Africa, because once you've been here, these images are no longer flickering lights on a screen, something you've seen between channels. This is the real world."

                               Anthony Bourdain while visiting Larabanga, Ghana



"Hey Obruni, what are you doing?", the voice called out to me. I instantly tightened and felt apologetic, as if I had to explain myself.

It was my first big trip alone. I had not yet found my sea legs, and I was a little nervous. My surroundings were still unfamiliar, and I felt like an intruder. To make me feel even more vulnerable I was laying on my belly taking the above picture when the voice called out. Suddenly I felt very scared.

I have come to know that the fear that I felt in that moment was a learned response. In that instant I understood that I had been conditioned to fear other people. Strangers are bad. While I don't  mean to make light of the subject matter, when I was shown this film while I was in grade one, it did scare the piss out of me, and thank god that no stranger ever attacked and murdered me, but this film is one of many teachings that led me down a path to a mentality that strangers should be feared.

I know that a lot of us were subjected to this conditioning, and the fear that was instilled in me is not mine alone.

Turned out the dude on that backroad in Ghana was a nice guy.

Subsequent experiences have taught me that this world is overwhelmingly filled with incredibly kind and generous human beings, its just kind of sad that initial experiences failed to teach me that, that mistrusting my fellow human beings was something I was conditioned to do, something I had to overcome.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com

Memo To British Columbians

Image by dharma communications via Flickr

Dudes, thanks for an awesome party. Sorry 'bout that Georgian sled guy, but Rogge and that Vanoc guy promised that his name would never be forgotten. Lets face it, it was a rough start, but no one remembers his name now. Do you?

The main thing is that our country and our athletes did well and that our Prime Minister manged to do everything he could to associate himself with the success of others while taking us on a collective vacation from the facade of democracy. Ahhh 1936, so many memories.

Thanks again for a great party, but I gotta run, cos it looks like the waiter is headed to your table with a very large and stupidly unexpected tab. Maybe I can duck out the back door like Mr. Harper.

Greg Stock
Head Of The Toronto 2000andNeverCommittee

In Memory Of  Nodar Kumaritashvili  

My deepest sympathies to the family of a young man who lost his life too soon, lest we forget.

http://www.goyestoeverything.com