Let me take some time to tell you about a little thing I like to call customer service.

Service is a horrific industry by any standards, especially if you are unfortunate enough to be in its employ. You can put in all the long hard hours you want and the most you will show for it, is the return of customers wanting more from you.  Not to say that all customers are ungrateful, some seem genuinely pleased that you found the effort to serve them their overpriced meal/coffee/elephant pounder with dual speed vibration and realistic texture. In fact some people are so glad that they with throw their two pennies worth of change into your tip jar. Why, if they buy one coffee a day, everyday for a year, you’ll get a whole $7.28 to buy a gaudy dollar store necktie to hang yourself with. To be fair however, why would anyone pay me extra to get them something that they are paying too much for anyway? These two-penny tippers could be quite justified in their frugal donations.

The people who shall never in this existence know my compassion or favour are the regulars. Now before you all take up arms, let me explain the difference between the regulars, and the valued customers. The valued customers come in regularly and are kind, interesting, and show glittering sparkles of human spirit. These customers bring us shining moments in which we believe the service industry isn’t all that bad, and leave us thinking we might keep our job for one more week. Then there are the regulars. These people come into your business everyday, since they are disgusting creatures of habit, and could care less if your head was on fire, just as long as you get them their decaf soy cappuccino. These people have a deluded belief that since they are in everyday, they deserve a level of commitment unbeknownst to most mortal men. Well, I take a crap on my toilet once a day, but I sure as hell don’t expect it to send me flowers. 

Just so you know….

I put on my socks, one at a time, scratch indecent areas, get dressed and leave for work. This is all pretty normal and mundane. Now let’s pretend I go to my job where I get paid five million dollars or more to act in a film. Suddenly because my paycheck can clear the debt of some small cities, I have to lose the simple ability to walk down the street for fear of being mobbed by fame-starved lunatics?

How poorly we treat our “stars”, it’s completely ridiculous.

I understand admiring someone’s work, I mean how else would they understand that their efforts are appreciated. It’s when we camp outside their hotels and circulate around the trendy hotspots with pens and photos in hand, that I believe we cross a line towards sociopathic excess.

I have been contracted to the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) for the past four festivals, and in this time have seen obsessive adoration at its worst. Do you want the star you favour most to actually remember you out of a hundred faces in a crowd? Try treating them like a human being. Seriously, just walk up and politely introduce yourself instead of mobbing them and screaming for their autograph, they block those faces out and make their exits as quickly as possible.

One year at the TIFF I saw Harvey Keitel in a café huddled around this tiny excuse for a table. He had six guys with him cramped around this petite surface area, normally appropriate for two, and hadn’t noticed a larger empty table a few feet away. Being of a friendly, helpful nature, I calmly walked up to them and said “Sorry to interrupt you guys, but there’s a larger table off to side that would probably be better for you and your friends. I can help you bring your plates over if you would like.” They took me up on my offer and switched spots. Harvey looked at me then down at my nametag and said “Thank you Rob.” And that was that.

If I saw him again today and told him this story, he’d probably have at least a vague recollection of me. As for the throngs of screaming asinine fans…”Hey Harvey!!! Remember me? I was yelling at you and shoving a pen in you face. Don’t you remember? My maniacal screaming face made me look like I was shitting a brick.”

What a poetic remembrance.

Just so you know…

It used to be so simple; it used to be called dating, what’s changed? Dating used to be a sweet ritual of charm and chivalry responded to with acts of grace and flirtation. Boy meets girl, girl wears school jacket, girl gets promise trinket, guy begs for sex, realizes he needs to get engaged to have the sex because girl won’t play that way.

And so the wonderful tradition took form, and splendidly so depending on whether or not boys remember to keep their ring receipts. 

But even with those stages and levels of understanding there was always a level of uncertainty and trepidation, which has continued to remain in our attempts to link up with one another. 

To combat the fear we now resort to portraying an exuberant amount of apathy towards those that interest us. The more we like someone, the more we try not to show it. Unless one of the parties is well inebriated or the attempt is well shrouded in humor we don’t tend to put ourselves on the line. 

 We no longer date…  people just end up hanging out long enough until people call them a couple, it’s dating through osmosis. Forget ritual, forget taking the big chance, forget all of that, just sit back and wait for a label. “So are you guys like dating?” “Oh I don’t know what we are?”(Insert high pitched giggle here) “You guys are soooo going out!”(Insert squeal). And so begins another happy couple.

 If this degradation of our timely practice continues on its downward spiral, it won’t be long before we end up married by chance or on a TV show… oh wait…

just so you know…

We’re going to take the rant down a notch this week.

I just recently had a friend whose father passed away. I sympathize greatly as my own father passed away when I was seventeen years old. It’s not an easy thing to deal with by far but it does bring a lot of things to mind. 

Like for instance, why so much food?

I mean we had enough food given to us to feed our entire extended family four times over. Maybe we traded the old taboo of ingesting our dead for their wisdom, for a giant post-mortem buffet. I guess it’s much more tasteful.

My second question is “Why do people always say sorry?” Are they responsible somehow? My Dad died of a heart attack, so maybe the guy at our local Burger King could claim an assist but that’s it. Oh, and the tobacco companies, but I don’t expect any apologies, they’re pretty tied up with acts of contrition for cancer and emphysema right now. I really wonder about the people who still apologise to me even now, it’s been almost eleven years; I’ve had time to deal.

My other question is “why do some people bring up the dearly departed in hushed tones and downward glances?” You certainly aren’t going to wake them up or offend them by staring. The only question I can answer is this… “Why did it happen?” That’s the easy one, because it has to. It has to happen someday, sometime, somehow and no matter how you fill these variable slots it will never seem like the right time. It will always seem too unfair, too soon, or just too much.

We are lucky for a chance at life; look for the best in it. If you get knocked to the ground, marvel at how soft the grass is. 

I loved my father and am glad to have known him. His passing opened my eyes to things worth living for.

So I finish by saying this to my friend T.K., grieve well, however works for you. Never weigh yourself down with this loss, but elevate yourself with the joy of his memory. It’s a hard trail to walk upon, but at least it leads forward…

just so you know…

Why can’t we be more like ants? I mean these little guys have got it together. They’ve got a job to do and places to go and they all know it, in fact their colony depends on it.

Why ants do you say? “Rob, with all the limitless topics in the world why would you delve into a world already displayed in two computer animated feature films?” One simple reason, unaware people piss me off.

That’s right, you know who you are. You’re the ones who travel down escalators and stop at the bottom to look around while the poor civilians trapped behind you try desperately not to trample your inept form. 

You are the ones who get up first to leave the theatre after the movie is over and then proceed at a snail pace up the walkway while those of us behind wonder whether the urine straining our bladder will be noticeable on the front of our pants.

You are the ones who think store entrances and busy sidewalks are the best places to hold impromptu meetings of the socially dense.

Odds are that you will be the ones that keep me stuck in a burning building, jamming up the exit, wondering to yourselves if the southern exit is really the best exit when the north side of the building has a much more breathtaking view.

Come on people, the rest of us have important things to do!

How can some people live their lives so vastly oblivious?  These are the same people that walk out into traffic without looking. All this proves is that the natural selection theory is on the mark.

So to all you lollygaggers, amblers, meanderers, and ramblers, and plain old stunned cunts I’ll say this…

Get your head out of the clouds, everything you’ll see up there is foggy, daydreams help you set a goal but it’s your feet that will get you there.

Just so you know… 

I am by no means a fashion icon. I don’t spend more then a hundred dollars on a pair of jeans. I wear clothes that have holes in them, not from a machine or a professional seamstress. I’m talking about real holes that are made from wear, tear, and repeated washes and were not there when I purchased them off the rack.

This doesn’t mean I don’t dress well; I just dress in my own style. I know the difference between what does and does not look good.

This brings me to the point of this week’s rant.

What the fuck is up with trucker hats?

I could go happily through the rest of my life without having to wear one of those again.

People realize they look bad don’t they? We left that style behind for a reason. When I first started wearing hats I had trouble with the mesh back. I hated the way it sat on my head and the snap strip on the back never had the right position for my cranial composition. They sucked.

When cotton hats came out full force with their adjustable leather straps, hat makers and milliners around the world rejoiced as the foam follies were behind us. And then the stars came out. Suddenly Ashton and Justin resurrected the horrific creation and fashion faux pas became a trend. Just because a star wears something, doesn’t make that item better. Remember when Björk wore a dead swan dress to the academy awards? Simply being enveloped in fame doesn’t mean they can dress themselves without help.

Let’s please let some fashions die. Leotards used to be all the rage way back in the day but you don’t see everyone prancing around in hosiery.

If these scant arguments do not move you into agreement try this one; Hats have the perfect shape for mullets… MULLETS!!!

So if you must bring forth any trends from the ashes please think wisely. Don’t enliven a gateway hat for hillbilly hairstyles. Think ease, think style, think of haute couture chic with a hint of nineteen hundred octogenarian relevance. 

Think pleather zipper tie.

Well it’s that time again and I’ll have to admit I’m stumped. I honestly have nothing to write about.

I feel the true power of a rant is brought about through searing anger or the indignant injustice of a particular subject or event.

At least it’s been that way so far.

Now I’ve hit an impasse, I’ve nothing to be angry about.

I have nothing to be angry about and it’s pissing me off.

Oh sure, I’m positive that you’ve all put your clever little noggins together and thought, “Hey he’s just said he’s angry.” Before you all start writing your witty and scathing emails on how right you are and how wrong I am, stop.

This anger I feel is not steeped in the spirit of righteousness. It’s the simple act of petty frustration.

Petty frustration does not aid in bringing forth eloquent tirades of outraged orations, all it brings about is bitching.

Believe me there is a difference.

Racing a pen across the page chastising the media’s implied importance of a movie star’s latest outing over startlingly tragic disasters, is good solid ranting.

Writing a page because your eggs were not hard poached, that’s a first class ticket to a whiny bitch nametag.

So instead of endless streams of minor annoyances, I will leave you with this.

It’s an overused adage but still fitting and true. 

“Choose your battles wisely”.

Some pages can be podiums, the rest are just wastes of ink.

Just so you know…

It was bound to happen. You can’t spend inordinate amounts of time sloshing around seething conjectures without skirting the edges of theology.

I’m not about to make any bold statements about the possible ipso facto existence of an all-powerful creator. I certainly am not about to point a finger towards which religion I feel holds more validated claims. I try to stay away from people’s primal lifelines when I debate a subject. Telling someone that their über being was chosen because it’s story looked better on the stone carvings, is not only blasphemous, but highly inconsiderate as well. 

As a matter of fact, the focus of my rant is derived from a few untraditional Christian viewpoints.

So to continue my rant… Those who think God is a woman please stand up.

Now sit down because you’re crazy.

Hold on, simmer down ladies, I don’t mean to discredit the fairer sex in anyway but it just doesn’t fit.

Point number one, the human form. In following the belief of Adam and Eve both were born naked, not one stitch of clothing. All the important things to the human anatomy in a well packaged bundle. If God were a woman, there definitely would have been some creative designs and accessorizing.  Perhaps dangling the tonsils on the outside to elongate the face.

Point number two is perhaps the most poignant. What female God would make it so hard for some women to have orgasms and find “G-spots” while guys can finish by accidentally rubbing up against the living room recliner. Well maybe not the recliner, but you do get my point.

Now let’s move forward from creation a few centuries through the biblical timeline, to our good friend Noah. 

Now the kind of anger in that tale is definitely not of a woman. When guys blow up, they do it big and damn the consequences. Forty days of storms is definitely masculine rage. A woman would never warn Noah she was about to get angry. She’d just do it, Bam lots of water. And forget those forty days and forty nights without any contact. You piss off a woman and you’re going to know about it everyday until you’ve apologized in every method conceivable. 

If you scan through the Bible, they never really touch upon this Noah tale again, but if god were a woman she’d bring this up in every argument afterwards.

Now let’s move ahead on to point number three, Jesus.

Now the idea of the Son of God could go either way on the gender debate, but here’s the big picture. The Bible has the sweet baby Jesus stories then nothing. Suddenly Jesus is all grown up and can take care of all his own mortal needs. No stories in the middle, nada.

Hello! Can anyone say classic deadbeat dad scenario? No woman would leave her only son out of the “good book” ever. In fact there would be tons of pictures and hundreds of cute stories about what Jesus said or did that was “absolutely adorable!” Now I know deadbeat dad is a bit of a heavy title, I’m sure God was very busy, I mean look at the job title, God. You put that label on your desk and you know you’re going to have one hell of a caseload. 

And Jesus dying on the cross and coming back to life? That’s the ultimate example of a dad telling his son to “take it like a man” and “walk it off”.

I’m not saying that the fairer sex isn’t right fit for such a position. I just think the facts are stacked against a matriarchal being of omnipotence. 

God as structured by the Christian faith is most certainly leaning towards the trappings of a bloke. Look at the state the world is in now. We’re constantly aware of an abundance of hunger, war, disease, and death. The horsemen are out there and they’re taking practice runs.

And what is God doing? He’s leaving the mess for somebody else to clean up.

What a typical male.

Just so you know…

I’m a fairly aware fellow, and I don’t mind admitting that in the past I’ve turned a blind eye to things because I felt they were harmless or didn’t matter to me. I mean who hasn’t at one point or another in their life.

Recently however with the help of my good friend Evan and some provocative literature and media sources, my eyes took in their last affront from someone I’ve trusted even from my earliest childhood years.

This is a fond “Fuck You” to McDonalds.

That’s right… good old Mickey Dee’s. Fuck you and the Ray Kroc you rode in on.

This all started when my friend Evan pointed out how much he hated the new McDonald’s “I’m loving it” ad campaign. It’s not anything particular about the ads; it’s just that I’m tired of McDonald’s telling me what to do. It all started with that smiling Red-headed Bastard. No not Vince, I’m talking about Ronald. I was only around three years old when that jerk started manipulating me. Telling me to coerce my parents into getting me a happy meal so I could get a crappy ass toy. And why?

Because he was a clown with big red hair in a big yellow jumpsuit, and since I was taught to like clowns, and had a weakness for primary colours I fell into his trap. I should of sensed something wrong even back then. Ronald taught to eat my meal right away before the Hamburglar came and stole my food, so there I was, a happy little kid stuffing my face. And as I stuffed my face I always ordered a milkshake with my meal, because Ronald always made them look so good.

This combination would always result in the same effect; I’d gorge myself until I barfed. That’s right I was the kid that kept the mop bucket moving. No matter how many times my Mom suggested I skip the shake, I wouldn’t listen. Why would I… She couldn’t do magic, she wasn’t a close personal friend of Grimace, and in all the years of my young life I hadn’t even once seen her in a bright yellow jumpsuit. So I kept up my McDonald’s conditioned Bulimia for a few more years.

As I slowly got past my condition, I developed a new one that wasn’t even remotely better. I could finally eat my whole happy meal and be contently full. Life was good.

Then came playland.

It was bright coloured (And as I told you I had a terrible weakness for primary colours) and full of tunnels, slides, mesh, and round pools of brightly coloured balls. I couldn’t resist such a lure, what child could.  McDonald’s had me again in a terrible predicament. With their speedy service I had no time to play, and my mother wouldn’t let me play until I had eaten my food. Take a little boy, fill his little belly with grease, throw him into a psychedelic jungle gym for an hour and what do you get? Another case of McDonald’s conditioned Bulimia, that’s what.  And still I never learned from these experiences. 

Skip forward to the here and now.

Even today I can’t help but fall for the lure of Ronald. I’ll be within a block of it’s doorstep when my brain starts telling me how much I would enjoy their “not quite a chicken” nuggets. My stomach senses it and grumbles in anticipation of their assembly line burgers and vascular clotting french fries. The fries that taste so good in Canada because they fry them in vegetable oil and beef tallow; laughs on you vegetarians. And still, there is enemy number one. An enemy whose viscous fluid, time and time again, causes frontal lobe hemorrhaging just by sucking it up through the straw. A beverage whose aneurysms are backed up only by a stabbing cold headache that refuses to abate, the milkshake.

Even now after all it’s childhood exoduses, the milkshake haunts me with it’s sugary allure.  It threatens to bring me back to the folds and partake of its dairy mockery. And even though Ronald has angered me so many times, his past transgressions suddenly become clouded with forgiveness, and naive optimism. Maybe this time will be better, Ronald wouldn’t lie, look how yellow his jumpsuit is. 

And so the cycle goes, I eat and feel sick and curse myself for allowing my stomach to fall into ruination again, but I am becoming wiser.

This restaurant doesn’t care about me. It only wants my money. 

The golden arches don’t glimmer; they only have a greasy shine. And Ronald, you icon of childish joy, I’m on to you. You may seem fun, you may seem magical, and you may even leave wonderful presents in my Happy Meal.

You may do all these things that shine your light of benevolence upon children’s gullible little faces, but every once in a while even John Wayne Gacy dressed up as a clown.

Just so you know…

Good day my faithful readers.

A rumble returns to the resting rant as I’ve found myself with something to say. That’s correct… I’ve been stirred to action for a cause I’ve deemed worthy for my meager script. It’s a subject much debated but with little resolve. That subject is the mighty giant known as politics. Now my viewpoint may be ineffectual to those of you in the midst of tumultuous regimes or revolutionary change, but the truth should still ring clear. Who do you want to run your country? That is the question folks, and you will make that choice before you hit your polling stations. You will state your opinion in a brief pencil stroke. If enough of you make that little marked decision, you’ll have a head of state handling all your governmental affairs because of your graphite emblazoned seal of approval. The real question is “do you know what you’ve done?”

This is what gets to me the most. Your vote is a powerful asset to those that want to guide your country. I’m not kidding, your vote brings them power to make changes far beyond milk or cream my friends. War, foreign aid, healthcare, minimum wage, taxes and services, these are all laid before them and left to their discretion. You now have to ask yourself what service did they do to earn this power of decision? What miracle did they perform? According to the Bible, Jesus made water into wine, healed the sick, and walked on water. Even with this amazing employment record, he was greeted with an abundance of skepticism. 

We can no longer check the box lightly my friends. Your government is your voice to the rest of your world. Iraq doesn’t care if you recycle, they want to know if your country helped bomb their cities into rubble. Your head of state should represent you because they follow your moral code or feel your ideas are important. You can’t just vote Republican or Liberal because that’s what you have always done. Ask yourself what makes a prime minister or president. It’s not their business savvy. It’s not their charm and good looks (although it seems to help). It’s certainly not their friends and favors, that’s just what gets them into office these days. You’ve got to understand who they are. They are your representative to the outside world. Their face, their policies, their views are what get communicated to those of our global community. What is it from one guy to the next that make them worthy to shoulder the laurels we lay upon them? Only you can decide.

I’m not asking you to pick up every newspaper and scan every political occurrence and agenda. That is a lot of work. What I’m asking you to do is to make sure you know the person you’re giving your faith to.  Pick up a paper once a week, twice during election time, and make sure you know the knights from the knaves. When you pick your governmental workhorse, make sure you’re informed. Leading a country is a job for a great individual and you need to weigh a person to the strictest of measures before you hand them your leash. What have they stood for in the past, who do they associate with, what drove them to lead?

By now many of you have had this rant enter one ear and exit the other, and I’m not surprised. Our societies have bungled through many elections without real thought in our choices. But on every occasion that someone questions the names on the ballot, whether from a news program, newspaper, book, rally or rant, there will be one more fox among the sheep. Just so you know…