Game, Set-up, Match

The singe life (remarkably this has not yet been the title of a short lived sitcom), a time that many in a long term relationship seem to romanticize… well I suppose romanticize what with its root word conjuring images of flowers, chocolate and a healthy dose of door holding, isn’t exactly the right word. It’s about the freedom, the seemingly endless options, and the lack of a significant other to argue with.

Myself (a long term relationship participant)… well I just don’t seem to remember single life that way. Sure yes like anyone I had my good single times, but really all I can remember is the amount of work.

There’s the whole asking a girl out… except, you know, you don’t just ask her out do you? You have to sound slightly more modern then Richie Cunningham asking a Mary Beth or Mary Sue to be his date to the Sock Hop. Yet you need to make it clear you’re not asking her to hang out as a friend.

You need to lay a ground work of flirting, but of course even this needs to be measured. You don’t want to come off as a “macho pig” (to quote Jessie Spano, naturally) but at the same time you don’t want to deliver some half hearted compliment about her shoes that gives off that flamboyant friend vibe.

If you pull off the proper levels and feel you’re winning her over and decide now is the time to convert this into something, well then you have to prepare yourself for rejection.

It happens… sometimes a girl will in fact deem you not worthy of getting a free meal, drink, or movie out of. But you know, that’s not exactly how they’ll put it. Granted I can’t really predict how you’ll be rejected. If I could I’d be pretty mad, that’d kind of be the worst superhero power ever. “What’s this? Rejection sense tingling… sir, do not approach that woman! She is going to tell you she is just getting over a really serious relationship!”

Superhero jokes, now maybe you can predict some of the reasons I was rejected in those crazy days of singledom. Let’s jump back a bit and pretend none of this has happened…

Granted I can’t really predict how you’ll be rejected. There are of course a few tried and true lines.

“Let’s just be friends,” a classic (with several variations). Guys let me translate, when a girl says let’s just be friends she’s simply saying “makeovers yes, making out no way in hell.”

Then there’s the next level of rejection, the “you’re like a brother to me.” Again allow me to translate. “You’re like a brother to me,” meaning: it’d be a crime for me to be with you, so don’t even try.

Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t view being single as all doom and gloom. Sometimes you really do connect with that other person and phone numbers are exchanged.

Or maybe not anymore? For all I know I’ve been in a relationship so long that I’ve become dated, maybe it’s all gone digital now. Exchange last names and Facebook one another. Which actually would be handy. I have to admit there have been times when I guiltily realized I didn’t even know the girls full name and we had past the point of asking.

But if sending a message on Facebook really is the in, are there rules for this? “Hey man, be careful, you don’t want to look over eager. Wait 1 day to add her as a friend. Now if your going to wall post that bitch wait 1 more day, but a private message man, 2 days.”

I haven’t asked around, but I assume there are rules. I mean with the phone number there were always rules; everyone had their own opinion, their own advice. “Wait this long till you call her…”

So no, I don’t miss the wild single days. For all the fun times, it really is a lot of work in-between. However I was recently asked to serve as wingman for a friend.

Oh to be a wingman. For a guy whose in a relationship the role of wingman is like retiring from professional hockey and then coming back to play in the old-timers game. You don’t want to come out of retirement, but you’re happy to strap on those skates for a night just to remember the rush, to prove to yourself you’ve still got it.

As a wingman you aren’t out to get the girl, you’re just there to make your friend look good. Which I guess thinking about it maybe old-timer’s hockey game isn’t the best analogy. You’re more the team that’s scripted to loose to the Harlem Globetrotters. Yeah, that works better… you’re the Atlantic City Seagulls.

Now for those of you unfamiliar, the role of wingman is a complex one. You are required to wear many hats all at once... though not literally as a guy who dons a lot of headwear all at once is probably not a good choice for wingman.

Here are the (remember figurative) hats:

The Coach

You’re Mickey Goldmill, the trainer, the motivator. Sure you’ve retired but you’re there to help those who are still in the game to realize their potential. If you can also somehow tie in a montage of punching hanging carcasses of meat and dramatically running up a flight of stairs this is always a fan favorite, however it may not improve your point man’s game. In fact some studies suggest fists soaked in carcass juice may turn off women.

The Secret Agent

No, you’re not James Bond. You don’t get the woman in the end. You’re 004 or something, the expendable character that helps Bond gather intelligence. Does the target have a boyfriend? Is she looking for something particular? Is her crazy-hot ratio off? It’s your job as wingman to get this information.

The Kamikaze

You’ve got someone to go home to at the end of the night, so go head first and embrace the crash. Open up the lines of communication at any cost, put yourself in the embarrassing or awkward position and don’t look back. If in the course of so doing you crash and burn, and this crash and/or burn sets your point man up perfectly, even better. Your buddy will be sure to buy you a Purple Heart from the bar for your sacrifice in the line of duty. And to clarify Purple Heart I am of course making an analogy of beer in place of the metal of honour awarded in the United States to those who are wounded or killed in the well serving their country. I am in no way making a reference to some sort of girly drink, as the good wingman knows that fruity drinks shall only be secretly consumed in the company of their girlfriend, not out with the guys.

The Blocker

From time to time your buddy will face obstacles while working his magic, another guy will try and get the girls attention, or maybe the girl’s friend will try and get her away from your point man. Whether you have to run conversational interference or you just need to tackle them, let nothing touch your QB.

The Hype Man

Like the guy in a rap group with the same name, the hype man is there to back up his point man. When he needs to take a breath, you jump in to fill the break in the conversation. When he makes a joke, you laugh. And like any good hip hop hype man you’re there to build up the excitement levels of your audience… though advisably not through the traditional rap method of call-and-response chants, this tends to confuse and scare the girl you are talking to, especially I have found if the girl your buddy is targeting is in a Starbuck’s and you begin your call-and-response by quoting a 1989 ‘2 Live Crew’ song, “if you believe in having sex, say ‘hell yeah!’” A more recommended advisable way of building excitement is to talk up your friend, really sell him. Though who knows, maybe it was just my delivery of 2 Live Crew that steered me wrong.

Yes sure it’s a tough job in its own right, but someone has to do it, and in the end, isn’t it a lot less stressful then asking the girl for her phone number? Or is that ask a girl for her name so you can search Facebook’s database for her and send a friend invite?

Call me old fashion but it just doesn’t have the same ring, I guess that’s what happens when you leave the game. There’s no way of predicting whether you’ve permanently retired or whether you’ll pull a Michael Jordan, nevertheless I’ll still be out there, serving as wingman. Setting my Globetrotter’s up to pants me as I go to take a free throw. It’s all in the name of entertaining the audience.

Did you enjoy this column? Want to share it with someone?

Click to Email Column to Friends

And don't forget the easy way to ensure you don't miss the latest installment of Cidiot, just hit Subscribe

Here's a Tip...

Etiquette dictates that I shouldn’t have more then a very brief cell phone conversation in public. Sure you can talk in public with the person next to you, but if you want that conversation to happen over the phone, it’s just not right. Apparently it’s rude of me to rob nosy people of the ability to hear both ends of dialogue. Two people talking in the same public space side by side, go for it. One person in the same space on the phone… well it’s just not proper etiquette to stop eavesdroppers from having full conversational enjoyment. It’s downright barbaric.

And when you aren’t using your knife it is to be left on your plate, sharp side facing inward.

Never, ever outward.

And your drink must always sit on the right side of your plate. What, were you raised by wolves? Don’t know how to follow proper etiquette? I mean come on, if we all started putting our cups on whatever side of the plate we just so happen to feel like, well then we’re no better then the common dung beetle.

Etiquette is an extension of the childhood game of ‘tea party’ in which little girls, dolls, and select teddy bears do their best to kick it high society style. There are strict rules on how to conduct themselves in such a game, and if Mr. Cuddles the stuffed giraffe can’t pull himself together and act refined he’ll most certainly be shunned.

Some of these kids grow up and retain this need to uphold the laws of basic human decency, the things that civilization itself is built on… basically whatever makes them feel superior.

There is, I should add, no word on whether or not your average teddy bear grows out of tea party stage or not, although I am sure telemarketing being what it is that eventually we’ll have reliable sample numbers from our cotton brethren.

Etiquette can be learnt we’re ensured. You can read books, pay to sit through lectures. You can become refined! You can tip everyone from your tattoo artist to your mail man!

Oh the tip, the act of giving someone a little extra then the cost, something for them to keep and fail to mention on their tax returns. The bonus for a job well done.

I suppose the original meaning behind the word tip, 16^th Century German for “to give unexpectedly” was not something the etiquette police learnt between afternoon teas.

To give unexpectedly we do not. The tip is a strict process. The proper percent has been outlined for you, calculated and set in stone, each service its own rules and regulations.

Two dollars a suitcase, not one! What the hell is the matter with you? You clearly can’t function in proper society.

No, we are not to believe in the phrase ‘to give unexpectedly.’ So much so that those blessed with a clear sense of civilized and uncivilized have invented a view backronym’s to help justify the word. “To Insure Promptness”, “To Improve Performance,” and so on.

The thing is we aren’t really sure why we tip anymore, are we? Even with all the guidelines to what percent you owe the bartender who got you a beer with extra head after chatting up the nearby brunette… we really can’t conclusively say why we’re doing it.

At some point in my naïve adolescence it was taught to me that the tip was a means of rewarding someone who goes above and beyond the call of duty, who gives you an amazing level of customer service and who really, truly deserves something extra. The tip I learnt, was on a sliding scale, depending on this service.

I guess this system only exists if you are dining alone, because I am pretty sure a waitress can get your order wrong, spill coffee on you, greet your every request with a why-don’t-you-just-die stare, and mock you for ordering milk… and if you attempt to leave without a gratuity left at the table, your fellow diners will react in shock. Rude and cheap may be bandied about. You’ll be told off for clearly having no idea what it is like to be in the service industry. And if you don’t crack and offer you 15% bonus to the waiter, your etiquette superior will forcibly cover your tip for you.

So it’s not about customer service. Maybe it’s because these professions are paid so poorly? But then I don’t remember anyone in the Sporting Good’s Store passing the hat when I went to buy shoes made by a kid in Cambodia.

I have worked in the service industry, a full service gas station. One without a canopy, exposed to all sorts of weather. It’s a job without a chance to sit, where I would be on my feet all day. A job where I’d be berated for every slight climb in the price of gasoline. And I second hand inhaled the stuff all day long, putting my brain cells at risk, and possibly paving the way to kidney issues or cancer.

Really I probably wasn’t paid enough for all that. And from time to time I’d refill your washer fluid, clean your windows, pump your gas, and check your tire pressure all well it rained and hailed. I’d do it quickly (I tend to move faster when jagged pieces of ice are falling from the sky) and somehow with a smile. In return you’d give me a tip. I appreciated it, it motivated me some days to offer the same quality service to the rest of the customers.

But more often then not there was no tip. For the majority I’d pump the gas they want, tell the price, and take the money, transaction over. Just doing the job. Sometime’s I would even do my job below your reasonable level of expectation. Exhausted I’d be slow, swamped I’d forget to screw your gas cap back on. In fact I will even let you in on a secret, something you may suspect from time to time while dealing with someone in the service industry. There were times when I really didn’t care about you, dear customer. Yes, there’s something far more important in my mind then you sitting in your yellow hummer demanding answers to why you pay so much. Something on my mind that I much more care about. And sure I’ll go through the motions for you, because you are what stands between me and my pay cheque.

Why would I deserve something extra on those days?

Maybe it’s too much to ask when it comes to the rules of the tea party that have been dictated. But I’ll ask all the same. Can we all try clearing the stuffing from between our ears and remember that a tip is an unexpected gift? It’s a reward for doing your job well, and…

Oh you know what, I’m sitting here at this café writing and it just occurred to me, I completely forgot to put something in the tip jar for the barista who burnt my bagel. The poor girl. Hold that thought, I’ll be right back…

Did you enjoy this column? Want to share it with someone?

Click to Email Column to Friends

And don't forget the easy way to ensure you don't miss the latest installment of Cidiot, just hit Subscribe

Baggage Claims

If you've followed my career in comedy you'll find I seem to spend a lot of time talking about the baggage carousel, the lamest of all types of carousels which lacks both colourful, ridable animals, and organ music.

The baggage carousel is that moment of truth, that time when we discover whether we'll be wearing our carefully planned wardrobe for the duration of the trip, or whether we'll be sporting the ill fitting tourist trap t-shirts with the graphic that leads one to believe the shirt was commissioned back in the early to mid 1980s, you know, when people we're to busy worrying about the red menace and to coked up to care about simple things like taste.

And so if you've ever been out to see me perform stand-up you've probably heard me rant about the fear induced by this particularly slow moving device.

In fact just last February I wrote and directed a short film about about this very topic (Baggage, starring Evan Brandon and Kristen Dealy).

Now I've never had my luggage lost, although I thought I did once on a red eye home from California. I was incorrect, or so the airline informed me, my bag wasn't lost, they were only 'temporarily delayed.'

Temporarily delayed? So what, my bag was going to join me in Toronto but something important came up and it'll be with me at its soonest, most available time?

This isn't a story about my bag having scheduling conflicts, nor a story about my film or my stand-up. No, this is the story about how I met my girlfriends father.

We'll start at the end and work our way back, Momento style...

The End

As I am standing there, trying to identify the shape of my suitcase from the suitcase lineup diagram the woman trapped in the lost luggage cubbyhole has handed me, my girlfriend taps me on the shoulder.

She's standing there with her dad, a suitcase between them.

"Derek, this is your bag," she informs me.

"Ha, where did that come from?" I ask the father, the daughter, and the woman whose midwest accent almost hides the fact she hates her job.


My Girlfriend's Version of Proceeding Events

Okay, so if you believe my girlfriend Amanda (and I am by no means encouraging you to, please wait till my version of the story for a plausible explanation) here's how it all went down.

We stood there, waiting on my bag, slowly everyone around us got theres, but not me. From time to time a strange looking dark green suitcase would rotate by.

"Is that yours?" Amanda asked.

"Are you sure it's not yours?" She asked the second time around.

"Derek, we should at least check this one," the third pass.

Now I know my suitcase, I am familiar with its look, design, and shade of green. This was not it. I wasn't going to humour her by checking, risk the actual owner running at me convinced I was stealing his luggage.

Soon it was just the two of us and another guy further down the carousel. Why he wasn't taking his dark green bag I don't know. And where was my slightly smaller light green bag?

"Let's just check this one..." my girlfriend was saying, or something similar. I didn't fully hear as I was wandering up to the cubbyhole window to discuss with the woman on duty the case of my missing bag.

In the background Amanda was on the phone to her father Jeff, who had been waiting in the parking lot to give us a ride.

"Hey dad, we're still at baggage claim, Derek thinks they lost his bag."

Meanwhile the woman at the counter was busy dealing with me, "it shows on the computer that all of the luggage from that flight has been loaded onto the carousel." Her voice was half matter-of-fact, half pleading with the universe that this wasn't something that would lead to her filling out more paperwork.

As the woman and I began to discuss the case of my missing suitcase Jeff showed up to get the scoop from his daughter.

"Derek is pretty sure they lost his suitcase."

"What about that one right there?" Jeff asked at the dark green suitcase which was so clearly not mine.

"That's what I keep saying, but Derek says its not."

At this point Amanda grabs for the suitcase, pulling it off she checks the tag.

As I am standing there, trying to identify the shape of my suitcase from the suitcase lineup diagram the woman trapped in the lost luggage cubbyhole has handed me, my girlfriend taps me on the shoulder.

She's standing there with her dad, a suitcase between them.

"Derek, this is your bag," she informs me.

"Ha, where did that come from?" I ask the father, the daughter, and the woman whose midwest accent almost hides the fact she hates her job.

What Really Happened (aka Derek's Version of Events)

I've landed in Minneapolis, Minnesota to meet my girlfriends family. I am waiting for the seatbelt sign to go off so that I can get out of my chair and gracefully hit my head on the above storage compartment.

So now I wasn't there, so I cannot be 100% sure about the following events, but this is what I've pieced together.

A guy with earmuffs and a bright orange vest, possibly two of them, unloads the suitcases. My slightly smaller, slightly lighter green suitcase is still there at this point. I don't believe these vest wearers to be in on the take.

They load everything up onto their little car and one of them drives off with it.

Now there's probably another guy who handles placing the luggage onto the conveyor belt, the guy who drives the little buggy is probably not aloud to help, a union thing. So here's a guy who controls the flow of the luggage, and he's all alone.

Now I cannot say for certain his motives, as I have never met this dastardly man, yet here is what I have deduced.

At some point this man lost or damaged his own suitcase, one his wife gave him as a gift, yes it wasn't the most romantic of gifts but he needed a suitcase, he had been hinting and hinting, and so she got him one. But now it was lost and/or stolen.

As fate would have it my suitcase was a deadringer for his. All his dread about the wife finding out was put on hold, if he could just bring this one home no one would know.

But then he would be doing a disservice to the actual owner of the bag.

Thinking fast he grabbed another suitcase, a darker green, a little bit larger. He took everything out of it, not thinking of the fact that he was now robbing someone else of their suitcase (the other guy waiting further down the conveyor perhaps!), he put all of my stuff in before transferring my name tag to it.

'My' suitcase went down the conveyor, shooting out onto the carousel.

We stood there, waiting on my bag, slowly everyone around us got theres, but not me. From time to time a strange looking dark green suitcase would rotate by.

"Is that yours?" Amanda asked.

"Are you sure it's not yours?" She asked the second time around.

"Derek, we should at least check this one," the third pass.

Conclusion

I know what you're thinking, how could I know this? Well I drove for several hours with my girlfriend and her father, several hours from the airport, hearing the whole way about how I didn't know my own bag, how I should trust my girlfriend. Several hours of time to think and figure out what really happened at that baggage claim...

Did you enjoy this column? Want to share it with someone?

Click to Email Column to Friends


And don't forget the easy way to ensure you don't miss the latest installment of Cidiot, just hit Subscribe

How Much is that Poppy in the Window?

On November the 11th it's known as Remembrance Day here in Canada (as well as Australia and the United Kingdom), in the United States its Veterans Day, still elsewhere its Armistice Day, while in South Africa it is simply Poppy Day.

It's a day when citizen's of countries all around the world stop to remember those who gave their lives in times of war and in times of peace keeping.

As the South African name for the 11th notes, for many the poppy is a symbol of remembrance. This is due to battles that took place during the first world war in an area dubbed Flanders Fields, in which the bright red corn poppy of Europe grew in the untold wastelands of death and war.

In Canada a poet by the name of John McCrae wrote a poem simply titled "In Flanders Fields" which utilized the haunting imagery of the poppy. Before long both the flower and the poem became in their own right both national symbols and symbols of remembrance.

Each November Canadians donate money and pin a red poppy to their coats, jackets, and shirts. It's a symbol of respect and a vow not to forget.

Now where is all this going and what possible, horrible, mixed up thing have I gotten myself into with such a symbol you may be asking yourself, and as such let me begin by saying don't worry, I did not tarnish anything.

See a couple of years ago I met a girl by the name of Emma whose birthday just happened to be November the 11th. This got me thinking, and before long I thought of the the perfect gift to give on this day, real live poppies, one for every year.

Simple plan right? Visit a florist, pick them out, pay some money, and maybe write a quick card.

I got to work the day before as I was heading to a beach for the first day of principal photography on my first film, the feature length Love Squared. I had a long list of local florist’s phone numbers, and I figured it’d take only one or two down the list before I found what I needed, then I could get back to thinking about the days scene.

No such luck.

The first woman on the phone said she sold poppies. As my mind breathed a sigh of relief I realized the woman was saying something else, a very important something else.

“Wait, do you mean cut poppies?”

Cut… what did she mean cut? Like cut from the ground? How would that make sense? Did many of her clients come over with spades in hand to dig out their own bouquets? I decided I better play it cool so she wouldn’t try to take advantage of me.

“Yeah, uh, you know, I’m just looking for real poppies, you know, real ones, like, you know, the live kind.”

As it turns out she did know, and she didn’t have any.

Not worried I moved on to the next number on the list, and then the next, and then the next.

It was around this point my assistant director decided to give her two cents worth, “they don’t sell poppies because they put people to sleep, like in the Wizard of Oz.”

Several crew members jumped on her comment. There was no way poppies put people to sleep, yet she refused to be told otherwise. As they debated whether the flowers were magic or not, I decided to hit the next place on my list.

Still no luck, no explanation why.

My assistant director was beginning to feel validated when I hung up, “see, it’s because I’m telling you, they put people to sleep.”

The debate raged on.

As I asked yet another florist, and got yet another no, I was forced to put the woman on hold as someone kept calling my name. Turning around Mike, my trusty editor who had made the mistake of offering to come visit set on a cold November day for an exterior shoot on a beach (a mistake he would only make one more time I believe), motioned for me to give him the phone.

“Hello,” he said, when I finally did. “I just have one question, is the reason you don’t sell poppies because they put people to sleep?”

Mike hung up, successfully putting to rest the Wizard of Oz Syndrome theory. Everyone now much quieter, I called the next person on my list.

Or so I thought, I had accidentally dialed the same person as Mike had just been talking to.

“Do you sell poppies…” I began.

“This isn’t amusing,” shot back the woman whose voice suddenly became familiar.

“Oh no, no, I must’ve dialed…” The line clicked.

The crew (aka people who clearly work harder then me) were well into setting up for the first shot and the actors were getting into their wardrobe. Everyone was doing what they were supposed to be, and so naturally I decided to distract one crew member with my poppy frustration.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to buy poppies here,” he said matter-of-factly.

Illegal? No, it couldn’t be… could it? I began to get worried as I called my next florist, what if all these calls about poppies were illegal? What if word got back to the police?

“Say I asked if I could buy poppies, would that be, let’s say, on the level?”

The old woman on the other end of the line sounded confused, panicking I hung up.

Later that day I casually raised the subject to one of the actors, trying to feel out if poppies really were illegal.

“Illegal? No, they’re extinct.”

I stood there confused, my mind reeling from a sucker punch.

“But what about poppy seed bagels?” was the sentence my mind finally put together.

“Not really from poppies.”

I walked away, vowing not to discuss this topic with anyone else, I went back to calling.

The second last florist on my list finally shed some light on the poppy dry city, “Sorry dear, poppies are out of season.”

Out of season, how could poppies be out of season?! The one day of the year that they mean the most and they aren’t in season?! These are the questions I wanted to demand of her.

“Thank you,” is what I said.

That night when the shoot was over and done with I turned to my friend Donna who has a knack for knowing what I don’t, surely she could settle once and for all if poppies were truly out of season.

I told her what the woman said to me.

“Yeah, it’s true, dogs generally don’t give birth in the fall.”

It was at this point that I gave up, the poppies had managed to outfox me this time. I settled into a conversation about the mating habits of dogs, but in my mind all I could think was they were out there, somewhere, just beyond my reach. My white whale, the poppy.

Did you enjoy this column? Want to share it with someone?
Click to Email Column to Friends

And don't forget the easy way to ensure you don't miss the latest installment of Cidiot, just hit Subscribe