My friend James is moving. Or rather, has been perpetually about to move since January.
"My move is impending," he would say. "They tell me end of the month, at the latest, my condo will be ready."
Pity they didn't seem to mention WHICH month, or for that matter which YEAR this alleged month was in. For more details on this sordid screwing that has gone on and on ad nauseam, read James' blog.
However, after yesterday, it is my considered opinion that my good friend James is cursed.
Error after compounded error has dogged his every step, most of that on the part of the condo builder. Between that and the topsy-turvy world his family life has taken in the last few months, he's been a little distracted.
Enter Agent M, that stalwart trustworthy friend who has some Moving Karma to repay (Moving Karma: If a friend helps you move, you are karmically obligated to help them with their next move. It's just how the world works.) and so last weekend I volunteer my car and services to help James move.
Bruce and I get there at 12:00 on Saturday. But James doesn't have the elevator booked until 1 pm. "That's okay," says James, "That gives us time to go get the truck."
This was the U-Haul truck we were going to move everything into. So, nodding to myself and thinking that James has the whole game plan timed down to the last nano, the three of us drive up to the U-Haul lot.
I say LOT as an apt term because there was ONLY a lot there-- but no store, and certainly no trucks. I looked at James. "You BOOKED this truck, right?" James said "Well, no-- I was just going to come up here and rent one."
Bruce and I looked at each other. Right away, we knew-- the move would not happen today. As anyone who has moved knows, trying to just walk in and get a truck on a Saturday in the summer is an impossible feat.
For James' sake we drove to two other locations and also met defeat. James sighed and asked if we were availble the next day. Sympathetically, I said yes.
The next day he phoned me and told me they had borrowed a van and were just loading it and could I come down? I had just gotten up so I said I'd phone him when I was ready to leave. He phoned me back a few minutes later to tell me the van wouldn't start. He said he was either going to slit his wrists or just hire movers.
Fortunately, he hired movers.
I agreed to provide taxi service for him to lead the movers from his old address to his temporary new one, and his storage space.
So I show up yesterday at 11:30 to pick him up from work.
Problem #1: Upon getting to his apartment to book the elevator for moving, we see that it's booked from ONE to THREE, not twelve to two as previously thought. I began to feel the pricklings of dread.
Problem #2: The movers, allegedly booked for 12:30, call and say it'll be between 12:30 and 1:30 since they're not done the job they were doing at the moment.
Fine. We go for lunch. Although deviated from The Plan, these problems were still within acceptable tolerances. No need to suspect supernatural evil eyes just yet.
Bringing our lunch back to the apartment, I bite into my sandwich and half my crown comes off of my FRONT TOOTH, giving me the semblance of Cletus, the side-show Yokel, despite my not having bitten anything hard, crunchy, cold or any other tooth-damaging substance.
At THIS point I understood with perfect clarity that James' apartment, where he had lived for seven years, did NOT WANT HIM TO LEAVE. And it was sending me a message: Help him and suffer his pain.
We sat in eye-gouging tedium, despite having each other to talk to and chairs to sit on, for three more hours. The movers call at THREE and say they're finally done their job but are now going to take an hour break. So at FOUR O'CLOCK, after beginning this endeavor at eleven-THIRTY, we finally get things underway. Or rather, the movers do while we sit and watch.
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| Cletus, the sideshow yokel. |
(Nine hours during which, by the way, my son started having the serious teething pains of a six-month-old and my wife had no other adult to rescue her from baby servitude.)
Let's be clear: I don't blame James. I was glad to help a friend and it's not his fault the day went weird. But he IS cursed. There are forces at work here beyond mortal ken.
I got out a smudge stick, chicken feathers and holy water this morning and I'm busy looking for some fresh entrails even now. Please, Agents, whatever spirituality you endorse, put in a good work with the Cosmic Almighty for James. Guy has had enough, I think.
In the meantime, I too will do that hoodoo that I do so well while waiting for this afternoon's dentist appointment.
Peace, James.
My mother has a habit of involving herself in the Health Fad of the Week.
She'll hear a snippet on the news about antioxidants or Omega-3 fatty acids and suddenly she's calling and telling me to eat only fish and red peppers. Wait! Did I just SNEEZE? Obviously I need echinacea and royal queen bee jelly because sneezing CLEARLY denotes the Mongolian Upper Thyroid Flu.
No, I'm not exaggerating. I love you, Mom, but we've talked about this.
So a couple of months ago she got turned onto the Atkins Diet. She called me up and said, "Do this diet with me!"
Agents, I don't believe in diets. I don't believe in the health fads of whatever deprivation you're supposed to suffer THIS week in favor of losing weight. I believe in moderation, in watching what you eat, and regular exercise. I figured if I just kept it as real as possible, I could avoid the craziness most of North America seems to go through every year in the quest to lose a couple of pounds.
I also believe in education. To that end, (and since my mother had ALREADY bought me the "New Diet Revolution" book (available at your local Safeway and any bookstore)), I resolved to try this diet for its two-week induction period while reading about it.
Hey, it was only two weeks and it would stop my mom calling me every other day wondering if I was dead of Anthrax or... or... a virus I caught from my computer. So:
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| The week before I started Atkins. |
What Atkins boils down to is this: Carbs are bad.
What are carbs? Anything that breaks down into simple sugars in the body. Bread made with white flour or whole wheat flour, potatoes, rice, cereals, milk, pasta, and of course anything containing sugar.
Why are they bad?
Because (and I'm way simplifying here) carb sugars inhibit the conversion of fat to energy. Our bodies store fat as a reserve energy layer. The more sugar we eat, the less that fat layer gets converted. The less it gets converted, the more piles on and the fatter we get.
The 80's craze was to avoid fat at all costs. To avoid calories. This, according to Atkins, is actually an egregious error. We NEED fat. It IS our fuel source. All these "diet" drinks and what-have-yous contain less fat, sure-- but if you look at the nutrional breakdown, the carbs are right up there-- whether it's sweetened with aspartame or not, kids!-- and THOSE are what make it hard to lose weight.
So for two weeks I was limited to 20 grams of carbs a day. A DAY. And when you consider that one tiny chicken wing of KFC chicken is 11 grams of carbs, you may begin to see what I'm talking about.
I ate scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. (Meat, any kind of meat, is heartily endorsed by Atkins. Be prepared to be a carnivore when you get hungry.) I had tuna for lunch, with lettuce and cheddar cheese. For supper I had steak and grilled peppers, steamed broccoli-- heck, anything green.
It was difficult at first to let go of things like cereal (which I'd had every morning practically since BIRTH, Agents!) and convenience foods. In fact, I began to notice that almost anything convenient is almost all carbs. I had to give up fruit for a bit-- while good for you, it contains tons of simple sugars which are a no-no during the two weeks of Induction I was doing.
The purpose of such a restricted carb regimen during these first two weeks (no, the rest of the diet isn't like that) is to convert your body from a sugar-burner (which most North Americans are) to a fat-burner-- the way nature intended. By denying yourself sugar, your body goes looking for that reserve of fat energy and starts burning FAT instead-- a state called "Ketosis."
You're supposed to buy these little strips at your local pharmacy called "Ketostix." Every couple of days you pee on them and they turn a colour that tells you how much fat you're burning. It takes about two weeks to get into SERIOUS fat burn.
And folks, if you cheat during the induction, you have to start all over again. I know because my mom, dear health fanatic that she is, didn't last TWO DAYS. (I made it through the whole two weeks without cheating, thankyouverymuch.)
Yes, it was hard at first, dealing with the cravings-- until I realized they were all mental. By which I mean, they were a force of habit, not of physical withdrawal. I wanted a Slurpee but I drank water instead. I wanted donuts. I wanted something BAD for me that would give me PLEASURE. But the only reason I wanted them is because I knew I couldn't just go out and have them. And so I was able to pop open a can of tuna and drown my sorrows in fish, by which time any craving would have passed.
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| The second week of Atkins. Those pants? PVC. Size 36. (I WAS a size 40.) |
At the end of one week, I weighed myself and I had lost ten pounds.
The second week was all gung-ho for me; I complained loudly when nummy treats were passed around but only in the spirit of doing combat with fat on my body. "I can't eat you today, donut, but by god my righteous anger at this self-denial is only elevating my ketosis level!"
People looked at me funny for some reason.
Finally, the second week was over. I weighed in again: I had lost another eight pounds. EIGHTEEN POUNDS, Agents, in two weeks.
I was not "obese" by any stretch of the imagination-- but I did have fat that I wasn't using. And it shrank off me, leaving me feeling better and more fit and with more energy than I was used to. In short, the diet worked.
I had said to myself, "only two weeks," and so I was prepared to go back to my old habits-- I could taste the Slurpee now!-- only to find that I didn't feel the need to. Two weeks had taught me a lot about what goes into our bodies here in this culture, and it gave me pause. Did I really WANT the sugar, or was it just a habit? I chose water instead.
Now, some months later, I have kept the weight off, I still work out, AND I have the occasional Slurpee (it is summer, after all. It's tradition.) But I KNOW what I'm eating. I watch it. I'm careful.
And hey-- if I find I'm going soft again, it'll only take two weeks to get me back on track.
...an actor's life for me.
I'd just like to take a moment to give thanks that I have the opportunity to act. To be an actor. I don't know if I have that ineffable "it" that makes one truly great-- in my opinion, there are many stars in Hollywood that don't, but they're famous so what do I know-- but it doesn't matter to me as long as I get to keep doing this thing I love so much.
I wanted to be an actor ever since I was eleven. An agent gave me his card when my brother and I were flying on a plane from Toronto. We were making small talk to pass the time, seated next to each other as we were, and he asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.
I heard myself say "an actor." I didn't think about the response, it just happened. Later I wondered why I didn't use the then-common response of "a policeman" or "a fireman," but went straight to the Performing Arts. This response surprised the man and he gave me his card, telling me to look him up when I got to Toronto in about seven years.
No, Agents, I never did keep that card nor did I move to Toronto when I was eightteen. But I had the acting bug, and so act I did.
My first acting job was an accident. I had taken Improv courses at the Loose Moose Theatre and heard about the next play they were putting on, "Mutiny On The Bounty." (Yes, Mutiny as an improv play. Go fig.) and I thought, "Hey, I could learn a lot from these guys if I worked with lights or sound or something while they worked."
I went to the first rehearsal, ready to volunteer to be a gofer when the director said, "Anyone here want to act?" My hand shot up, and that was that.
I was terrible, by the way. I played Midshipman Heyward, I had the notable lines of "SODOMY?" and "Why do they call them sperm whales, sir?" and I couldn't keep from smiling when I said them. I was sixteen and I WAS ON STAGE! And I couldn't quite believe it.
Since then I've settled down a bit, and discovered the joys of Film and Television over the joys of the Stage. There seem to be more egos on the stage, the community seems to be smaller, and the work seems to be more...odd. Maybe I'm just too meat-and-potatoes to pretend I'm a dog in a Franz Kafka adaptation, but there you are.
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| Respect mah authoritah. |
The smell of makeup and hairspray; the constant click and chatter from the headsets that all the Officials wear-- from Wardrobe to Director, they're all in contact via walkie-talkie; greeting people you've worked with before. We're all equals, in a sense, in that we are all working toward one production. And there's the unspoken rule that if you're an ass, you won't get hired back. So there's a politeness and a willingness (if a little forced at times) to get along.
The best thing about acting is that you're something different every time. I've been an RCMP officer, a baggage handler, a pipeline inspector, a dad, Humphrey Bogart... it's a thrill. I get to play dress-up, and everyone plays right along WITH me, until it's time to call it a wrap and go home. And the parting isn't hard, because you know that somewhere down the line, you'll be working with these folks again.
You get to meet people. I was John Cleese's stand-in on "Rat Race," which was filmed for the most part right here in Calgary and area. Whoopi Goldberg, Rowan Atkinson, Jon Lovitz, Seth Green... got to say "hi" and shake hands with these people and most importantly, to watch them work. Fascinating stuff. (And y'know what? They're just people. They make all these movies, but they're just people.)
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| Hey, looks like you got a pipeline obstruction. |
Yes, there is a lot of "hurry up and wait." There's a lot of sitting on the set bored out of your mind while they set up the next shot-- so bring a book. But here's the thing-- you're SITTING ON THE SET. You're on the very spot that will be shown on film. Regardless of whether YOU will be seen onscreen or not, you ARE THERE. That's a tremendous thrill for me. Not to mention, as I said before, watching people work. Watching everyone, not just the stars. Actually seeing how a movie gets made. How the effects work. How they cheat the camera to produce just the right angle. How they can turn a July back alley into a December one overnight.
Acting is magic. The world that accompanies it is a fantasy-- and sometimes I wake up inside this dream and worry about paying bills and where my next paycheque is coming from-- but never, never would it occur to me to quit. Because nothing beats the thrill.
As I write this I have two commercials airing nationally on television-- one for WestJet, and one for Shaw Cable, with another one on the way; and all I can think about is when I'm going to get my next fix, and what am I going to be doing next time?
It's all about the anticipation.
Wanna be an actor? Sure, go for it. It may work out for you, it may not. Get yourself an agent, LISTEN to your agent, and always always ALWAYS be professional. Get in to your audition, get OUT of your audition, smile and say thank you. Take classes, no matter how good you think you are. Expand, and be flexible. NEVER complain to anyone except your agent-- they will handle complaints for you. Do your best at all times, and try to leave the impression that you are easy to work with. The rest is how you look, and a little bit of talent.
Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go call my agent.
Someone explain the dating game to me. Explain to me why it STILL EXISTS.
And no, you can't use the old "dating game will be around as long as there are men and women" adage.
We all KNOW about the dating game. We know about the stereotypical male from Grunty McDraggknuckle to Rico Suave, and our poster-girls of womandom, Buffy Airhead-Price and her other extreme counterpart, Floozy McNasty. We read about these people in all our ha-ha weak-ass humour books on the subject of dating and the fundamentally (tragic) comic differences between men and women.
And yet, the cycle goes on. With each new interest sparked between members of the opposite sex, we see the drama unfold:
Our man A sees woman B. He would like to approach her and ask her out.
Does he do this? No. Upon the realization that his interest is piqued and an approach is therefore imminent, he flees to his pack-- his buddies-- and declares his interest in this woman. The pack egg him on, uncorking with their words the hormones that will turn this man into a wolf, a slavering pack animal with one thought on his mind-- how to get little miss Riding Hood over in the corner, there.
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| You may please me. |
Males of the species can and will leave their packs (buddies) behind in favor of a female, but I've never seen nor heard of the reverse. If you were ever in doubt that we live in a matriarchy, there's your proof.
So. We have the male-female dynamic. And we KNOW it exists. And yet no one does anything to break this tradition, despite the amount of time that it wastes. Instead of getting psyched up (or psyched out) by the pack, why is the approach not just done and gotten over with?
"Hi, I'm Jack. I noticed you from across the room. Want to have a drink with me?" (Insert coffee, latte, snack of choice, whole grain flaxseed muffin, whatever is appropriate here.)
No. Instead, we either get the dance-- eye contact across the room, look away, look back to see if they're still looking, talk to buddies, walk to a point away from buddies but still within eyeline, cue the attention-getting behaviour, pause to check reaction, lather, rinse, repeat)-- or we get the direct come-on.
"Hey, you're hot." (or otherwise direct pick-up line, platitude, or boring "safe" direct comment like "come here often?")
The thing about these direct lines is that they're NOT direct. They're someone else's phrases and words, that communicate desire (because, presumably, one's intended is working from the same phrasebook that one is referencing) but do not reveal any actual truth about the person doing the asking.
And why the hell would anyone want to warm up to someone that is approaching them wearing all sorts of social ARMOUR like that?
What it all boils down to, it seems to me, is truth. Truth is the one thing that is NEVER USED to attract a mate. We joke, we show off, we preen, we wear our best clothing (that we don't wear at any other times) and otherwise present an idealized version of ourselves that may or may not have anything to do with who we really are.
I excuse teenagers from this behaviour. Their hormones are erupting, this game is new to them, and so of course they fall back on their animal instincts.
What about those of us that are no longer teenagers?
I have seen friends of mine IN THEIR 30's continue to cavort about playing this ridiculous game. In the case of my single friends, it obviously hasn't worked yet-- why not try a different approach?
I mean, for god's sake, I was at a bar recently and actually saw a woman in her late 20's do the bathroom trick after eyeing one guy all night-- she gathered up her pride of lionesses and, moving as a single entity, they all vanished into the bathroom.
And the guys? Rhubarbrhubarbrhubarb, all went to discussing the girls as soon as they left, as though they were going to divide them equally amongst themselves. Largest portion of the kill to the Alpha male, and the rest catch-as-catch-can to the shyer, lesser males.
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| Are we gonna hunt girls today, Spike? Are we, huh, huh? |
Yeah, I'm married. But I NEVER played the dating game. I was very direct about what I wanted. My instinct was to show off a little bit, but I cut that out ASAP when I realized I wanted my love interest to like me for ME, and not that wacky persona I put on. I was twenty at the time.
So could one of you Agents out there tell me WHY then, after so many years of experience, do people still do that funny little tribal-animal dance with each other? Why not just go out and GET what you want? If you're not compatible with your intended, you'll at least have both saved a lot of time.
Dear Blockbuster Video:
I'm a frequent customer to your store. It is conveniently located, well-stocked, and the staff are courteous and friendly.
What a pity, however, that they are not well-trained to deal with people who actually want good service.
What an even larger pity that it seems your store policies have nothing more to do with good service than perhaps mentioning it on the manifesto that the employees sign when they successfully apply for their minimum wage job.
Allow me to elucidate:
I am the proud owner of an XBox. And, because the games are so expensive, it is my preference to rent them before deciding whether or not I want to purchase one. Therefore, I spend a lot of my Blockbuster-destined dollars renting XBox games.
To my chagrin, rarely if ever do the games I rent ever come with a manual. Granted, many of them have instructions contained within the game so this is not crippling to gameplay-- but some of them do not.
And that isn't the point.
The point is that when I go to Blockbuster, the giant multinational chain of video stores, I often don't get a manual with my game. So I spoke to one of your aptly-misnamed Customer Service Specialists about this issue, asking WHY the games don't have manuals.
"Well, people rent them and then they lose them," was CSS's explanation.
"Then why aren't they charged or fined for the loss?" I ask. "Pretty soon, people wouldn't be so careless. If someone lost a DVD they'd rented, you'd charge them for that."
CSS replied to me: "It's too much of a hassle."
Visions of liberating his head from the bondage of his shoulders -- with the sharp edge of a shovel -- danced in my brain. Too much of a hassle?
That your company's employee could stand there and bald-faced tell me, the consumer, that a quality-assurance action was "too much hassle" speaks volumes to both the training he received from his supervisor and the policies your company is unwilling to enforce.
Yet I tried again. "How about if, when you get the new games, you photocopy the manual and include THAT with the game? Then if people lose it, you just photocopy a new one."
CSS shrugged his soft college-boy shoulders. "Just too big of a hassle," he said, as if I were a slow-witted annoyance who just didn't get it.
Well, Blockbuster, it sure seems as if it's TOO MUCH OF A HASSLE for you to have decent customer service. I mean, if College Boy is a Customer Service SPECIALIST, I'd hate to see your Customer Service General Practitioner.
Let me spell it out for you as I see it: I am a consumer. The customer. You are a retail service industry. Therefore, you should be doing everything to keep me coming back to your store-- and yet, your staff tells me that making the effort to keep your stock up to rentable quality is too much of an effort for the poor, overworked minimum-wage employees of your store.
And you know what this tells me? That I'm not important. That the first person who rents the game, while it still HAS instructions, is more important than me and that I don't matter because the first person lost the instructions, too bad so sad, no penalties for THEM-- but I have to suffer because I just didn't get there fast enough.
You call that a BUSINESS? You call that SERVICE?
And worst of all-- you tell me it's too much of a hassle in such a way that I am expected to just accept it because that's the way the world is?
I don't think so. In the future, I fully expect you to change your policies to suit me. Why? Because I am your customer. I will be treated with respect, I will be treated with dignity and when I patronize your store, I will be given GOOD SERVICE.
Sincerely,
Your Customer.
The above version of this rant was sent to Blockbuster both locally and at its Canadian national office.
Now here's the version I'd LIKE to have written.
Dear Blockbuster:
You cock-smoking sons of motherless whores. When I go to waste my precious time renting a goddamn video game so I can waste MORE precious time, I'd appreciate it if the fucking thing had some instructions with it.
Why? Oh, hell, I don't know, maybe because when you RENT a game instead of BUYING it I'd like to know how to PLAY it instead of spending the 3-day to one-week rental period figuring it out by MYSELF.
I rent a long involved game like Morrowind without instructions? CHRIST. You ever tried playing a role-playing game without knowing the RULES? Here's a hint: Smear yourself in honey and walk through a valley of fire ants humming "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah." There are amusing bits but every few seconds you're in searing pain.
Oh, I'm sorry, you fucktard degenerates, did I INCONVENIENCE you by asking WHY you don't provide for your customers? Did I wreck the Blockbuster IQ Bell Curve by posing the really HARD questions? Shit, I'm SORRY. I guess what I SHOULD have said was, "Oh, no problem, I know how it is missing a couple of chromosomes-- I didn't mean to put any PRESSURE ON YOU."
When your pit-scratching monkeyboy grins droolingly at me and tells me it's too much of a hassle for your store to provide some goddamn support for their own asslicking stock, I just want to unzip my fly, grab Softie Boy by his dreadlocks and pull him down to belt-level to GIVE him some hassle.
Kee-RIST. Too much HASSLE? Hey, how about I put that XBox CDROM between your ass cheeks, press 'em together and see if it'll play THEN? Or shove my leatherclad toe up there and see if it'll BOOT.
That's a joke, you Darwinism In Action candidates.
How would this be: You promise to provide me with the barest minimum of what SHOULD BE standard policy service when I choose to rent from you, and I won't bring a box of matches and stand there lighting them and tossing them at you while waiting for your polyester to catch fire.
Love,
Agent M.
PS: I did your mom and she was screaming your name the whole time.
I just got back from a 9-day summer vacation. From August 5th to the 14th, I was away from computers, technology, hell, CIVILIZATION.
What a great feeling that is. Spend all your days around computers, and you really get to appreciate being "unplugged" for a while.
We went to a cabin out on a lake in Manitoba. Dorothy Lake, if you're interested. But the point is that it was a cabin outside of the city, with amenities like electricity and indoor plumbing for comfort, but no computers or television.
In a word? NICE.
Remember when, as a child, those of us in Generation X used to spend days outside in the summer and time seemed to last forever? Each day was more golden than the next and summer seemed stretch onward toward infinity?
This was like that. Our days consisted of reading, going to the beach, swimming, eating, eating JUNK, and playing all those fun little games you play when there's no TV at night. Scrabble, Guesstures, Trivial Pursuit. It was just a TOTAL decompression relax.
And yeah, I began to feel "the pinch" after about five days of not checking my email or reading my friends' blogs-- but I forced myself not to think about it, like an addict looking for his next fix needs to put his mind somewhere else.
In those sunshiney days of swimming and eating until we couldn't move, I drifted into an almost trancelike observational phase where everything around me suddenly took on new meaning as, rather than take it for granted, I began to focus on it.
Things I noticed:
- My wife is beautiful. She radiates life, prosperity, and unassuming charm flashes from her lips with every smile. Watching her go about mundane tasks like holding our baby or simply dipping her toes in the water at the edge of the dock suddenly became windows peering into the angelic nature of her soul. I was and am humbled by this person I share my life with. She is an angel, with just enough impish deviltry in her to keep her fascinating.
- My family is important to me. I would watch my father barbecueing or swimming with my young cousin and think, "that's my Dad. That's my father out there. Geez, we're a lot alike." and then realizing how much I enjoy being with him. It wasn't always that way growing up-- which makes it so much more meaningful now.
- I still have untapped potential. Having the space to relax and think gave me the chance to prioritize the existing patterns in my life and to make room for some new ones. I want to write more. I want to create more. And, by god, I actually do have talent in a few creative arenas. I should exercise it more, and work at it until it becomes a GREAT talent.
That was what came to me during the introspective analysis phase of the vacation. The rest was just simple, hedonistic enjoyment of pleasure for pleasure's sake.
There was a doe (a deer, a female deer) that came to the front yard of the cabin and almost let me touch her. I stared into her eyes for a good long while before she moved on. She wasn't in a zoo, she wasn't in a "habitat." She was in HER habitat, and was investigating US. And for that reason, she was more "real" to me.
A Great Bald Eagle perched in the tree just off our balcony one day. Those birds are huge. And yes, they ARE majestic. They are the lions of the sky-- regal and fierce-looking and just fascinating when one gets the opportunity to see them up close.
In a more pop-culture vein, if you read my Slurpee entry you'll note that Winnipeg, Canada is the Slurpee Capital of the World. Well, the 7-11 that was right by my Dad's house in Winnipeg (the Killarney Street location if you ever visit) had the highest sales of Slurpees in all of Winnipeg. And since Winnipeg has the highest sales of Slurpees in the world, I can say that I have stood in the 7-11 that sells the most Slurpees on the planet. Truly a humbling pop culture experience. I even got a bumper sticker to commemorate the event (see below).
In closing, I'd like to point out that the Summer Vacation is a ritual everyone should indulge in if at all possible. Unplug. Remove yourself from your circumstances. Remove yourself from the distractions of "productivity." It'll be frustrating for some, but well worth it.
Yes, as you can see, I'm updating and upgrading the look of the 'Files.
Naturally, of course, I just HAD to start this process JUST before going away on vacation.
I'll be in Manitoba, at Star Lake, at a rented cabin with Mrs. M, Agent P (little m), and Dad and Mrs. M senior. We will be back on the 14th to resume our progressive blogging change.
Huzzah!
M.
We had a gift horse, Agents. No WAY we were gonna look it in the mouth.
So, giddy with happiness, we began to shop for cars. This was fairly easy-- we live just down the street from a major Auto Mall, so there's no shortage of test-driveability going on.
Agent ACK, who was on vacation, volunteered to come with us and lend us his expertise (as he had JUST leased a new Toyota RAV 4.) Mrs. ACK joined us as well, so we were well armed with facts and figures as we prepared to do our Due Diligence Shop-Around Comparison.
First stop: Honda. We had heard that the "big 5" dealers in terms of quality and safety were no longer the likes of Ford, Dodge, Oldsmobile and the like. No, the Japanese models were de rigueur in terms of mechanical lastability, which was our major buying concern. (After driving a 1991 Dodge Spirit, one gets a little paranoid about one's automobile's staying power, Agents.)
Immediately I didn't like Honda for two reasons: Smokey. Bob.
That's right, Smokey Bob is one of those dyed-in-the-wool Alberta Car Salesmen who'll put his arm around you, fix you with a yellowed, rheumy eye and grin with nicotine-brown teeth and tell you how you and "the little lady" ought to see yourselves in this nice car, all things being equal and you and he see eye-to-eye because you're menfolk, don'cha know.
Holding my breath to avoid his aroma and listening to the voice of forty years' smoking rasp on in my ear, I had a mad urge to scream: "I wet my pants and wear dresses and can't go out without my mommy's permission because I'm a bad boy!"
Yeah, it's a non-sequitur. But it's also the verbal equivalent of gnawing off my own arm to get away from the trap that was Smokey Bob. I'm not like you, Smokey. I don't want to BE like you. Don't hold the door open for me. Don't put your arm around my shoulder. And don't assume I'm going to like your off-color jokes just because I have a penis, you ancient throwback to the fifties-redneck-days bastard.
So anyway. Drove the Civic and the Accord. Two down.
Next was Toyota. Talked with Ryan, the same salesman who handled Mr. and Mrs. ACK's recent transaction. They had nothing but praise for him-- and he was quite cool. He was our age or younger, friendly but not too friendly, and most of all, casual. No pressure whatsoever. So we muchly enjoyed test-driving the Corolla and the Camry, by gum, and even got my MOM in to test-drive an Echo. She's gonna come back in the fall to pick it up, she says. Ryan had a good day that day.
Then came Nissan. I had had a Micra waaaay back in 1990, and it was a good little car. So we drove the Sentra, and that was nice. However, we had to have them PAGE a salesman for fifteen minutes just to get any service whatsoever-- had we not been driven to the dealership (the one dealership we don't have down the street!) by Agent ACK, I'd have walked out on such sloppy service. OH yeah. Watch me vote with my FEET on how sucky the suckitude of Stadium Nissan in Calgary is. Screw, as they say, you guys.
So now it was decision time!
Right away my Dad, the financier, put the kibosh on the higher-end sedans like the Camry and the Accord. A little outta his price range. That was fine-- although he hadn't really given us a price range in the first place (why do people never set any boundaries until you bump up against them? It's the same in contract work for clients, too-- but that's a whole Rant unto itself.), we had enjoyed all our test-drives.
We nixed the Nissan partly because of the TERRIBLE service, and partly because the dealership wasn't handy to our neighborhood. There's nothing more excruciatingly boring than taking your car into your dealership for servicing and having nothing to do because you've got no car for 2-4 hours.
So okay: After a week of test-driving and comparing brochures, it was down to two cars: The Toyota Corolla and the Honda Civic. So Marci and I sat down one evening with a highlighter pen and went through, point by point, the option packages on these two vehicles. Turns out the Corolla offered more, and was WAY cheaper to boot. Plus we liked Ryan so much more than Smokey Bob. Plus the ACKs had bought a Toyota (and Agent ACK has owned Toyotas since he was 17) So there we had it: The Toyota Corolla would be our Car Of Choice.
And then we had to haggle. I DESPISE haggling. I was born and raised in North America, and I just want to go in and have the price be the price and then just be done with it.
But no. My father is a financial wizard; this man can make money sit up and beg, roll over, and do tricks before tucking itself into a progressive RRSP. And he wanted me to haggle.
Trouble was, Toyota has something called "Access Pricing." Long and short of it is, they don't haggle. The price is the price. Well, Dad M had a few things to say about that-- "price fixing is illegal," being one of them. And so for a week I went back and forth on the phone with Ryan saying the deal would fall through if they wouldn't knock off some magical number that my Dad had fixed in his head. $271.00, or the cost of a Dash Kit upgrade.
Ryan said Toyota wouldn't. I said Dad wouldn't pony up if this couldn't be met. Ryan told me that was too bad. My Dad told me to go to another dealership. Since I had no car to drive, I wasn't too keen on going all over town just to go through the same spiel at each place.
At this point, I was at the breaking point. All I wanted was the car that was OFFERED to me, goddammit, why was this turning into such a pain in the ass?
Doing a Cost Benefit Analysis, (something my Dad taught me to do by the way), I realized that the pain of dealing with this situation was worth more than the car was. I told my dad, with some regret, that if he would walk away from a deal over too much stress then I, too, should walk away from this deal with him over my stress about it.
His response: "Okay, good luck."
Well, that was a wrist-slitter. Now I had no car, no deal, and no happiness. I wanted to blow my own head off.
I slept on it, and in the morning realized that the whole thing was foolishness. I was NOT going to lose out on this deal just because of McAdam obstinacy-- mine, or my father's. I phoned him and told him I wanted to go ahead with this deal and that they were willing to come down in price over at Toyota.
Tickety-boo, the deal was back on. I resolved that I would pay the $271.00 MYSELF if they wouldn't deal. Just to get this matter closed and in the bag.
Now all we had to do was just go in and buy it. Simple, right? An afternoon's lark and voila.
But no. OH no. That would be too SIMPLE.
It started innocently enough: Mrs. M and I went in to fill out forms and sign some papers with Trent, the guy in Accounting at Charlesglen Toyota. Mrs. M and I gave our information, and since Dad M was our primary financier, all we needed was for Toyota to send him some papers to sign. These were triplicate forms, so they couldn't be faxed-- he had to sign the papers themselves.
- Snag 1: My Dad lived in Winnipeg at the time. The papers would need to be sent to him there.
- Snag 2: My Dad would be at a conference in Halifax on the week in question.
Well, that was no problem-- the papers would be sent to his hotel in Halifax. We phoned his secretary in Winnipeg and got all the information. Huzzah! The papers would be sent and signed and returned, and we would have our car sometime around Wednesday of the following week.
Meantime, we changed our insurance over to the new car-- we managed to get the new car's serial number from Ryan-- and waited with bated breath for the papers to return.
Wednesday rolled around. No news. I phoned Trent and asked how the paper sending had gone. Turns out he hadn't sent them. "Pardon?" I asked. Apparently there was some sort of mix-up and he hadn't sent the papers to Halifax-- even after all the trouble we went to to get the address and impress upon him that time was a factor.
At this point, you understand, our suburban family of 3 had NO car whatsoever. My mother, bless her, gave us the use of her 1987 Dodge Aries K car, baby blue in color; it was nicknamed "Buck," as that is what it did after every single bump in the road. This car also ONLY had AM radio, meaning Buck was permanently stuck in the 50's, 60's and 70's musically. Buck also had bench seats, which meant that whoever was driving set the tone for how far the seat went back-- and the seat was broken, which meant it really only fit my mother and therefore when I drove it my knees were somewhere up by my ears.
Factor all this in and understand that every day's delay in getting my new car was slowly eroding my soul into a mass of bruised knees, wrist-slitting 70's ballads and the everpresent smell of Febreeze.
Now back to my story:
A week had gone by and I was beginning to become antsy. Deals like this could fall through at any point until the car was in one's hot little hands, and I began to fear it would do just that.
My Dad emailed me on Thursday to tell me he'd received the papers and that they were unacceptable. I phoned him to ask why, and it turns out that Trent, the accounting guy, had added several upgrade packages onto the price that I had SPECIFICALLY TURNED DOWN. Dad was furious; he was going to turn the deal down.
After all this, the idea that Dad might pull the plug because of an IDIOT working at a car dealership made me crazed. INSANE, I tell you.
I phoned Trent immediately: "What's going on, Trent? You assured me these would be sent out two weeks ago and they weren't. Now they've been sent out and they're incorrect," I said, keeping a tight rein on my voice and my temper.
Excuses and obfuscation followed, culminating with Trent claiming that he thought I had to come in and sign MORE papers.
"How can that be, Trent?" I asked, evenly if tightly. "I was IN YOUR OFFICE signing papers. Don't you think if there were more to sign you could have told me that at the time?"
"I don't think I like your tone, Mike."
I told him I'd speak to his manager about it and I got on the phone so fast I thought my numerical keypad would catch fire. I got a machine on the other end. I spoke in VERY clear, businesslike tones about how my deal for a $22,000 automobile was about to fall through due to one employee's neolithic incompetence (A phrase which here means, a level of unsatisfactory conduct only explained by having the brain of a Cro-Magnon man from the Neolithic Period. Feel free to use this phrase yourselves if you wish, Agents, I've got more).
I got a call back from Drew, the Customer Service manager, the next day. He was apologetic and swore he'd get to the bottom of this. I was unconvinced, but he told me that it didn't matter if I was spending five hundred or fifty thousand dollars, I was a customer and I should never, ever have been treated like that.
Damn RIGHT. I've got a rant about Customer Service in today's retail marketplace, but that too I will address another time. Suffice it to say, these were words that I NEEDED TO HEAR.
After speaking with Trent, Drew said he didn't know what had happened and began to apologize, but I cut him off. I said that there were new rules: I did not want to deal with Trent ever again, didn't want him anywhere near this deal. I said I wanted new papers COURIERED to my Dad that day, and I wanted this deal in the bag by Friday.
Drew assured me that not only would this happen, but that he would throw in the first oil change on my car for free and come down in price for one Dash Kit, Aluminum.
Well, shit fire and save matches, kids, it looked like we had ourselves a deal.
But wait, there's more.
Now I just had to wait for the papers to come back, and they would order the car (A silver 2003 Toyota Corolla-- Mrs. M and I wanted black at first, but there were only two in the country, both in Ontario, at the time) to the lot.
We waited for another week. Then ANOTHER week.
That made a total of FOUR WEEKS since our Dodge first died, and still we were waiting on a car.
I'd had it. This was CANADA-- you buy something, you GET it, what's the deal?? I phoned Ryan and said that I was paying insurance for a car I did not have, and was still waiting to have, and that here is what I wanted:
"Either fax the papers to my Dad today, get a FAX signature, and proceed from there until the real papers come in;
"Give me my car NOW and let me drive it around, since I'm insured on it;
"...or, give me a loaner car until MY car comes in."
I hated that I, the customer, had to be the one to come up with options to give the dealership on how to please me. But they came up with the loaner car the very next day, and finally I could release Buck back to my mother and drive last year's model of the car I was going to get.
Four days later, we GOT OUR CAR. By this point I was just crying delirious tears of joy. I shook Ryan's hand, mumbled happy noises through his long story about his first car deal and drove away.
We had more snags with the registration but finally got that resolved, too-- five weeks from loss of old car to acquisition of new one, but by God we GOT THERE.
This is a long, drawn-out story, Agents, and I'm aware of that. But I needed to get it out so that I won't relive it every time I close my eyes at night.
The car is a dream, by the way. We called it "Bounty," both for the reaping a huge reward connotation as well as the fact that it is The Quicker Picker-Upper when compared to our old Dodge.
The moral of this story, Agents? BE ASSERTIVE. Do NOT trust anyone else to do what they're paid to do; you are the customer, and it is your God-given right to harass, annoy, and badger the retailer until you get everything you want. THEY aren't doing YOU a favor by serving you; YOU are doing THEM a favor by giving them your business. NEVER forget that, EVER.
And treasure good salespeople. They're rare.
PUNISH bad employees. Tell their supervisors ALL about your bad experience-- in this fashion, you will help to weed out the morons.