A BAD CASE OF COMMATOSIS

A BAD CASE OF COMMATOSIS

It was a slow day at Slightly Corked. No politicians were ordering $16 glasses of orange juice at fancy hotels, our submarine fleet hadn’t caught fire all week, and my cat was keeping his promise to only murder one bird a day. A dry and dusty creek, if there ever was one. Then I spotted the newspaper headline. “The other day, the president of the United States revealed to the world that he didn’t pay his student loan off until he was 42 years old.”

“FORTY-TWO !!! Why, I had mine paid off before my 30th birthday. Mind you I only got to grade four, but still, it was not comforting to know the most powerful man on earth is so lackadaisical about debt, might still owe money on his Toyota Corolla, might still be in hock to Fast Eddies Preowned Creampuffs.

On the other hand it would be kind of funny to see the President of the United States starring on the reality TV show Repo Man, see some skinny guy with big ears running down the street after a tow truck with a 1984 Toyota Corolla in captivity. “Heh, is that…? No, couldn’t be. Probably that guy on the cover of Mad Magazine. ”

I’ll confess to having concerns about Obama for some time. As the Trumpster pointed out, too much mystery surrounds Obama’s background. Time to put our in house private investigator on his tail. As usual, Proctor was in his office, three stories above Victoria’s Government street, the vantage point from which he keeps accurate historical records of the current state of low cut tops parading below.

(Historical note: According to Proctor, tops have been getting 1.3 cm lower each year since 1990. Take care of your health boys.)

I outlined my concerns about Obama, and before Proctor could say, “she had two 38’s and a gun on me,” he was in Hawaii, hot on the trail of Obama’s antecedents.

With skills honed from years of going through the underwear drawers of our capitol city, Proctor had the nose for the job. Armed with a box of doughnuts and a bottle of scotch for backup, he headed right for Awcumoneyewantalaya High, Obama’s old alma mater.
There he spoke to the school janitor, none other than Rusty, “da broom” Carlyle, who much to Proctor’s chagrin opted for the scotch.
“Oh yeah, that kid. One strange dude, you ask me. “ Carlyle gave a hearty chuckle. “It was those ears. Other kids used to call him Flop Ears, after that, Flight Deck, cause they said he could flop them and get air time.”
Da Broom took a heavy pull on the scotch, a liberal amount of which he poured in a red plastic thermos cup. “Say, pass me one of them doughnuts, will ya. I needs a little something to dump in this shit to take the edge off.”
A classic long john was chosen for the occasion. A dip, bite, sip rhythm was established as procedure.
“Strangest thing about that kid, he used to read candy wrappers.”
“Candy wrappers?”
“Yeah, he used to pick em up off the floor, then read em. But it was like a speech. Like he was waiting for applause, or he was dictating to a secretary.”
Rusty put down his scotch and doughnut, reached into a garbage can, pulled out a chocolate bar wrapper, straightened up to his full five foot six, and looked at Proctor as if he was staring right through him.
“’THIS CANDY BAR,’ he said with considerable authority, looking slightly to the right, then the left, ‘CONTAINS.’ Dead stop. ‘PALM OIL.’ Dig the importance dude. ‘AND,’ pause, ‘VANILLA FLAVOUR.’
Rusty’s forehead crinkled as he squinted at the fine print. ‘MAY CONTAIN,’ he said in a full voice, ‘PEANUTS,’ Rusty sticks his jaw out, challenging anyone too disagree. Then, just when you think he’s through, ‘AND SOMETIMES,’ another pause, ‘TREE NUTS.’
And then he giggled. “The funny part, way he said it, way he looked. You’d a thought he’d just read the Gettysburg address. He could read a candy wrapper and the other kids would applaud. Two minutes later, you couldn’t remember what he said.”
“Really,” Proctor replied. “How long would it take him to read a wrapper?” “That was the problem, once ya got him going, he never wanted to quit. He was always late for class. Always in trouble because of it. Person you want to talk to is his Aunt Biddy. See, his mom always worked, and when Barak got called to the principal’s office for reading like that. Which happened a lot. Biddy would come down and bail him out. She’s the one you should see.”

An hour and a half later, Proctor pulled into a neat, white- shelled driveway in front of a well- tended cottage. An old woman sat on the bench out front, as if she was expecting him.
“Aunt Biddy?” Proctor said, getting out of his rental.
“Is it about the boy?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I knew someone would come some day. Has he paid off all that money yet?”
“Yes he has.”
“Praise the Lord. Do you recognize what he’s got?”
Proctor nodded. “I looked it up on the Internet. It’s called “commatosis,” and less than one percent of the population suffers from it, usually elected politicians. It’s seeing commas where there are none.” “That’s right, Barak sees commas everywhere. He was impossible to educate, thousands and thousands were spent on tutors, that’s why the massive student debt. You’re not going to tell the world are you?”
“Hell no Biddy. No one reads our blog.”
“What about the car. Was it paid off?”
“Not quite, he’s still into Fast Eddie for one large.”
Biddy pulled a hundred dollar bill out of her support hose. Totally improbable, but heh, anything can happen in fiction. “Make sure he get this. But tell him it has to go on the Toyota, no fancy haircuts.”
“Right,” Proctor said. “No fancy haircuts.”

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May 4, 2012

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WHAT’S THAT STRANGE ODA?

WHAT’S THAT STRANGE ODA?

Conservative Member of Parliament Bev Oda is in trouble again. This time for ordering a $16 glass of orange juice from room service at London’s Savoy hotel while we taxpayers were picking up the tab.

I have a different slant on this. I would like to thank Bev for not ordering a full breakfast. I don’t know about the Savoy, but the price of room service pancakes at Victoria’s Empress hotel, also a Fairmont property, is a wind sucking $40 once you factor in all charges.

In Bev’s defense, maybe she just ordered the juice without thinking, without carefully going over the room service menu like I did while staying at the Empress. That’s how I found out an $11.00 bottle of pedestrian cab merlot sets you back $73, fully delivered.

Curiously, the Empress charges a five dollar delivery charge on room service, plus a fifteen percent gratuity, two charges for exactly the same service. That’s why you should always ask the server what they’ll be doing for their fifteen percent. Will they be juggling, can we expect a card trick, or is their specialty Bev Oda impersonations?

Also, before trashing a person it is always best to walk a mile in their moccasins. Or at least down a very long hotel corridor in Bev’s pumps searching for breakfast. In all fairness, she did choose the least expensive breakfast option. She could have gone with the Bengal Express. That’s where two ornately dressed and beefy males place you in a cute, ‘fits on top of an elephant’ carriage and pack you to the dining room, $425 for the round trip.

I actually feel sorry for Bev, because I too have been victimized by Fairmont prices. We were staying at the Empress, someone else’s dime, and pretty much intoxicated, decided on a nightcap at the venerable Bengal Lounge. (Nice word, nightcap. Kinda rhymes with hangover. )

It was a happy crowd we joined, probably because they were all on expense
accounts and we weren’t. Which was too bad because the Martini I wanted was $18 ($23 all in). It was also three ounces, one more than I needed. So I asked the server if I could have a two-ounce size, thinking that would be six bucks less. Of course I was accommodated, of course they charged me full price. Yes I’ll be hearing of this for the rest of my life.

This orange juice incident is not the first time Bev has got into trouble. She also has a thing for limos, on which she spent $2800 while in London. But hey, a girl needs fantasies. We’ve all played “limo” at one time or another, issuing classic lines like, “We have a limo at our disposal,” or, “To the Embassy Jeeves, and don’t spare the horses.” Wait a minute, we paid for a BMW!

My favourite limo game is “Air Support.” And who knows, once all the costs are known we might find out Bev hired the RAF to cover her cross town journey. For that game we need handles, groovy monikers. You could be Eye In the Sky, I could be Ground Zero and Bev could be Big Spender.

Some might be critical of Bev’s limos but their use is standard diplomat practice. You see, Bev helms the Canadian International Development Agency, an agency that hands out economic relief to countries so poor you’ve never heard of them, that and the occasional luxury hotel and limo service.

Basically her job is to entice these nations over to a capitalistic life style, and nothing does that better than a meeting, “Don Corleone style” in the back of a limo. In diplomatic circles this is known as the “Tommy Vu” approach. Remember Tommy, hell he even looks like Bev without the cigarette, the little Asian guy surrounded by the trappings of wealth, most notably buxom, scantily clad women, Tommy saying, “You like these girls, you like this yacht, come to my seminar, you be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”

True, Bev is having a harder time justifying the $6000 she spend on limos while attending the Junos in Halifax, but hell she must have mistaken Halifax for a third world country. The way some of those rock stars dress, they sure don’t look like they’re from around here.

I as a taxpayer have other, more pressing concerns, how to get even for being overcharged for my martini being at the top of the list. So far the plan is to sandwich my 1984, “been to Afghanistan and back” Ford Ranger between the Bentley and the Ferrari parked in front of the Empress and refuse to move it until they come forth with the missing ounce of gin. While I’m at it, I’ll try to get some money back on the orange juice.

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April 27, 2012

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AN OPEN LETTER TO PETER MACKAY, OUR MINISTER OF DEFENSE.

AN OPEN LETTER TO PETER MACKAY, OUR MINISTER OF DEFENSE.

Peter, it’s understandable that you are chagrinned over the public’s lack of appreciation for your proposed acquisition of 65 F-35 fighter jets. But buck up old boy, when the going gets tough, the tough hire spin doctors such as myself who will suggest calling an immediate press conference to tell the public the truth.

And the truth is, this is not about the adults, this is about the kids. We were brought up with our Spitfires, Lancasters and the dreaded Mosquito, why should our children and grandchildren be denied the same pleasure? I mean, kids love military aircraft. Even a bad kid will stop torturing the cat for a moment to check out a low flying jet fighter.

More than anything, today’s children need something to look up to, and what flies higher or packs more firepower than an F-35? True, they’re costly, but costs can be allayed by selling plastic F-35 models and who as a child can’t remember those long, character building evenings, plastic parts littering the kitchen table, you screaming, “Mom! Joey ate the #@$&* landing gear!”

Your real problem Peter is your submarine fleet, although fleet might be too grandiose a word considering we’ve never had more than one operational at a time. The optics Peter, are horrible. But just a little refresher course for those not fully apprised of the situation. Britain, supposedly our ally, had four submarines of which, their main man, Austin Powers said, “Garbage Baby, Garbage!”

Not wanting to thwart Austin, the Admiralty sold them to us for a mere 750 million. Since then we’ve spent billions teaching them to submerge and surface on command, all without catching fire or springing a leak. This is a little galling because for the same money we could have got far better looking Italian subs that leaked equally as badly but came with cappuccino machines.

Peter, quit wasting money on these lemons, and turn them instead into crowd-pleasing profit centres. Remember, they are Austin Powers originals. Paint all four in psychedelic colours, tow them out to Long Beach, mount them on rocks, and as Joni Mitchell advised, “charge people a dollar and a half just to see em.”

This alone sends a loud and clear message to all potential invaders. “Wow,” they’ll be thinking. “Those Canadians are spending a billion dollars just to decorate their beaches. They must be spending a fortune on their real subs.”

And that Peter, is where you become the sneaky Canadian and employ subterfuge, which is a nautical term for, “pretending you’ve got a real submarine fleet when all you’ve really got is four beached Austin Powers.”

The thing about submarines is, even the largest fleet in the world is disappointing because they’re always underwater where no one can see them. You don’t actually need them, just the perception that you have them.

We’ll issue a press release, “Canada’s Peter McKay, the most studly M.O.D. out there, (a little self aggrandizement never hurts) is proud to announce Canada’s recent
purchase of fifty nuclear submarines. The vessels were supplied by the maritime division of Mercedes Benz and come with all the latest bells and whistles, including an authentic ‘ah-oog-gah’ horn to remind crew members to close all windows and lock doors before embarking to the undersea garden. They also come equipped with a back up camera, parking assist, WiFi, heated seats, and the latest Mk 7 torpedoes should someone get uppity.

“For anyone wishing to see these vessels in their natural habitat, submarine races will be conducted every Tuesday off the yacht club. The public should be reminded that all these races are conducted underwater so best to take a book and a blanket.”

Having said all this, it is incumbent upon any Minister of Defense to have a backup plan, and that would be no military at all. Let’s face it, who in their right mind would want to invade a country whose national sport is elbowing someone in the head, where the elbows get padded but the jaws don’t, where decapitation is a two minute penalty?

What do you think has kept the Americans at bay all these years? They know the statistics, 4.7 needle- sharp hockey sticks per household. They also know that no Canadian gets a high school diploma without having been taught “the full Bertuzzi,” the correct technique for cleaving an opponent in two.

Having no military will free up a lot of your time, and if you miss the excitement there’s always toy soldiers, or you might whack Joey on the back to see if he’ll cough up that landing gear.

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April 25, 2012

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CREATIVE, HARD WORKING, SELF MOTIVATED, AND WHAT’S THE OTHER ONE, PROPOLACTIC

CREATIVE, HARD WORKING, SELF MOTIVATED, AND WHAT’S THE OTHER ONE, PROPOLACTIC.

When it comes to looking for a job, standing out is what it’s all about. But what do people put on their resume, the same old stuff. “Creative, hard working self starter.” Well la-di-dah. According to Nicole Williams, connection director for LinkedIn, that isn’t good enough. These words have become null and void with overuse. To get around this obstacle, she suggests a different approach. “Instead of telling someone you’re creative, you need to show them.”

We at Slightly Corked & Associates, North America’s most under-rated employment agency, have known this for years. Our motto, if we can’t get you noticed, you’re the invisible man. And if that’s the case, you might want to apply for dressing room attendant at your nearest Victoria’s Secret.

Sometimes it’s just the little things that get you noticed, like wearing a bright red clown nose at the interview, or refreshing words to make them your own. Why be “self motivated” when you can be “self motorvated?” And never mind proactive, be prototypical instead, maybe propolactic if you don’t like kids.

But more often than not, to catch an employer’s eye, you have to stop talking and start doing. It’s really all about getting an employer’s attention. For example, if you’re an excellent communicator, don’t just tell them, show them.
An opening gambit might be as simple as challenging your prospective employer to a game of charades. If that fails, take to the rooftop of the building next door. Get out your old boy scout semaphore flags and start signaling. How can he not be impressed?

(Note to younger readers: Semaphore is still used by those armies suffering from bad cell phone reception. For the young job applicants, if you don’t want to be dismissed as “the kook next door waving the flags around,” try signaling naked. Guaranteed to get an employer’s eye.

If you don’t look so good buck naked, morse code might be the way to go. With all the fuss and fanfare over the Titanic’s 100th anniversary, that time honoured mode of communication is on brink of comeback. Our prediction is that within the year all text messages will be in trendy dots and dashes. For example, “let’s leave this bar and go to the trendy one next door” will be three dots, three dashes, three dots, the old SOS call used to introduce the topic of abandoning ship, the ship in this case being Cousin Ruby’s Bar and Grill.

Five long dashs of course represents the question most often asked by movie goers everywhere, “How did that cute little DiCaprio’s face swell to the size of a weather balloon after the movie?”

Sometimes though, nothing catches a prospective bosses attention like the classics. And nothing is more classic in the field of communication as smoke signals. And just in case you’re wondering, three small puff balls followed by a whole pile of smoke means, “Gotta go, I just torched the building.”

Even more classic than the smoke signal, and appreciated by all, especially the fire department, is a dirigible towing a long banner, in this case saying, “Hire me, that goof you’ve got is lazy.”

Don’t be afraid to include selective home videos in your resume package. Nothing shows “hard working” and “self motivated” better than the time you launched the ski boat after forgetting you lost the drain plug at the end of last season. Now that was bailing.

And sales ability? Remember when your stupid cousin caught you chatting that nifty blonde up at the lake and showed it to your wife? Who would have thought you could talk that fast?

And finally let’s not forget the most basic and widely used communication form, the written word. Our advice is stick to your message, that you’re creative, hard working, self starting and highly motivated. More important still, that you’ve got a damn cute ass. The twist is to do it in verse, iambic pentameter if you can.

No one is creative as me,
Hire me and yee shall see.
There’s no need for a loss,
Now can I start calling you boss?

And if all this fails, as it did for us, (Yes, I once sent a poem in) you can always do as we did, start your own employment agency.

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April 21, 2012

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SWEET PEPPERS. THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH

SWEET PEPPERS. THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH.

North America is under attack. No, I’m not talking about some crazies flying into buildings, that’s been done. I’m talking about something more insidious, more personal, an attack on our bank accounts, The kind of threat where an evil third world power gets you addicted to a substance then slowly ratchets up the price until financial ruin stares you in the face. A threat that could potentially drive old guys like me back to work, and if you don’t think that’s a threat to the labour force, ask my long suffering coworkers.

The keen readers among you think you have the answer, but no, I’m not talking about gasoline, what’s fifty cents more a litre, a mere speed bump along the road of supply and demand. Nor am I talking about BMW’s, that’s a Vancouver only phenomenon. I’m speaking about 1200% price increases, where prices can range from one dollar a pound up to twelve; I’m talking about sweet peppers.

First some background. Thirty years ago, the average household didn’t have red and yellow peppers, just highly unaddictive green ones that no one would pay more than 39 cents a pound for. These were used in Greek salads, or if your mom was a gourmet cook, stuffed with hamburger and served in the formal dining room to honour the occasion.

Then one day in Mexico, where our peppers are grown, there was a farmer’s strike. Green peppers were left unpicked on the vine and after ten days, what do you know, green turned to yellow and after that to red. One vegetable, three colours. Not since the AMT 3 in1 car models have we seen such a nifty trick.

The picketing Mexicans soon got tired of pitching rocks at passing motorists and started eating the new brightly coloured peppers. “Carumba,” they said. “These are far better than those stupid green peppers those gourmet broads are stuffing up North. Pass me another, willya. Man these things are good, I can’t stop eating them. Those rich amigos up north are really going to like… Ah ha!”

It was at this point the Mexicans realized what they had, a highly addictive substance. A substance once people got hooked on, they would pay great money for. Which kind of explains that fateful day in Hawaii where I paid six dollars for one organic yellow pepper, yes folks, $12 a pound.

As with any addiction, it started slowly. I remember that first time. There I was at a friend’s, living a clean, pepper- free lifestyle. Clueless, I watched as he fried up red peppers with garlic and olive oil, and then shredded asiago cheese on top. Then I tried them. It was just like pesto all over again; my life would never be the same. (Clinical note: Basil addiction, though similar to pepper addiction, is considered less damaging to society, especially if you live in an Italian neighbourhood.)

The addiction developed quickly, almost overnight our eating habits changed. Pretty soon you couldn’t have a pasta or salad without peppers. And barbequing changed forever. Where there used to be space on the grill for chicken or steak, now every square inch was monopolized by peppers. A whole generation of us was dying of vitamin C poisoning.

I later found out the man who introduced me to peppers secretly vacations six months every year in an Acapulco mansion, that town being the home of the Mexican pepper cartels, all of whom belong to the dreaded Capsicum family.

The big question about peppers is of course, price fluxuation. How can a red pepper sell for 99 cents a pound one day and $5.99 the next? I went on the Internet to find out. And here’s where things got mysterious. I got the runaround. Oh, there were vague references to the law of supply and demand, but push harder and you get shunted over to a Viagra ad. Push harder and they park you on a Depends site, the message being very clear, either mind your own business or find yourself in an adult diaper. That’s right, they’ve got to Google.

Meanwhile the Capsicum family plays the law of supply and demand like a Stradivarius. They squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, $2.99, $3.99, $5.99, just to the point we realize we can’t go on living this way. Then they drop the price down to $1.99 and we’re back to our old habits, barbequing large batches of pepper every night. Using brightly coloured peppers as Christmas tree ornaments. Stuff like that.

But this sweet spot seldom lasts, pretty soon prices start to ramp up again as the Capsicums do a little “profit taking.” So now you know why we’ve formed a self-help group. We’re working on a twelve-step program, but so far have only one step. Get your self a green house and grow your own. It worked for marijuana, didn’t it?

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April 20, 2012

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DELEGATING RESPONSIBILITY, A MARITAL APPROACH

DELEGATING RESPONSIBILITY, A MARITAL APPROACH

In some marriages, the men make all the decisions. And I mean all decisions. Choice of vehicles, holidays, brand of cat litter, and most important, two ply or single ply toilet paper. These guys function as Supreme Commanders of the purse strings and allocate every penny as if it was an arrow in a siege. No detail eludes them. When they die, their papers are in order.

I am not one of these guys. Whenever I have any money, or have to make an important decision, I quickly hand both over to my wife. Not that she makes all the decisions. Those of great consequence are left to me. I and I alone decide whether it’s Cheerios or Raisin Bran, chocolate chip cookies or jumbo raisin.

Some of my more controlling male friends wonder how I can hand over control to my wife. How unmanly, they insinuate. They are entirely overlooking the tried and true business concept of delegation as practiced by successful executives everywhere. Let’s take for example, the automobile industry. What’s the most important consideration when assembling an automobile other than a radio that picks up the oldies station? Exactly. That the wheels don’t fall off. Now answer this, does the head of General Motors work on the assembly line making sure all the wheels are bolted on correctly?

No. When he’s not having a tasty nutritious lunch at Cantilevered Wonders, the strip bar on the corner, he DELEGATES THAT RESPONSIBILITY. And what’s the golden rule of delegation? When you assign responsibility, one also grants authority. This frees up the successful executive’s time for really important matters like making sure the martinis are up to snuff at the strip bar and more importantly that the girls toe the line at weigh in.

The brilliant economist Adam Smith put a different spin on it. He called it, the Division of Labour, the concept being that society is better off if each individual sticks to what he or she does best. In our family this is obvious. No one with my genes can organize anything, and no one in my wife’s gene pool can sit on the couch and eat peanuts better than my side of the family.

So my message to controlling males is to let go the reins of command. Initially you’ll feel a little uncomfortable but you’ll get used to it. Foist as many decisions off on your wife as you can get away with. Faking incompetence helps. Even better if you’re like me and don’t have to fake it.

I think of it as karma, as being at one with your limitations. Or as the old dude in Kung Fu would have put it, “You? Organize the family holiday? Get real Grasshopper.”

Accepting your limitations will come easier after consideration of the following example. If you were sitting a t a bar getting mouthed off by a guy with an unacceptable Body Mass Index (politically acceptable way of saying big ugly fat guy) and you happened to be sitting with Oscar De La Hoya, would you say, “I’ll handle it.” Hell no, you’d’ say, “Relax Oscar, my wife will take care of this.”

But fair is fair. There are times you must drop that bag of peanuts, jump off the couch, and talk the carpenter next door into fixing your front door knob that keeps falling off. Or if your wife has been driving to work on a flat tire for the last six months, do something about it. Let her use your car every once in a while. As the lawyers call it, “quid pro quo,” which is Latin for, fix my doorknob and I’ll bake you chocolate chips.

Some people think I take advantage of my wife. Absolutely not. They don’t realize that her parents owned a kennel housing those dogs that have to be worked or they eat the couch. That’s right, her ‘never stop work’ ethic was developed by spending too much time watching border collies.

She simply has to be doing something. Which doesn’t make her much fun on an airplane. Sometimes we have to pay for two seats on either side, a disruption tax I think it’s called. On a good trip she talks a stewardess into changing places.

But once again, it’s good management to the rescue. I have provided her with everything she needs to have a garden, which in Latin means, “for those who can’t sit still.” A garden for her, where the work is never done, is like a border collie having an impossibly large herd of sheep. Now if you’ll just excuse me, I’m headed into town for more topsoil.

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April 16, 2012

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OVER TO YOU, TAMARA

OVER TO YOU, TAMARA.

The most demanding job on television is reporting the morning news. That’s because there’s seldom any news to report. Let’s face it, people who work nights are not the most newsworthy individuals. When’s the last time you heard the grave yard shift issue a declaration of war, announce bold new changes to the national pension plan, or even say anything more dramatic than, “has anyone seen the forklift?”

Graveyard workers simply can’t be relied on when it comes to news. The only exception is the drug dealers, young industrious individuals, diligent to a fault, who gun down fellow business associates rain or shine, always in the wee hours. Other than that, the only newsworthy overnight event is the occasional house fire, all started by ‘desperate for morning news’ anchors on the way to work

More items of passing interest can result overnight at our house than in the whole province. This report just in from the Horrock’s family morning news desk.
Me: You’ll never guess what I dreamed last night.
My wife: (rolling her eyes) that’s right, I won’t.
Me: Don’t worry, no women’s clothing this time. Just a little makeup.
My wife: (Trying to change topic.) Was that you I heard going to the
bathroom around two-thirty?”
Me: No, that was the cat. (Dramatic pause) Wait a minute, we don’t have a
cat.

Not that the morning news desk doesn’t have help. There’s Tamara in traffic who is responsible for 25% of the allotted time. This is accomplished by repeating again and again there’s an over turned milk truck on the Mary Hill Bypass until you’re ready to tow it away yourself just to shut her up.

Also responsible for 25% is the long -suffering weatherman, a guy in a funny shirt who prays for snow even in august. Some stations liven this up by using attractive weather girls like the nifty little unit on our local channel. This has allowed men of my generation to finally put the mouse ears away, break free of our Annette Funicello obsession and move on to new, updated objects of desire.

It is incumbent upon any top-notch newsperson to massage what little news there is into something long enough to fill the gap between the dog food commercial and the tenth Maryhill Bypass report.

A simple fire becomes, “Overnight a house fire in Surrey claimed several walls, a roof and a stuffed cat named fluffy. When interviewed, Captain Bob (big belly) Wilson of the fire department said they would have rescued Fluffy, had not an errant gust of wind, caused by the ever flatulent Wilson, resulted in a massive back draft. Minor damage to the Captain’s shorts was reported. And now back to Tamara with our Eyes in the Sky traffic report.”

“Thanks Bob. This is Tamara Sandusky, high in the skies over… wait a minute! Some bastard just towed my over turned tanker away. Heh! Put that truck back, it’s mine!”

Believing like most Canadians, that ours is a boring nation, we changed to the Seattle morning news in search of more action. As usual, the Americans are ahead of us. Realizing no news is generated at night, they combine what little news there is with entertainment news to keep us apprised of matters of national security like the secret location of Lindsay Lohan’s latest rehab facility.

Meanwhile, 50 miles up, the entertainment satellite searches for Angelina’s exposed leg to pop out of a slinky black dress or for any globule of fat to appear on her anorexic arms.

Or maybe it’s a segment on a celebrity chef teaching America how to scramble eggs, (let me see now chef, should I crack the egg on the bowl or with a knife?). Regardless of what the chef does, the crowd goes wild. No one is entirely sure why, but it might have something to do with the two assistant producers madly waving those “Applauso!” cue cards.

But I say, why complain, be proactive. Don’t leave your morning news to the graveyard shift; take matters into you own hands. Get out there after midnight and help the morning desk out. Do something newsworthy. A peeping Tom in a Mickey Mouse costume always draws crowds. Kidnappings play well, especially if you can talk the weather girl into it.

If I was the morning news guy, I’d use my dreams. That cat who visited us last night could be bulked up to 500 pounds with a developed taste of the more corpulent villagers. And that other dream, the one my wife didn’t hear, that would make great news.

There I was on a deserted tropical island. Ten years go by, I begin talking like Tom Hanks to his basketball. Finally the carrier pigeon with sealed orders from Ottawa arrives. I break open the letter, “Nation destroyed by virulent batch of Tim Horton doughnuts. Repopulate planet as best you can.”

The basket ball will have nothing to do with me. Nine months go by, suddenly, something starts to rise out of the water. It’s the weathergir… oh no! it’s… Captain Wilson.

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April 14, 2012

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SON OF THE BLUE CHEESE CAFE

SON OF THE BLUE CHEESE CAFE

Just when you think dinosaurs no longer roam the planet, one shows up. I’m talking about restaurants done on a shoestring budget as mentioned in my previous article, “thirteen dollars per ounce!” which features the Black and Blue steak house and the nostalgic Blue Cheese Café. For those wishing to do well on the final exam, please consider that article prerequisite reading.

The dinosaur is named the Superior and is located on, where else, Superior street in Victoria. I’d been instructed to eat there by a friend’s son, a young lad with a severe pork addiction. “Order anything with bacon jam in it,” he advised, referring to the Superior’s menu.

Home for the Superior is a 100-year-old heritage building once used as a Seaman’s Institute, a place for sailors to stay when away from home. After that it was used as a church so it falls neatly within official “Blue Cheese Café” guidelines. A VW beetle, (67 vintage my guess) was parked outside. In literary circles, this is known as foreshadowing.

The word most often used to describe the Superior’s décor is eclectic, a polite term meaning, acquired from many sources. In the Superior’s case these sources would be second hand stores or garage sales, where, one suspects, “How much will you give me if I cart that away?” was frequently heard.

The place has the authentic sixties feel of a sixties, university crash pad. The total decorating bill would be less than a Black and Blue chair. If I close my eyes I can see the corner of Fourth and Burrard in Kitsilano, circa 1969. I can smell the wheat germ at the same corner’s Lifestream Health Food store. All we need now is a black light poster with Gracie Slick wailing in the background.
Immediately upon entering, one is greeted not by a hostess but by a quartet of stuffed deer heads mounted on the wall. Why, we’re not certain, but it’s nice to know the younger generation still appreciates taxidermy. The vaulted ceiling is church-like and hasn’t seen paint since the last square-rigger was in town. Mysteriously in each of the four corners is placed a red triangular piece of cloth which looks much like the main sail off a Flying Junior.

The walls are covered with dark swirling paint, imparting a hippy-gothic, dungeonesque feel. Anyone walking by in flowing robes would be taken for granted. Halloween never seems far away. Candles? Lots of candles. In fact, I would have called the place “The Flickering Candle.” And church pews? Gotta have church pews.

Amazingly enough the chairs all match. They’re all ugly. But maybe I’m prejudiced because the back of my sweater kept sticking to mine. Always a sign management has their cleaning costs under control.

The sixties can’t be blamed for all the décor though. Credit too must go to the eighties; I’m talking about the woman’s washroom, which is an unpainted particleboard and two by four box, about ten by ten, dropped randomly off to the side. I say randomly because it doesn’t line up with any wall, nor does it angle off at any acceptable multiple of forty-five degrees.

The menu doesn’t give you many clues as what to expect as it resorts to the annoyingly trendy practice of listing the ingredients rather than describing the food. French fries and catsup becomes Bezeau Brothers Farm parallel cut russets, canola oil bath, sodium chloride sprinkle, enriched tomato coulis. That kind of thing.

We made the mistake of going on a day only brunch was available; this left me with a braised beef burger with, brunch being brunch, a fried egg in the middle. There’s a good reason most sandwiches don’t come with a fried egg in the middle. Sandwiches are finger food, when you raise one to your mouth and bite into it, this allows the unrestricted yoke a perfect shot at your shirt, white in my case.

Also distracting was that everything on the plate was brown. No green, no red; it was like parsley or tomato hadn’t been be invented. In fairness, like dating Phyllis Diller, the Superior should only be done at night.

And at night there’s entertainment. Music, palm reading, and burlesque diva Rosy Bits for whom five bucks extra VIP seating is available. That would be in the non-stick chair section I presume.

It would be fun to witness the Black and Blue guys paying a visit to the Superior. They’d either cringe and rush back to their BMW’s before their designer jeans got soiled. Or they’d break down in tears at the realization that not only is the Superior successful, but if the place goes broke, all the principles stand to lose is their aforementioned 67 Beetle, not a waterfront home.

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April 13, 2012

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THIRTEEN BUCKS AN OUNCE!

THIRTEEN BUCKS AN OUNCE!

A new steakhouse opened in Vancouver last month called Black and Blue. Which is what the banker and investors must have looked like after being worked over for the $5.3 million it reportedly cost. That’s just for leasehold improvements and operating supplies. If you want a side of real estate, a building, say, that’s extra. A la carte as it’s called in the business.

As one would expect, the place is opulent, even the web site is gold plated and comes with valet parking. But what a gamble. To say the restaurant’s investors have balls the size of a CBC weather balloon is only slight exaggeration.

Every cost in an operation of this magnitude is important. Once a week the Black and Blue team will diligently circle their BMW’s and discuss arcane matters like why the napkins are costing 18.5 cents per dinner rather than the budgeted 16.3. And why 200 pounds of prime rib was cooked but only 179 charged for? Answer: The cooks are trading the bar staff prime rib for drinks again. Check for greasy faces and recent weight gain.

Before plunking your butt down on a $400 Black and Blue chair, it would be best to advise your credit card company of your intentions lest they get sticker shock. Entree prices are steep, the cheapest steak, a pedestrian Black Angus filet, will set you back $33. If you opt for the Snake River beef, where the cows drink beer and get massages, that’ll be $130 for ten ounces. Personally I don’t mind picking up the cow’s beer tab, but he can pay for his own massage.

But like buying a BWW, it’s not just the sticker price you have to watch out for, it’s the options. Potatoes and vegetables are $9 each. Considering the sums involved, the waiters all come with a billfold and a bachelor of commerce degree. Too, it’s recommended your accountant be in attendance for all groups of six or more.

A proactive approach works best if a waiter approaches with a wine list. Before he gets to open his mouth stop him dead in his tracks. “What do you have that’s non alcoholic?” Even if you spot something that’s affordable on the list– and that will take a microscope and a search party—rest assured the restaurant will be out of it, simply because everyone else has been ordering it as well. Just don’t break down in tears when your bottle arrives in a Brinks truck with two heavily armed guards in attendance.

That’s why, when visiting such restaurants, I recommend bringing your own bottle and drinking in the washroom. Book the handicap stall if you can get it. Don’t forget to tip the attendant on the way out.

Being a child of the sixties, I still yearn for simpler cheaper times. Times like the early eighties when acting without forethought was not only acceptable, but you could get away with it. Back then opening a restaurant was a lot easier.

The process usually involved two of you getting together over beers, lamenting the fact you were basically unemployable, simply because your formative years were spent learning how to juggle and roll a joint. Six beers later comes the “Eureka!” moment. “Hey, you’re a gourmet chef, your blue cheese omelet kicks, let’s open a restaurant.”

Then the fun part, the search for a funky building, always a challenge when there’s no budget for rent. Scoring a church was considered lucky but better still was an historic building like the Acme Junk store where you bought your couch, yes that would be the one with the rat’s nest in the cushion.

The most important part of the whole exercise was choosing the trick name, anything with the word rhododendron in it was good, but The Bingo Palace would work for the church, Acme Junk Company would suffice for the second hand store.

Next step was rounding up the backers, mainly comprised of relatives who couldn’t run fast enough to escape. Armed with the resultant bag of cash it was off to the town’s other second hand stores to round up cooking equipment mainly an electric range, a fridge or two and a string of microwaves to warm up the blue cheese omelets left over from the day before. That electric ranges are pretty much useless was of no consequence. At least they didn’t require an expensive exhaust canopy.

Décor was simple, whatever wall paint was discounted more than 70%. Next a sampling of local art, which made the artist proud but the artist’s spouse ecstatic, “Finally I get that stupid bowl of apples out of my living room!”

The night before opening, over still more beers, everything was going well, None of the rickety chairs from the second hand store had collapsed, even under the weight of Fat Billy, the ice machine was cranking out cubes, when all of a sudden reality struck. “Heh, what are we going to do for food, we don’t have a menu?”

And that’s why, the Blue Cheese Café only sells omelets and a fine selection of Mexican beer.
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April 11, 2012

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WAITER, WHAT’S THAT FIG LEAF DOING ON MY PLATE?

WAITER, WHAT’S THAT FIG LEAF DOING ON MY PLATE?

There comes a time in a man’s life when he has to make the tough decisions, really tough decisions. No, I’m not talking about a sex change, that merely encompasses a new wardrobe and a small chip implanted in the brain allowing you to remember everything you’ve gone to town for.

No, I’m talking about a REALLY IMPORTANT DECISION, one to postpone as long as you can, I’m talking about that fateful day when your retirement budget forces you to switch from bottled to box wine. You can prepare for retirement all you want, go to all the Kiwanis seminars, but like old age itself, there’s no training for this.

It hits you emotionally. You’ll be walking down the street, nice homes, nice gardens, perfect weather, and you’ll inexplicably break down in tears. You look back and spot the cause, wine bottles poking out of the blue box on the curb. The next day you walk into your bathroom and catch your reflection in the mirror. “My God! My right forearm, what’s happened to my right forearm?” You fly to your computer, quickly google the word “atrophy,” only to read: What happens to a man’s forearm and bicep after he stops repetitive exercise, say like cork pulling.

Sadly, there are no help groups available, no government body where one can go for consolation and support. True, CUPE, the liquor store union has been helpful. Those “Miss You, Wish You Were Here” cards have been appreciated. Too, the helium dirigible flying about the store with, “Delbert, come back!” was a nice touch.

But life goes on, the good news is I’ve found a perfectly acceptable box wine, Mission Hill’s Sonora Ranch cabernet shiraz. It’s surprisingly decent and goes well with just about any food we’ve thrown at it. Except for perhaps that blue cheese omelet that got me banned from the kitchen for a week.

An additional benefit, for those of you still wearing Black Sabbath tee shirts, is it’s politically incorrect, a blend of Canadian and imported wine, the dreaded “cellared in Canada” designation. A fact you’ll quickly forget when you realize it costs $5.65 a bottle in the 16-litre format.

I realize coming out in favour of the box will discredit my reputation with the wine community, but heh, this Black Sabbath tee shirt looks good on me and now I can say whatever I want. So let’s start with a recent article in a local food magazine. Three sommeliers (French word for one who talks a lot through his hat) had been invited to match wine with a dish described as Quail, parsnip, chicories, beurre rouge, fig leaf, and vanilla.

Faced with such a challenge, an old pro like me (40 years in the wine game) immediately has probing questions. Questions like, “Is the fig leaf worn on the head or in the more traditional placement?” And, “Vanilla! We always have vanilla, why never chocolate!”

One expert recommended a youthful Bandol saying that, “the decadent flavours of the dish call for moderate but polished tannins…. The flavour profile of Bandol will mirror the vanilla, chicories and fig leaf nicely.”

For those who believe in Santa Claus, this is a good answer. Personally, it reminded me of a day a quarter century ago at my first Vancouver Wine festival lunch. I was seated with two California marketing reps from the prestigious Beaulieu Winery who were pouring their George de Latour Cabernet, which at the time was considered Napa Valley royalty.

The Beaulieu guys were old enough to be my father, and unlike many of their peers were old school, serious of demeanor with their dark Brooks Brothers suits. They looked like what they were, two guys who had spent their life travelling around North America flogging alcoholic beverage. Guys who would look just as comfortable with a long necked bottle of beer, pool cue or monkey wrench in their hand as a wineglass. Best to sit quietly and learn, I thought.

We were of course drinking their wine, which like many young Napa Cabs was hard to choke back at lunch. Then a wine writer dropped by for a sip of the Latour. A more elaborate session of swirling and sniffing, you’ve never seen. When he sniffed, it looked like rapture, when he tasted, it sounded like gargling. Finally his judgment was rendered. “Firm, ripe, rich and concentrated, full-bodied and tightly focused, with a chewy core of dried currant, mineral, fresh earth, spice, black licorice and dried sage, (etc. etc. etc.) Finishing with a potent full bodied finish.”

With not a hint of humour, one old suit turns to the other, tries the wine and says, “He drinking the same shit we are?”

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April 6, 2012

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