Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas friends and readers, and also readers who are friends, and friends who tell me they read but really don't.

And for those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, Happy Tuesday!

I have nothing for you to read here today, so you have no excuse to avoid your family. Spend time with them. They're the only ones you got. Unless of course you are a celebrity, in which case you could adopt a whole new family from Africa in 3.5 business days.

Rock & Tackle

From the fall of 2002 to the summer of 2003 SARS (Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome) hit Toronto. The disease developed first in China and was then carried over via a Toronto woman who was back in China visiting her family.


Less then 20 percent of all SARS cases in Toronto were fatal, yet an even bigger fallout occurred. The city's hotel occupancy was cut in half, tour bus business' teetered on the brink of bankruptcy, and everything from shopping malls to major theater productions were hit hard.

The city was in a crisis and the economy was in trouble, enter the Rolling Stones.

Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, and... those other two guys came up with a plan to headline a massive concert to help revive tourism and the economy within the city. This is where our story starts.

Let me set the stage for you, July 30th 2003. The former military base Downsview Park was played host to 500,000 audience members and fourteen bands for a day long concert.

My brother Will, our friend Dan, and my girlfriend at the time arrived at 6am.

A few hours later we were all let in, going through security checks we rushed the stage, everyone laying down blankets and beach towels to mark their little piece of the park.

The ground was littered with them, with small patches of grass between. This made leaving your blanket for any pricey refreshment or piece of merchandise a difficult maneuver.

Bounding over blankets you felt like something out of some lame, forgotten, arcade game. Atari's Blanket Dodger 3000.

If you made it over beach towels and blankets you had to face another obstacle, what we dubbed the gauntlet. A crush of people in an incredibly small corridor pushing every which way. If you were to loose your footing, as I nearly did several times, no one would see you again until the poor volunteer who is picking up empty water bottles the next day discovers your body, all smushed to a pancake like Wile E. Coyote on a work day.

So truly there was very little incentive to leave your spot under the scorching sun. Waiting some seven hours before the first act took the stage, waiting over twelve before the big ticket acts like AC DC and The Rolling Stones performed.

The monotony and sweating felt like we were part of some mass sauna sit in. We had packed lunches that were quickly disappearing simply because it was the only thing one could do.

Off in the distance, over on the other side of the stage someone had brought a beach ball, throwing it into the crowd it bounced its way around.


I watched it with fascination, suddenly feeling less judgmental of a cats strange love for a ball of string.

I waited and willed the ball to come over, to have something to do, to see how far into the crowd I could hit it, to see what way the wind would take my mighty volley.

Hours went by, but the ball never reached me.

Several feet (or five beach towels) away from us a group of guys were forming a human pyramid.

Now maybe it was a love for Egyptology, maybe one too many viewings of Bring it On, or perhaps just shear boredom from waiting six hours in the hot summer sun... we may never know for sure, but for some reason my girlfriend was compelled to join in.

"Be back in a second!" she squealed, the idea of doing something beyond controlling the rationing the last juice box bringing joy to her words.

Before I could say anything she was off. Bounding over towel and blanket alike she began claiming her way to the top of the tower of human.

She tops off the pyramid. Like an angel topping the Christmas tree. She's my angel I thought, the sunlight causing her to radiate beauty. I was simply lost in thought until...

"Take it off!" shouted someone in the crowd.

"Take it off!" joined another, and before long we were in full blown chant mode. A crowd of the countries most stoned, the countries most drunk, or simply the nations most sun burnt were all chanting for the girl on top of the pyramid, my girl, to take off her top.

Everyone is chanting, and she, the drama class geek, is soaking in the stardom, toying with the crowd. With me.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I take off running towards the pyramid.

Now I haven't put much thought into what I will do once I get there, and 'there' is fast approaching. I am only a couple of feet away, my eyes locked on my girlfriend like bull on matador. Her top is now off, and with it so am I.

My feet leave the ground as I hurl myself toward the human tower, arms spread.

What happens next I like to think of as a tackle, though onlookers may describe it as a belly flop. The human pyramid collapses like a house of cards, a mass of body parts land atop of me looking, I can only imagine, like a game of Twister gone horribly wrong.

Now somehow this made her view me as overbearing, over protective, and just plain over. As she disappeared into the gauntlet I was prepared to give chase, until I noticed that beach ball heading my way. Deciding I had waited to long not to be a part of this I braced myself, connected, and sent the ball flying into another part of the crowd.

By the time I had finished and turned around my girlfriend was swallowed by the sea of people. Yes bouncing that beach ball had cost me the ability to run after her, you know I guess we all give in to the crowd from time to time.

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The Snowball Effect

I never took up skiing till I was thirteen. Call me crazy but in those thirteen years never once did I have the desire to slide two anorexic sleds to my feet and haul myself down a hill towards the awaiting snow covered pine trees.

When I was thirteen though skiing was all I could think about, for there was an upcoming school trip to the slopes, and my lack of skiing ability would not stop me.

How hard could it be right? You go down a hill from side to side, I mean it wasn’t exactly rocket science… or talking to a girl, I figured.

Just to be on the safe side though I decided I needed a lesson, and after some convincing on how important my new found career in skiing would be, my parents saw it that way too.

The lesson was a mere hour long and to my frustration we never got off the bunny hill, still I knew I was ready for bigger and faster things, for in my mind, the ski trip with my school, a mere stepping stone to the Olympics!

And so my first ski trip began with promise. I went up with a pack of friends, but within seconds of arriving at the top they had already started back down.

I on the other hand didn’t see the rush, I stood there at the top of that hill for some time, just taking in the scenery below, trying to figure out which parts of it would hurt less to crash into then the others.

Finally I started down and the scenery grew larger and larger.

It was coming closer at an alarmingly fast rate, as was one skier who had the misfortune of being in front of me.

Our skis were about to touch and as he turned to look at me, an expression reserved for serial killers and door to door Jehovah’s witnesses etched into his face. I knew I had to do something quick.

I swerved.

Next thing I knew I was in a ditch, my skis and my legs in one big knot.

Within seconds I noticed two people staring down at me from where I had fallen.

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t get up,” I said as I tried to untangle my skis.

The two began panicking and calling for help.

“No, no, it’s just my skis are all crossed and…”

They weren’t listening.

Soon I had gathered my own little audience, watching me, discussing me, taking bets on my injuries.

I was about to explain that it was just my skis… about to, till I noticed a small group of girls I went to school with had gathered. I decided paralyses might be less embarrassing then the inability to untangle myself.

It was a good theory, till the ski patrol showed up with snowmobiles and stretcher in toe.

As they went to action saving my life, I wondered when the best time would be to break the news of the mix up to them.

They were well trained, those heroes of the hills, for I was untangled in seconds and ready to be lectured.

I learnt a valuable lesson that day so many years ago… when you are out of control, let the other guy get out of YOUR way.

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Lincoln in the Audience

I am down in the United States right now, doing what I love to do when I am in this country, explore the television offerings from the country that created the medium.

There is one trend I’ve noticed recently, a lot of shows on the History Channel have been showing different theories about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, inspired I assume by the upcoming sequel to Nicolas Cage’s film National Treasure which deals with missing pages from John Wilkes Booth’s diary.

It feels like people have gone Abraham Lincoln crazy, at least on the History Channel, VH1 isn’t exactly running ‘I Love the 1860’s’ but at least on one network Lincoln is in vogue.

The theories range from lone gun man to Confederate conspiracy, each with their very own show. So I got to thinking, why should I miss out on this bandwagon. Why can’t I have a show presenting what may have really happened to Abraham Lincoln?

So I’ve got my diligent researchers here at Cidiot to look this thing up and I now present to you my theory of what really happened the night Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, a theory which I hope the History Channel will purchase for adaptation into a two hour prime time event.

The basic facts are these: On April 14^th, 1865 President Abraham Lincoln and his wife attended the play ‘Our Amercian Cousin’. It was here that Booth snuck into the Presidential Box and shot Lincoln with a .44 caliber Derringer.

But what were Booth’s motivations? Did he act alone? These are the questions historians have set to answer for over a century.

Submitted for your approval (but more importantly for the approval of the executives at The History Channel) is one such theory. John Wilkes Booth did not set out to murder the President of the United States that fateful day. Instead he merely wanted to take in a performance of a play that was making a cultural impact.

See Booth was born to a family that lived for the theater. His father an actor, his mother an actress, he was raised on Shakespeare and breast milk… as this was a period before there was such a thing as the Gerber Baby and so William Shakespeare and breast milk had to fill a void canned baby food would eventually dominate.

Lincoln as we know also attended this performance of Our American Cousin but because of pressing Presidential business he arrived late. It’s not that he meant to be late, but when you are the leader of a country in the midst of civil war punctuality can occasionally be difficult.

And so poor Abraham Lincoln missed the beginning of the play and was forced to ask those around him in the Presidential Booth what exactly was going on.

“What did I miss?”

“Wait, who is she again?”

These were the questions reported to be whispered by Lincoln, who was by all accounts a loud whisperer, a fatal flaw that irritated many in the audience below throughout the first act.

These loud whispers bothered none more then Booth, a student of the theater who really didn’t appreciate the narrative being disturbed by the lanky man in the balcony. But what could be done? You cannot exactly shush the President of the United States.

During the intermission the President got himself caught up on who was who and why different characters were doing what they were doing. Meanwhile Booth’s girlfriend got him to calm down a little. Eyewitnesses say that had the night ended here disaster would have been diverted. But there were still two more acts in Tom Taylor’s play.

In act two the President revealed another personality quirk, something I have dubbed the Parrot Chuckle. For instance when the character of Lord Dundreary (the 19^th Century Biff Tannen) delivered the mixed up aphorism “birds of a feather gather no moss,” the President would laugh along with the rest of the audience only that mid laugh he would repeat the last half of the funny line, in this instance “gather no moss.” Occasionally this would be followed by a knee slap, a shake of the head, and the words “God how do they come up with this stuff?”

This drove John Wilkes crazy, and eventually he snapped. Raising a finger to his mouth and looking up at the Presidential Box he issued a loud and forceful shush.

The President did not take notice. He continued Parrot Chuckling through the next act and a quarter as Booth’s shushing became louder and more constant to the horror of his girlfriend.

It should be noted that although Booth’s night at the theater had been ruined, he had not been pushed to homicide yet. This would come about in act three, scene two.

When we piece together eyewitness accounts we learn that President Lincoln performed the equivalent to the modern act of the teenager who sits through a movie text messaging the whole time, he began dictating a telegraph.

“Dear Ulysses STOP I am watching that American Cousin play you were going on about STOP You were right man, that Edward Sothern is pretty LMAO funny STOP Some people are coming over to hit the pipe after STOP Major Rathbone will be there STOP Should be off the hook STOP Join us in the west wing smoking room?”

John Wilkes Booth snapped, he got up and stormed off to the Presidential Box.

The timing was unfortunate for two reasons. One, it meant John Wilkes Booth missed his favorite line, "Don't know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap..." And two, it meant the last words that Abraham Lincoln would hear were “Sockdolgizing old man-trap.”

And so was the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, killed not for decisions made in office but for a general disregard of theater manners. Perhaps a far less dramatic end than history often leads us to believe, but for anyone who has ever sat near an obnoxious audience member, it’s a relatable tale.

Alright History Channel, my cell phone is on and I am ready to start receiving my residual cheques.

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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.

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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…

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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...

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