the Christmas Survival Kit

There’s something comforting about a ‘Best Of’ list. It packages a highlight reel of warm memories for those who have already run through it, and lends guidance to the curious, new to the scene. The List is a stripped down, simplified reminder of Life’s Riches; a filtered treasure void of distraction. It’s built with passion and runs strong on the quality of its pages, lurking beneath the story’s cover. Not only a critical all-telling accessory of the creator, but a cheat-sheet on the matter in question. The depths of the ‘Best Of’ are both effortlessly shallow and cavernous with mystery.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we can list off another year, and officially document the world’s headlines into tidy little quanta, we need a final-lap kick to reel in the ’09 finish line.

Whether you are a dancing Buddy-the-Elf type, noting your favourite Bing while Dubai-ing a monster gingerbread McMansion, or some Bad Santa brand cocktail of Scrooged-up Grinchery, December means Christmas. Some stories are of family and friends with a caroling backdrop that floats through the affectionate décor of merriment and joy. Other Holidayers, however, run from the Green-and-Red and tell a tale of distraction, accessorized by the Lonely Nog* and a general disregard for all things ‘Seasonal’. The good news is that regardless of your involvement in Christmas, the answer to your un-asked question is ‘the right Movie’.

Sometimes it’s the pressure to feeling the Christmas Spirit that asks for the right Holiday Hit, other times it’s a need for a bigger December Disaster to downplay your own catastrophe. The question could be ‘How can I bring my family together?’ or it could be ‘How can I escape my family’s togetherness?’ And even if you’re asking ‘How can I battle the spread of Joy and Happiness with Hatred for the Holiday?’ my answer remains: ‘the right Movie’.

So before we Top-10 the hell out of 2009, here’s a ‘How to Survive the Christmas Season’ movie guide:

1) Best of the Best
Watch them once, watch them once a year, watch them in July; these five flickers are one with The Christmas, firing on all cylinders and hitting heart-strings and funny-bones alike. With enough movie magic to stand without the Holiday Crutch, these films Christmas Waltz passed the rest as more than just classics; these movies are Musts!

- Fred Claus
(Of course Santa has a brother, and of course that brother has Daddy issues, and of course said brother is stuck in the fat shadow of Santa and needs money all the time... that brother had to be Vince Vaughn, you know it had to be)
- Scrooged
(It's Bill Murray as Scroog, it's perfection. The movies Tag line played around with Ghostbusters and the fact that this time it's 3 against 1)
- Bad Santa
(Willie hates Christmas and everything about it, and yet he is a department store Santa. He has a Little Helper Elf and together they plan to con-it-up and rob the place on Christmas... lessons may or may not be learned, Willie doesn't much care)
- Elf
(Will Ferrell is a grown man who thinks he is an elf - he is Buddy the Elf, James Caan is James Caan at his best not wanting to deal much with his long lost Elf son, and Zooey Deschanel is beyond gorgeous and charming and lovable, oh yeah and Santa ends up needing Buddy's help... it's Rudolph but with more Will Ferrellness)
- Home Alone
(Macaulay Culkin's little Kevin is eight years-old and his crazy family full of rambunctious, hooligan kids, and tired, worn out parents forget to bring him along on their Christmas trip to France... plus there's a couple of numb-scull house burglars who are trying to rob the 'empty' house. Kevin is oddly equipped to handle this situation and he unleashes the fury on these poor suckers)


















2) Warm Your Heart
When Christmas is starting to look a little too much like just ‘the 25th of December’, these movies pull you into the spirit of the season and wash you with the strength of love. These stories remind you why Christmas has become more than just a Day-Off or a Gift Received. They awaken those sheltered thoughts that are protected from the harm of everyday life, and demonstrate the safety of our vulnerability, which lies in the hands of the ones we love. They have also been known to make grown men cry. These movies are Heartfelt and alive with Life:

- the Family Stone
(a family like any other comes home for the holidays to find laughter, tears, and anything but the easy way to get to a Merry Christmas... Moms and Sons beware, tears and hugs will be shared between you as the bond grows stonger)
- It’s a Wonderful Life
(This movie is so undeniable good that the Grinch loved it before his heart had grown those three sizes, Billy Bob's Bad Santa, Willie, cried uncontrollably, and the dude from Black Christmas let all the sorority babes live... George Bailey for President!)
- Love Actually
(Christmas is a busy time, so multitask, follow eight couples as they wade through the depths of the Christmas season in search of the old L-O-V-E)













3) Animated your Christmas Cheer
Like no other time, Christmas finds us grasping for tradition, innocence, and familiarity. The next cluster of classics are tried and true favourites that cover us in Christmas with the best of the best when it comes to customs. The Songs, the Characters, and the caring atmosphere bring us to the special place where we keep our treasured holiday memories. Great for any day of December when Christmas is needed:

- Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
(You know the song, without the Red-Nosed Misfit, Santa and the gang are f&%k'd)
- Disney’s How the Grinch Stole Christmas
(You can enjoy a little Grinch Greed and mayhem while also letting your heart grown three sizes)
- A Charlie Brown Christmas
(Charlie Brown is hell-bent on finding the true meaning of Christmas... Snoppy is not interested in this at all)
- The Muppet Christmas Carol
(What chance did Michael Caine have against the likes of the Fozzie, Miss Pigster, and Kermit)












4) When you need a little Edge
Maybe you’re not interested in that fuzzy feeling, or in 'cuddliness', or in 'heartwarming'. Maybe you want Christmas to happen while you are battling-it out in the trenches, while the rough realities of life take a bite out of your Christmas Spirit. Maybe you want to put Frosty on the bench and bring a little more grit into the holiday game. Maybe you Need to forget about Caroling, say ‘F#^k tinsel, and Yippie-Kai-Yay a stocking or two. Here’s some pollution as a solution:

- Reindeer Games
(Identity fraud, the Hottie Charlize, gun play, ex-cons, a heist, and some "pecan F&$kin pie!")
- The Ref
(D. Leary just wants to cat burglar his way into a nice Christmas Present, instead he unwraps a disastrous wreck of a marriage between Judy Davis and Kevin Spacey. There's hostaging, but it's tough to tell who gets the worst of it)
- Die Hard
(John McClain… enough said, I’m feeling warm and fuzzy inside already)
- Black Christmas
(Just cause it’s Christmas doesn’t mean sorority girls can’t get murdered)
- Batman Returns
(Not a lot of Red and Green in Gothem at Christmas, mainly just Batman and all those people he's going to beat up)
- Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
(Have yourself a Film-Noir little Christmas. Full for all ages - Downey Jr. for the kid inside, and Michelle Monaghan for your grown up side)























5) Have a Very Carrey Christmas
It’s the third of December and you have already had your fill of the usual suspects. It’s a scary realization for any ChristMaster; that nagging itch in the back of your mind that teams up with the twisted pinch in the pit of your stomach to suggest that Christmas has become routine, repetitive, or worst of all, hallow. Without getting to emotionally wrecked, try a quick fix and Carrey-Up a Classic. It’s a re-energized look a pair of well rounded holiday riches. Juggle a few hilarious Whos with a grinning green Grinch, then test the new Humbug as the 2009 issue of Scroog learns a lesson or two. Some Carrey is too small, some Carrey is too big, these Carreys are just right:

- A Christmas Carol
- How the Grinch Stole Christmas


6) A Little Family Dysfunction
Whether you’re looking for a hearty Santa Style Ho-Ho-Ho chuckle, or just need to see that the calamities of the Christmas season are not picking favourites, these family fun features are the Relative Remedy. Family Frustrations are a common theme year round, but it seems that the Holidays have a special way of igniting monumental mêlées. It might have something to do with the delusional expectations surrounding the appeasing power of a gentle Christmas ballad, or it could be the weight of the anticipated perfection that the season brings on loved ones, but either way, the familial pressure is on. These catastrophic Christmas masterpieces act as both a bench mark for debacles and ironically a means for bringing the Home closer together. Reunite with these favourites:

- National Lampoons Christmas Vacation
(The Griswold tries so hard to lock down the Christmas Cheer for his family, but it's only after burnt trees, angry squirrels, and a batch of in-laws take their toll, that the true spirit of the season is found)
- The Santa Clause
(Tim Allen hits rock bottom when he kills Santa... what else could he do, presents had to be delivered)
- Home Alone 2: Lost in New York
(Oh Kevin, it would appear that since this isn't the first time you've been forgotten that you should face facts; no one likes you... Actually that wily little McCallister is as lovable as he is sly. It's round two of Kevin vs Harry and Marv)
- The Family Man
(Nick Cage catches a glimpse of a different life as he It's-a-Wonderful-Life's-it away from his cold, dark, lonely world of corporate success, and warms up to the what-if life he could have had as a Family Man)
- Four Christmases
(Two divorces, four fractured families, and a little Vince Vaughn...)














This is a complete guide, and with it comes both opportunity and danger. The many suggestions and outlined strategies can make it easy for someone to get lost in a new enthusiasm and become over committed. Do not watch all these movies, that is madness. In the right hands this Guide can be used for good, colouring anyone’s Christmas the exact shade of Green-Red that they desire. However without caution this holiday map can quickly turn to the dark side. No person should try to extend themselves beyond a Home Alone double feature, or get anymore sarcastic than the ‘either-or’ of the Bad Santas and the Refs of the world. Dehydration is a legitimate concern after one tear-filled Heartfelt Hero, and the brain goes all mushy and soft after only an hour or two in the animated world.

A little Christmas can go a long way, and hopefully this Guide can be your go-to solution for not only that all important Holiday Movie Night, but for those times when family council is a must, or lonely sorrow has settled in for the season. The question may change, but the answer usually lies in ‘the right Movie’.


It should be noted that although there are several recipes for Nog, and like the mysteries of the formula for Grandma’s Cookies, the making of a good Eggnog can get fairly private and personal, Lonely Nog is a simple twist on an old favourite:

Eggnog + ‘Season’s Greetings’ (I recommend a little J-2-the-D) + Depressed-Christmas-Misery (key ingredient is actual tears) = Lonely Nog

Ninja Gadget

The Cellular Telephone; a tale of true triumph. Not only has the Cell Phone slimmed down from being the Fat Kid and made ‘cool’ the Class Nerd by finding a diverse group of friends, but the Cell has become the Ninja Gadget, or Nadget, or Ninjadget, or Ninget, maybe Gadja, Gadginja, even Ganja… or maybe not. Regardless of what its name-bar reads, this dark knight is like the Batman of the technological world, handing beat-downs to jokers like the portable DVD player and Ashton Kutcher approved cameraettes (small cameras with a glossy, wildly unnecessary glowing finish… supposedly they take pictures too, but no word on that in the old advert). The Cell is bonafide bad-ass and so much a part of our world that we entrust it to keep company in our trust tree with our most prize processions; Les Hommes nestle it neatly next to their packaged goods in the front pocket of the pantaloons and Las Chicas check it with all matters of worldly importance in the purse-inator. It takes a true friend and hero to the human to be able to crack that comfort zone.


It’s no longer the new kid in school and comrade to only rich drug dealers and big dorks (don’t worry dorks, you still have your little Bluetooth niche); Mr. Popular has donned the crown, and is king for a reason. My grandma has a cell phone, my 70 year-old neighbor has a cell phone, the barefoot, of-the-earth hippie has a cell phone, and there are 5 year-olds taking pictures and emailing them right now from their cell phones. We cradle it in our car, take it from the office to the bedroom, dress it up, protect it, never forget it, and wouldn’t dare speak of a life after it. It’s like the orbiting moon to our favourite planet.


I heard a statistic the other day: 35% of full-fledged Amish participants use cell phones at least once a week, an additional 40% own a cell, and a totally of 90% know that cellular telephones are not ‘Magical Witch-doctor Voodoo for summoning the Devil’. That statistic is fake, but it could be real, that’s how far cell phones have come. And if you’re a rebel with a cause, and that cause is to boycott the cellular revolution, I have two words for you: Give Up. You have no hope and you are only hurting yourself. In fact have 4 more words (one is hyphenated, who cares though, semantics): Don’t be a Baby.


Cell phones are calendars, to-do lists, voice recorders, clocks and alarms. Cell phones are your GPS, your social network access, your web browser. Cell phones play your music, your video, and store your books. Cell phones tell you where to eat, when to sell your options, and how to play the guitar. You don’t even know that you need it yet, and your cell phone’s got it. Plus, on top of all that, it allows you to talk to someone on the other side of the planet, or on the other side of the room, or on the other side of Ugly. I just beat my friend at chess, showed him a Google Maps satellite image of his back yard, and made him cry like a little girl with an update on his team’s latest loss. The Cellular Phone is here to stay, so don’t fight it. Automobiles did it, televisions did it, microwaves did it, and so did the dishwasher. In fact it wasn’t so long ago that the Cellular Phone of our ancestors stormed the scene and changed the way of the world; a quest for fire. They captured it on film in fact, it was epic. You know what happened to the Goof-ball Caveman that fought that fade? He died. He froze to death. Don’t freeze to death because you ‘don’t want to be a slave to the cell’. Man up already, unhook your metaphorical buggy, free that tired old horse, and love your car… befriend a cell phone. And to all those who say, “But Jack, I hate people, why would I want to make it easier for them to find me?” I say, be free of people. Simply turn on the airplane-mode and continue about your day with everything you could want in a Cell minus the burden wireless human interaction.


Let’s say that you are committed to this planet and its way of life and are the proud owner of your very own piece of gadgetry art-work. Now that you have a cell, there are some rules that must be followed. These aren’t the ‘advanced items’ that the people who own the flashing 12:00 on their early nineties VCR fear and ignore. There’s time to learn how to bookmark your mobile internet favourites, there is no time however for total technological incompetence.


Item One: you must know how to charge your cellular device. Do not be that Guy or Gal who can’t be reached because they can’t fit ‘recharge battery’ into their schedule. And no, ‘I don’t know how’ isn’t going to work. Just go ahead and plug it in. If this has been a go-to excuse for not being available, it is weak, you are better than that, you need to be more creative.


Item Two: set up your Voice Mail. The Voice Mail innovation is beyond brilliant. Now you can screen your calls, get the information, and not have to talk to the person at all, maybe ever. They even have worked out a way for you to send calls directly to Voice Mail; do not answer, do not let it ring, go directly to cell phone Jail. And take that extra step and record something that is somewhere between ‘a waste of time’, and ‘trying way too hard’. “Hi you’ve reached So-and-So, I can’t take your call right now, please leave your name and number and a brief message after the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible”; this is not acceptable. Don’t tell people what they need to do, they understand how ‘leaving a message’ works. There’s no need for names and numbers, caller ID can be useful for more than just deciding if you want to answer or not. And tones? Is anyone unsure as to when they should start leaving a message? Come on, if your recording says anything about tones you should hang up on yourself, immediately. “…I’ll get back to you as soon as possible”, really? Quit being so desperate and just tell them the truth: ‘I’m busy’, ‘I don’t like people’, ‘Don’t call this number’, ‘I’m an astronaut, nough said’, ‘I’m torturing a terrorist’, ‘I need to return some videotapes’, ‘I sleep a lot’, ‘I chose to not talk to you’, or things of that nature. Now, when it comes to the ‘trying way too hard’ extreme, let’s just say you’ll know when you get there. It usually involves bad karaoke, animal sounds, a poor reenactment of a comedy routine, or trickery; ‘clever’ is difficult at this stage of the game, most of the good wit has already become cliché, don’t try and dupe people.


Item Three: Choose your ringtone wisely. This is perhaps the most important stage of the cell phone setup. You must know that others will hear your ringtone and will judge you on it. This is an accessory to an accessory and it is out there telling the world about who you are. Do you want to be an angry, but strong woman? Then go with Pink’s latest Top-40 shot. Do you like it when a dude’s voice sounds like a 13 year-old girl? Or are you a big Tool? Let Akon tell you to answer the call. Do you enjoy being punched? If yes, pick one of those default ringers that sound like a blender and keyboard making sweat love. I’m not audacious enough to think I can tell you who you are, but I will tell you that if you’re not careful, someone will, and they will feel free to not let you forget it. Aim for simple, unique, not-stupid. You don’t want boring, but you also don’t want excessive. You want people to notice and then forget almost immediately. And the most important thing to remember is, don’t ever- …


In addition, use that silent mode. Exercise the Vibrate feature. Make sure that Ringer-Off is enough of a habit that you don’t forget and become the villainous ignoramus who has Britney belting out a gem during the big meeting, the suspenseful on-screen climax, or the final stage of your late night B&E. No one wants to have to deal with that kind of reputation at the next Cat-Burglar retreat.













Item Four: Beware the wireless risks. True the chances of strangling one’s self during an intense telephone conversation have become much more challenging with the lack of leash, but many people cannot handle the responsibility of freedom. With no structure or limitation, the wireless world has allowed for people to wonder about, roaming the land cell in hand. If you answer a call in a quiet car on an afternoon train, everyone is listening. Try and chit-chat while in a bar, at a concert, or inside a day care, and the other end of the line will tell you it’s the end of the line. And the first thing I do when I see someone on a phone in a public washroom, flush. Without the cord, every time you talk to a cell phone, its user could be in deep shit.


Five gets its own tangent, because texting has risen above its host and become much more than a cell phone feature. Texting is the virus that has convinced us all that it is the cure.


Walk the Walk, except when you text and talk. I saw someone on a long board the other day, surfing down a path with thumbs that turned faster than the wheels he rolled on. I polled the audience (me, myself, and iPhone) on the dangers of multitexttasking. The question was, ‘What is more dangerous, texting while skateboarding, or texting while driving?’ My mind meandered. There are no close calls on a long board. You’re either on the board or you’re on a date with pavement. Hello ground, meet my face. It’s one of those no-chemistry, she’s-an-abusive-whore relationships. There are pebbles and breaks in the path, dogs and unpredictable Walkers with headphones and a hunger for trouble. But these are all owies compared to the be-all-end-all that awaits a slip-up behind the wheel. It’s entirely possible that while playing this Russian Roulette with your vinegar-and-baking-soda cell and a loaded vehicle combo, you can travel for complete minutes and end up somewhere without ever knowing the details of the drive. Text-Walking, much like it’s cousin Sleep-Walking; this inbred relative to the dozing zombie waltz is careless, subconscious, and terrifying to awake from. When you text and drive you get all the distractions of a good phone conversation with the added benefit of not being able to see where you are going. It’s got to be the most dangerous thing the average person can participate in, and I’m including Wal-Mart Shopping into the average person’s repertoire. But then again, despite the break-neck risk factor, the likely hood of firing a live round is probably scarcer than drifting off the path.

I gave my overactive imagination a time-out. I realized that not only is the answer much simpler than I was making it out to be, but so is the question. So I danced around with these two epiphanies: What’s the most dangerous thing ever? Texting!






















It’s not just the multitexttasking that longs for disaster; it’s like making an edgy joke in mixed company every time you press send. Unless you’re following the rules of the word, you need to be pretty textastic at firing off these mini-messages, or hearts will break, fun will falter, and text-you will make person-you look like idiot-you. There’s no accounting for tone, sarcasm is a lost cause, and passion is boxed up and trapped inside a bunch of emotion icons; a concept that is so devoid of actual feeling that the idea itself is heartlessly conjugated into a mechanical convenience, ‘emoticon’. So this all means that you have to break the mold; do not fear punctuation, it is your friend, avoid ‘conversation’ and don’t touch heavy topics, laugh out loud, joke, unleash a cackle or guffaw, and employ the little face friend but do so on your own terms:


8) smiley face with a little more face
*) a wink with a twinkle
:B buck teeth
:{ guy with a mustache
<3>
\ , , / rock on


Unfortunately many people miss use the textawge, and full fledged conversations will pass soundlessly across the cold abyss. Be ready, this may feel like a passive form of chit-chattery, but the truth is you need time, tenacity, and ‘the touch’ to commit to these convos. The text message was designed (in my opinion of course, which let’s face it is nice and weighted) as an innovation to the pager. It’s an alert with a caption. An elegant concept in theory, but a butchered relation in practice. The pager felt like old technology before it even reached the mass populous, but the idea was good; to contact someone when a phone conversation is too much. Therefore the text should be a quick update, change of plan, an idea without a reply. It can be stretched to solve the ‘can’t talk’ situation, the ‘one last question’ exchange, and the ‘sweat love note’ class pass. The text can be used to connect two people voided by space, but only in the way that a letter can replace an embrace. As an added layer of love the text message is beautiful, but as a crutch the TXT is a surface level liaison.


Is texting good? Definitely. Is it bad? Absolutely. It is in the eye of the beholder and the thumbs of the user and abuser.


And then how about the Cell? It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad. What matters is it’s unwavering power and forceful strong hold on the lives and lies of this world. We need it, we don’t need it, it helps, it hurts, it brings us closer, it stands in our way. The Cell Phone is evil in the same way that a vehicle is a weapon, that TV is a waste of time, that running is boring. People forget that ‘guns don’t kill people, postal workers kill people’ *) It’s up to you. Own it or let the excuses hide you from that crushing misery that stalks your being. It is no longer just a phone, or even just a Communication Device, the Cellular Telephone no longer exists, instead we carry an extension of ourselves and our link into the next level of this life. Plus it worked for Kirk and his Star Treking team back in the day, so I think we’ll be alright. Really all we’re missing is the ‘Beam me up Scotty’ app and a button to activate the phaser... and that ladies-man Shatner swagger of course.

the Skill Testing Question

I found myself at McDonald’s the other day. It wasn’t that I ‘found myself’ spiritually, and I hadn’t actually become physically lost, but I did break free of the Happy Haze long enough to remember that Stupid Happens. And it doesn’t just happen sometimes, or occasionally, or when big idiots are around, Stupid Happens always. This is why I spend a significant amount of time in the Happy Haze, where my above average idiot-tolerance and elite ability to ignore ignorance allows me to focus on the Good, and joyously bound from cloud to cloud in the celestial bliss of a CareBear style world. Now, you may think that I frown at such stupidity, that anything boldly idiotic enough to tear me back down to the ridiculousness of a CareBearless world would set me off. But that’s not true. Not at all. I long for these extra-special situation. It’s these unique and baffling moments of total mental lapse that charge up my day, bring me a smile, remind me that although Good is good, sometimes Bad is good too.

I like McDonald’s. And since I’ve already harped on the hamburger haters at length (see the June’s Hi-Jacked! episode the ‘Hamburger Hitmen', it’s juicy) and feel no obligation to convince anyone of the benefits of an MC’s episode, I will move on. Except to say that if you can’t allow yourself a golden-arches smile every now and then, you need to spend more time in the Happy Haze. Don’t be so miserable. And ask yourself ‘Why, so, SERioussssssSah?!’ Okay, I’m done.


I live on the edge when it comes to fast food. Sure I’ll decide the establishment in advance as oppose to just hope that I end up somewhere greasy and good (heaven forbid I park near the word Organic, that’s a red flag), but when it comes to the order, I let the building speak to me. I make my decision as I walk up to the smiling face of the McDonald’s Master. Actually if you can find someone, somewhere who is even close to a ‘Master’ of the McDonald’s, hold on and don’t let go. With no experience behind the Ronald McDonald counter, I can only assume this is an excruciatingly difficult job that requires more brainpower than most can muster. I think that very few are truly ever ready to take the plug into the challenges of a career at the Arches, leaving the average MC soldier to be overwhelmed and outmatched by the Extra Value Meals and the Super Sizing and the Apple Pies (why do these things exist, who is buying ‘Pies’ from the ‘1 billion burgers sold’ crowd, is it possible that at some point this ‘Pie’ adder was a good idea, and is it in fact a ‘Pie’, cause it looks a lot like a ‘Mistake’, and seriously, Apple, am I to believe that even the artificial flavouring injected into this mess is suppose to be Apple… Apple Pies, big Lies).

It has to be the impenetrability of the job that makes getting my order anywhere-near-correct so tricky, right? I mean it’s either that, or the place must be infested with lifeless hallow morons. Hurry, join me in the Haze: it must be the challenge of the chore.

Nonetheless I drink in the menu board, watch for deals and steals, open myself up to the sights, sounds, and smells of the McDonald’s, and that is where my order comes from. Unless of course I am armed with the weapon of choice.

Coupons are a different game all together. A game I will play any time. Now, I have direction, I have goals, I have an Ordering regime. And I have my ticket into a world where Stupid Happens. Coupons require a level of cunning that most Cash Register Wranglers haven’t been able to tie down. It breaks down like this: I go to McDonald’s, I order food, I eat food, I am happy… I play McDonald’s Monopoly, I win food, I order food, I am happy. But wait, as it turns out, the fun isn’t over yet. The way it actually breaks down is like this: I play Monopoly, I win food, I order food, I am presented with a skill testing question. What? What is this little pop-quiz all about? Here I am, ready to sample the staple of the MacDee world with its ‘Big’, and the Master-in-training has surprised me with a math test. So now I’m doing math… so that I can eat McDonalds… something is not right here. It’s fishy and it’s not the Fillet O’ (do people buy that, the Fillet o’Fish, does anyone think That is a good idea?) So I answer this ‘question’, which is worthy of quotations because it is both an embarrassment to math and to the number 28.

42 - (6+8)… hmmm. If only I had brought my graphic calculator, or a set of marbles.

There are way too many things wrong with this scene for me to stay in the clouds. Bye for now you Caring Bears. I ‘play’ Monopoly, I win a prize, why am I playing a new game to try and win the same prize? I’m not playing these games for fun. They are miserable games. Monopoly at the best of times is just a big fight waiting to happen. And Math? That’s not even a real game. That’s learning. I don’t want to be learning when I go to McDonald’s. In fact I think I actually have a subconscious longing to become stupider when I go to McDonald’s. So what am I doing here?

By this time, my Happy Haze has evaporated and I am choking on the strangle hold that Stupidity has on me. Stupid Happens, and it’s happening right meow. The best part about the whole thing is that everyone, the MC Master, the Burger Chef Extrordinar, all the Wranglers, head of operations at the drive-thru window, the kid in the play-place trying to eat one of those balls in the sea of colour, Mr. Monopoly, me, we are all too half-witted to even realize the sluggishness of the corner-office brains behind this lost cause operation; I can feel them trying so desperately to flex their grey-matter. Nothing seems out of place to any of us. That is until I start thinking about what the Skill Testing Question is all about.

I launch into a rundown of possible explanations that might relieve some of the pressure on my soul from all the ‘game play’. Stupidity is tasking. As I worked my grade 2 math skills I decided to multitask and eliminate the most obvious options that were even too Stupid for our little Arches Adventure. I figured that this little math conquest couldn’t have anything to do with identity verification. There’s no limit to the number of times you can ‘win’, so there’s no need to keep track of who has claimed prizes. I briefly pictured myself as a really dominant MacDee participant, epically pulling Monopoly pieces off of Big Mac boxes, collecting an entire Extra Value Meal’s worth of freebee winnings and being surrounded by cheering employees and random people in the background riding large tricycles, doing cart-wheels, holding up neon signs that read ‘Jack for President… suck-it Obama… you too Kathy Griffin, cause I hate you, you’re not funny… at all’.

I kept running down the list: Was this to prove that you were indeed a human? Was there fine print that excluded Dogs and Park Benches? It can’t have anything to do with knowing simple algebra. There’s no prerequisite to eating fast food. It’s not like the assistant to the Drive-Thru Manager has a second job that gives him the power to confiscate your drink if you can’t divide the number of fries in your Large by the total number of flat disc shaped thingys in your double Royale with Cheese. Are they trying to make sure that all customers are smart enough to understand the risk they are entering into by eating this nutritious and delicious option? Is anyone on the planet still surprised that on the scale of ‘Broccoli to High-Fat-Plutonium’ a Number 1 combo is in the same food group as mercury-enriched-dirt and expired-bacon-fat? Was this part of the prize? ‘Hey, look at you, you won some more McDonald’s for yourself, here quick, keep your spirits high, do some Math!’

When I answered the question correctly the MC Master congratulated me and gave me a very rewarding smile. I smiled. It felt good. Hmmm, maybe I was on to something. Now not only was I about to get my prize but I was also a genius. 42 - (6+8) = 28, Yeah it does!!! I wondered what would have happened if I had got it wrong. Is it good enough for the employee to simply announce, “No, I’m sorry, but that is Not the correct answer, you got a Zero on this test, you have failed at the Skill Testing Question, and you have failed at life”. Humiliation can be quite powerful, especially when Stupid is happening. Would they deny your winnings? Is that what the Skill Testing Question is, a double or nothing? “So you’ve won a burger, now do you want to let it ride for a smile and a warm fuzzy feeling inside?” Did it matter at all? I suddenly wished that I had answered with the square-root of two, just to see what would happen.


(as an aside, how creepy is that dude? Ronald McDonald... he looks like a crazy person, a crazy person disguised as a murderer in a clown suit)

I stopped thinking and realized that some things are just beyond the realm of logic. Some things are neither built for speed nor strength. Some things are a riddle wrapped in a paradox on an imaginary IQ test written in invisible ink. I thought about one-handed clapping and trees falling in the forest when no one was around. Pompous questions. Just attempting to answer such a question makes you an imbecile. I left McDonald’s having accepted the fact that along with the ‘Caution: contents may be Hot’ warning on your Scalding cup of HOT coffee and the fact that on most alarm clocks the snooze button is snuggled right up against the Off button, the Skill Testing Question was one of those loop-holes in the universe that didn’t have to make sense.

Normally that story would be enough to give me a good old chuckle and remind me that La Vita E Bella, but things get better. A few days after I receive my 100% grade at McDonald’s, my nagging mind took me to Wikipedia:

“The combined effect of Sections 197 to 206 of the Criminal Code of Canada bans for-profit gaming or betting, with exceptions made for provincial lotteries, licensed casinos, and charity events. Many stores, radio stations, and other groups still wish to hold contests to encourage more purchases or increase consumer interest. These organizations take advantage of the fact that the law does allow prizes to be given for games of skill, or mixed games of skill and chance. In order to make the chance-based contests legal, such games generally have mathematical skill-testing questions incorporated.”

Well played Universe, well played indeed. Wikipedia went on to state that in order for these questions to be ‘Skill Testing’, a minimum of three numbers must used in the arithmetic exercise. And here I am thinking I’m being all clever and witty, when really I’m competing with the freakin Law to see who’s stupider.

So in the end I left my Stupid Happens event a little smarter than when I had gone in. Touché. On the one hand it’s nice to know that Math is not being used and abused, but on the other hand, I miss having this McDonald’s mystery hanging over my head torturing my love for logic and order. I guess I could always look into the raison d’être of Diet Soda (Don’t want to get fat? Want to be health? How about Stop drinking Soda, go on a real Diet, not a Soda diet).

Now, I know what you’re all thinking though, because I did this on purpose, ‘thank goodness he gave us the answer to that MC’s universal Skill Testing Question, cause after the brain battle involved with rationalizing the consumption of McDonald’s, my mind is in no state to be dealing with unsolved mysteries, let alone mathematics…’ So remember kids stay in school, Skill Testing Questions are fun, and the answer is 28.






















When Stupid Happens Brother-Neil and I get pretty Jazzed...

Find yourself a Holiday Romance

It started with a story about candy. That’s really all we cared about. There were conditions and rules and precautions, but we were 4, everything went very mwa-mwa-mwa a la Charlie-Brown after the mention of sweeties and bonbons.



By early grade school the ‘Costume’ had found some importance, and acted as an expression of one’s self. Don’t be too cute, or too classic, or too Not-Cool. We began to create and mastermind our costumes, or rather conduct our parents in the orchestrating of these outfits. The Day-Of became the show-and-tell of the year. Like most aspects of peer-to-peer childhood, we were judged. There was laughter, tears, fighting; all the usual good stuff that make the memories last.


Hop-skip-and-jump a few years to a time where there had always been cards and arts-and-crafts and orange-black construction paper accidents, but along with our graceful entrance into adolescence came the pride of decorations. It was no longer good enough to simply dress-to-impress, our house needed to join the masquerade ball. Cob-webs, lights, spookiness, ghoulishism, jack-o’s and stuff to go bump in the night; the haunting of your house was a chance at greatness.


As high school scarred the awkward and praised the popular, ‘Parties’ joined the scene replacing the treats with the tricks. Word of Captain-QB’s epic blowout would scorch the masses like wildfire, shuffling the priority of even the most academic’s to-do list. Whether it was the Grade-12-Royalty Rager or an Underground-Art-House Affair, our plans told a tale and our shindig shuffle was school gossip. They are the best years of your life, unless of course they are the worst.


Before we were too old to be young and after the retirement of the fake-ID, plans for The Night took precedent. Bars, clubs, house-parties, soirées, themed events, great galas, spectacles, festivals, fêtes, and grand celebrations were traded in our schedules like Pogs of the old school yards passed. It had to be the right venue, with the right friends, for the right price. Drinks, contests, music, and status were always priority when it came to evaluating the specs. There was also a resurgence in the impact of the Costume. Along with quality came ‘cleverness’ and ‘creativity’. The usual suspects were too easy when it came to the Costume, now more than ever ‘unique’, ‘topical’, and ‘fantastic’ were the goal.


When ‘Too-Old’ joined the equation, the cycle was reborn. We became the support-crew. The end of a second round of Hallowing from the ‘Tinny-Trick-or-Treater’ to the ‘Masked-Miscreant’ brought us to one of two characters: the Old-Recluse, with his dark ‘fun-is-bad’ house, offering candy of the kind that falls into either the ‘garbage’ category or the ‘none’ category, and the Old-Neighbour who juggles flavourful memories of costumes and chaos gone by as they fill the trickster with the treats. Unfortunately this late in the game the ‘Old-‘ is a guarantee.


It’s Legend, it’s Lore, it’s Christian history masked in Pagan Past. From its Celtic birth as the festival of Samhain to the eruption of décor that covers our calendar, October 31st is never a Sunday or Tuesday or any part of any day of any week, it’s always just Halloween.


So now I ask: What happened to you on the Eve of the All Hollows? Were you tricking for treats, carving up characters in pumpkins, pub-crawling, bar-brawling, finding frights in flicks in the dark, or did you drop the duties all together and power through another Saturday? Was October 31st simply the day before a new month of more of the same? I’ve always been intrigued by those who question a Holiday. Those who are above commercialization and don’t buy or sell the hype. I’ve wondered about the ‘whys’ and ‘what-fors’ that people use to criticize and condemn a good anniversary. It seems that no matter the celebration, the commemoration, the tradition, or the religion, there are always those who ignore and dismiss and battle the buzz of the day. Those who find fault in the fun. Those who argue and discuss and debate. Those who rain-on and wreck and pooh-pooh the parade. Those whose love is to hate and whose hate is the game.


I have worried that this misery is something that one develops, something that can’t be combated with the smiles and laughs that fuel me today. So with the hope of avoiding the ‘bitter’ that too often takes the lead in ‘bitter-old-man’, I have asked the question of myself: Why get wrapped up in a Holiday? And the answer for me is festive-universal.


St. Valentine’s Day has trouble recruiting Singles, Easter highlights the Christian calendar while trying to explain its Egg obsession, Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving are a month and a half apart, Christmas feels the pressure of its marathon run through November and December, and then there’s Memorial, Martin Luther King, Family, Victoria, Canada, Independence, Labour, Columbus, Remembrance, and Veterans, all wanting a Day, all wanting a card, a commercial, some calendar space, and some attention. So what? Who cares?! What day of the year doesn’t suffer from a little quirk here or a fault there? It’s easy to set up a platform and begin rhythm-and-rhyming off reasons why the tragedy is in the gift giving or the TV specials or the distractions that take away from the truth and the origin. But why? So that we curb the fun? So that we educate the Casual and demand ‘better’ from the Committed? Or is it so that we can ignore what we have created?


The complexity of the 21st century Holiday allows for so much more than a celebration for the target few. While Christmas is still the birth of Christ and St. Patrick’s remains the Irish’s Day for the Patron Saint, gifts and music and new tradition have opened up the calendar to allow for community. Devout Catholic? Celebrate Advent. Not Irish? You can still drink a green beer. To some it’s the harvest, to others it’s football, to many it’s a feast, and yet because of this acceptance, to everyone it’s Thanksgiving.


And it’s this flexibility that in itself should be celebrated. Give a valentine, sport the green, wear a poppy, haunt-up your house, and don’t just participate, enjoy it. Because it’s an excuse to find unity. In a time when a person can live for weeks without face to face interaction, sometimes a custom is exactly what we need to feel the warmth of connection. So when the countdown to December’s 25th crosses paths with a good Morning-After smashing of a pumpkin, I say embrace it. Let a holiday distract you from the 9-to-5. Feel free to plan ahead and get carried away. Take advantage of this world that encourages celebration. Because in the witty words of the wise Wilder, Van: “Don’t take life too seriously, or you won’t make it out alive… write that down”. So again I ask, ‘Why get wrapped up in a Holiday?’ easy, Why Not.


Here's hoping you had a Happy Halloween, will Remember Remembrance, are thankful that we give thanks, and get ready to prep for a New Year’s Eve 10-count with a little Christmas cheer or Chanukah happenings. I’m not condemning Grinchery or suggesting you bottle up your inner Scrooge, I’m saying harness the Whoever that your Holiday character is and don’t drive around the calendar without site-seeing a little.























Just a couple of crazy Cats that had an award-winning time at the Uptown's Halloween Howl.

the Saturday Night Out

It’s sort of like girls discovering the Urinal; the concept of the strange half toilet suspended on the wall is brought up and we, the Boy, are baffled that she, the Girl, doesn’t know about this magically appropriate situation. It’s not that we don’t understand how a girl wouldn’t be familiar with this washroom accessory, we get that a girl can’t pee standing up. The wonder and disbelief of the Urinal conversation is that we haven’t considered the unintentional secrecy of the Urinal. This brings me to the end of my metaphor. It should be noted that I find metaphors to be excessive and condescending for the most part. I love a good ‘tangent’ or ‘sub-plot’, but too often metaphors are a whole lot of song and dance used with the sole purpose of making the metaphor-master seem clever and witty and deep. Unless of course it is a toilet-metaphor, which there are all together too few of. So swap ‘girl’ for ‘adult’, replace ‘boy’ with ‘youth’, toss in the odd adjective battle like ‘responsible vs reckless’, ‘tame vs spontaneous’, and allow the ‘mystery of the Urinal’ to be the ‘unknown of the Saturday Night Out’.

I was asked what happens between the hours of Saturday Evening and that time after Saturday Night but before Sunday Morning. I’ll tell you what happens: Lessons are Learned. Sometimes these are profound discoveries like your ability to convince a large bartender that even though you are dressed up as a pirate you truly were looking for the washroom as you ran through the kitchen and not, as he so forcefully tries to make you believe, ‘causing trouble slash mischief’; sometimes they are survival skills such as don’t make eye-contact with that silent, pedophile-looking guy on the train, he is not your friend, even if he has candy; and on occasion they are life altering lessons that force you to re-evaluate your purpose and question your very existence; these are the open-bar Weddings… all of them. Most recently though, my brother and I added a few new gems to our Rule Book of Fun which highlight the shenanigans that are bound to happen when you leave your house on a Saturday Night.


I didn’t actually find brother-Neil until about 9:30. His story involves ‘Girls Hockey’, ‘Slow Service at Restaurants’, and ‘Not Enough Drinks’. (As an aside for those not familiar with the terminology: ‘Girls Hockey’ is much like ‘Hockey’, or ‘Normal Hockey’, but with a variety of strange alterations to the sport – no hitting, a female version of the Jock which may or may not be call the Jill, and very low scoring, sometimes no scoring at all, for several games - and girls play this the same way that boys and men play Normal Hockey). My story starts by missing a ride that was never offered to me until it was too late. There were tears, fingers were pointed, enemies, friends-off, and then on, and then off again, all kinds of new promises were made and a bunch of ‘I’m sorrys’ were tossed around, all of which have now been stuffed in a sac. I took the train. Someone once told me that taking the train by yourself is very Zen, an excellent opportunity to reflect on your life and quietly take a break from the fast pace of society. This person was an idiot. Taking the train by yourself is creepy and weird and terrible. So I was more than happy to distract myself from the 'character' of the Calgary LRT by responding to a text from friend-Will asking me where I was. ‘Training it down town to Melrose. Are you guys still heading to Amsterdam Rhino tonight?’ I had barely sent the text when my phone started to cry out with its Crank Ringtone that makes it sound like the cell is dying; it’s a fan favourite, it turns heads. It is Will.

“Where on the train are you?” This is a level of creepy that I don’t expect to find on the train even when the pedophile-looking guy is having a staring contest with my youthful visage.

I do that thing that people do on TV when they think they are being watched, before dramatically asking Will if he can see me. Turns out that I am on the same train as Will and his droogs, but I’m two cars back. The train stops at the next station, I dart on to the platform, race passed the opened doors, dodge the crowds that hate the train as much as I do, and slip into the first car as the doors are closing (I assure you, it was a cool move, very athletic/super-spy). We talk about the things that we talk about, laugh and cackle at good stories, and then get into the abstract art of Saturday Night Planning where times are vague, locations are fluid, and nothing is ever certain. My stop comes; I almost miss it because I’m telling a story that involves re-enactments, hand gestures, impersonations and what-not. I try to appease they’re protests of me ‘bailing’ with a promise that I will catch up with Will and the droogs later. They don’t believe me, pretend to be mad, and forget that there was ever a problem before the train has pulled away. My current mission is a birthday.


I walk down 17th avenue, which takes about 15 minutes and reinforces 2 of my already favourite Rules: 1) it’s Calgary, wear a jacket, 2) if people look ‘strange and scary’ it’s cause they are, avoid them, always. Melrose is packed but it’s a good packed, it’s full of beautiful people drinking fabulous drinks while either pretending to be interested in what someone is saying while watching sports, or pretending to be interested in sports while watching what the beautiful people are saying. If you’re not pretending, you’re not trying hard enough. The birthday boy is working on the Trinity of Drunk: Not-Puking, Not-Falling, Not-Falling-in-Puke. So I buy him a drink. I mingle, I socialize, I pretend to be interested in a few people while watching people pretending to be interested in sports. I find my sister about the same time Neil arrives from his Girls-Hockey-Dinner-Out extravaganza. We spend more time together chatting at the bar than we have all week… we live together… it’s funny, kind of sad, and special all at the same time… a few people make the ‘awwwwww’ sound towards us. 10 o’clock rolls around, the birthday boy has already disappeared twice, and I have ordered myself a second pint. Neil and I discuss something that would later force us to create an important rule; we plan to leave Melrose and find Will and his droogs at Amsterdam Rhino. We don’t know it yet, but this is all kinds of bad-plan.
























Neil and I walk six blocks off the High of people not wanting us to leave Melrose. We locate Rhino. I think I’m being funny by saying ‘Is it the place with the massive line-up? Haha hahaha ha ha haha’. Although the line-up isn’t more than ten feet passed the door we know we are in trouble. Line-ups are bad. Line-ups are like the night club equivalent of that progress-bar at the bottom of your internet page; sure the ‘progress’ looks good, but that last millimeter of unfinished download is going to eat away at your soul… this of course only ever happens when you are on your laptop in the stall of a public washroom… there, it’s okay, it’s a Toilet-Metaphor, it works. Stupid metaphors, now they’re showing up in my writing. Neil and I are optimistic, it’s 10:40ish (all times during a Saturday Night Out involve the ‘ish’ quality) and we’re ready to Combo-Up the night with our second ‘event’. Combo-Ups; More bad ideas.

Our fatal flaw is obvious. And if you are at all familiar with the ways of the Night Life you will know that we were doomed from the start. We, Neil and I, have no boobs. And no-boobs, is not even close to the number of boobs one needs to get into a ‘Hot Spot’ after 10pm on a Saturday. So keeping in mind the lack of boobage that Neil and I are trying to work with, we came up with two new favourites: 1) Where ever you are at 10pm on a Saturday Night Out is a good place to stay, and 2) Don’t be greedy, don’t try to Combo-Up on a Saturday Night Out.
























We waited in line. We waited in line for a long time. Here’s the thing about ‘Waiting’, and it’s not just for Line-Waiting, it’s for all kinds of waiting, no one will ever compliment, reward, or compensate you for ‘Good Waiting’. Neil and I waited the hell out of that Line-up. We didn’t push-or-shove, we didn’t heckle randoms, we didn’t throw things, or pee on walls, we just stood in line, shot shit with other Line-Waiters, and dreamed of a time when we could be inside the bar and not outside the bar. No rewards.













When you stand in line for as long as Neil and I did you see things and learn things that you just can’t get your hands on anywhere else. For example: a twenty-something aspiring Darwin-Award winner hanging out of the window of a neighboring pub with a beer asking if he could join us in the line. It should be noted that a bouncer almost killed this individual. Another tid-bit of knowledge that I can share: Don’t be tall. In a line-up being tall is a bad thing, especially when happy drunk people start to sober up and add frustration and rowdiness to their toolbox of stupid. For some reason I was surrounded by short people who kept taunting cops and yelling at crazy-eyed bouncers and hating on brown people. Inevitably when the cops shone their flash lights, the bouncer enthusiastically geared up for a pummeling, and the non-white anyones looked to start stabbing, I was the lightening rod that everyone was drawn to. This is how good people, who want nothing but happiness, love, rainbows, and butterflies get there situation all screwed up. Don’t be tall.

Other guidelines to follow:

1) Bouncers hate their job, the world, and anyone who tries to convince them that someone should be let in. Don’t joke with them, smile near them, or look in their direction. In fact don’t look at them ever, ever, ever, ever… ever, Ever. (There are exceptions to this rule, but the consequence of misinterpreting an ‘exception’ and engaging with one of these physical beasts is a one-way ticket to Pain-Oh-the-Pain-I-hate-my-life-kind-of-PAIN.)

2) Only make fun of a girl if you are flirting with her, or if you want to compete with the Pain-Oh-the-Pain-I-hate-my-life-kind-of-PAIN option. Definitely don’t call them Fat, Drunk, Trashy, Whorish, or Fat – I wanted to emphasize that one.

3) If you fart blame it on the Line-Jackass (he who breaks all the Line Waiting Rules), no one will question this, they hate him as much as the train and the being-outside-a-club.

4) If you ‘Budge’, ‘Bud’, ‘Cut’, or are sneaky in anyway AND get caught, your Facebook Statues will read: Fucked! ‘So-and-so is Fucked!’ Or ‘So-and-so is totally Fucked!’ I’m not saying don’t, I’m just saying it’s a little more dangerous than steal home plate.

5) If you are with girls, stay with them. They are your Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Golden Ticket into anywhere and everywhere. If you are girl-less, find some girls, befriend them, and let their powers/boob-count get you in the club. Don’t be picky here, we’re not talking Marriage, or Relationships, or even bad-dance-floor decisions, this is all business so man up and cozy up to a Swamp Donkey if you have to.

6) Road Pops are good. Again you can’t be Mad Men about it and advertise your beverage, because not only will the Bouncers smile at you about the chance to unleash the ass-kicking they have been bottling up all night, but The Beverage is the most valuable thing in a Line-up Wait, aside from boobs of course.

Actually, I have polled the audience in several line-ups about the idea of selling drinks to the Line and the average outside-the-bar person would be willing to spend anywhere from $7 to $10 for a beer. I’m just the idiot who stood in line for an hour and a half to get into a dying party in an okay club for two drinks where a 6 tried what I can only assume was a sub-par pick-up attempt on me, but I think there is some serious un-tapped revenue waiting to be had by the first bar to liquor license a 10 foot line-shaped area just outside their door. Who knows though, I just stand in the line. I did feel bad about the 6. She gave it a go, and came at me with all kinds of confidence, and I really only rewarded her efforts with some pleasant convo and a little wit à-la-Jack. It should be noted that most people are not in the market for ‘pleasant convo’ and ‘wit’ when they are at a Night Club. They want something else, a ‘something else’ that is usually ‘ass’ related, or involves the verb ‘grind’, or ends with ‘digits’, ‘a bad decision’, and/or ‘regrets’.

Neil and I were 5 minutes from leaving the front of the line and going home. We had spent the last hour figuring that we were only 5 minutes from getting in. Queue the internet progress-bar and all the side-order of hate that comes with it. We couldn’t decide if a story that involved ‘waiting in line for 2 hours’ or one that ended with ‘…and even though we were at the front of the line, we left’ was more depressing. 3 and a half minutes later we were showing our IDs to a Bouncer we wouldn’t dream of making eye-contact with, and giving the rest of the line that ‘yeah, that’s right, we’re getting in’ stare.






We left Amsterdam Rhino forty minutes later, so that we could catch the last southbound train, and avoid the pricy disaster that is a Calgary Cab ride from down town to the So Cal Suburbs. We agreed that our precious Rhino 40 was well worth the wait; not because of the attention deficit DJ and his 20-30 second samplings that messed with your mind, or the over-priced domestic bottles, or the serious lack of CW-style beauty, or even the escape from the cold. The Rhino 40 was great because of the drunk middle aged man in a dress who slapped my ass not once but twice, and because of the glorious game that one of the droogs poured on a dance-floor hottie who had a boyfriend who couldn’t stop her from giving the droog her number, and because of the group of guys who thought they should dance shirtless on a stage (they shouldn’t and couldn’t, but did), and because it meant that Neil and I had defeated the Line, made the Combo-Up happen, and found our friends in time to be considered ‘Hard-Core’, ‘Committed’, ‘Troopers’, and many other badass titles that you can only really earn on a Saturday Night Out. When we left, nothing had changed with the outside-the-Bar scene; it was still Bouncers vs Line-Waiters vs the Chaos of the Uncertainties of the Night. Walking out it, and knowing that it was all a disaster that I no longer had to deal with… beautiful sight. But oddly enough, I already kind of missed that mess.






























We trained it south, and with each stop a few more late night characters faded into their own tired darkness. Our stop came. Neil and I saluted Will and the droogs and committed to more future-mayhem. We walked home recapping the night’s highlight real and talked about what we had learned today. If you’re good, these Lessons and Rules become part of your subconscious, and you dominate the Saturday Night Out. If you’re bad, you are bound to litter your Saturday Night with cruel experiences of vomitous, the beat-down, tears and fears, encounters with Crazies, and a whole allotment of still to be discovered trouble. It's the uncertainty of the spontaneous that makes up more than half the adventure, and that is why I am always more than happy to wander out into the night with nothing more than a hunger for the unknown that lies between the hours of Saturday Evening and that time after Saturday Night but before Sunday Morning. And between the 'Good' and the 'Bad', I am definitely a Lesson Learner.


... and this past Saturday that was what I learned. What have you learned today?

Special thanks to the iPhone for it's conviently blurry action shots of Will, the droogs, brother-Neil, the sister, the birthday boy, and your Hero/Super-Spy...

Tarantino and his Basterds

Lt. Aldo Raine: Each and every man under my command owes me one hundred Nazi scalps... and I want my scalps!

It’s Friday Night, the late show has reeled over with ovations, and you haven’t watched the new QT flicker. That’s just not right. You and I both are very disappointed in you; the Basterds aren’t going to watch themselves. Tarantino has had a hand in creating some of the best movies in the last fifteen years, but that might be too bold a claim to convince you that crawling through the crowds on opening night was a Must. The true guarantee is in Mr. Band-Apart’s ability to deliver cinematic riches through the good and the bad of his tall tales. Maybe Jackie Brown wasn’t the follow up to the Pulp that your anticipation had prepared you for, but it would be a full time challenge for even the heavy haters to label the film a total waste; we got to meet Sammy J’s Ordell Robbie, “AK-47. The very best there is. When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherf&*ker in the room, accept no substitutes.” Perhaps Part 1 of the Bride was too much action-samurai and ketchup gore for your inner dialogue-junkie. Perhaps then, it was Part 2’s quotable casual rhymes that made Killing Bill an ’03-’04 movie magic memory. But perhaps still, the Tarantino double header was exactly what your Uma Sword-Swinging, Madsen Mad-Mouth heart desired. Budd: “That gentled ya down some. Ain't nobody a badass with a double dose of rock salt that deep in their tits. Not havin tits as fine or big as yours, I can't even imagine how bad that shit must sting... yet I don't want to, neither.” (the Bride spits blood into Budd's face. He wipes it away and returns the favor with a long, foul stream of tobacco juice) Budd: “I win.” Was Natural Born Killers too deep a look into the dark recesses of QT’s mind? Was his penmanship on True Romance too true for your romantic? Did you part ways with from Dusk ‘Till Dawn when the sun went down? Yes, yes, no. No, no, absolutely. Y-E-S across the board. The answers are irrelevant because even if it’s not the masterpiece that his Reservoir Dogs were, every one of his written, produced, directed films has genius working for it. And Inglourious Basterds is no different. With the grit of the Dogs, the destruction of Death Proof, Kill Bill’s revenge, Jackie B’s collection of character, and the style and swagger of the Pulp, Quentin Tarantino’s 6th gift directed towards our big screens is exactly what the QT Club needed; a taste of his Old, enough that is New, his patented Borrowed, and triumph for the Jew.

The following are not reasons to see the movie opening night, you screwed that up already, these are the montage segments that after-shocked me into knowing a second vidé of the Basterds was in my future.

Brad Pitt – As Lt. Aldo Raine Pitt is both charming and hilarious while offering all who cross his path a hypnotic southern magnetism followed by some clever violence. It takes only a few short scenes before Pitt’s mere presence on the screen draws out a chuckle, a charge, and a cheer from the audience / Basterds-in-Training. Plus he’s sporting a strong swagger to go with that badass mustache.

Lt. Aldo Raine: You probably heard we ain't in the prisoner-takin' business; we in the killin' Nazi business. And cousin, Business is a-boomin'.

the Bear Jew – The simple fact that these Basterds have managed to develop a reputation worthy of such titles as ‘the Bear Jew’, is enough credibility in my books. Known to the Germans for wielding his blood spattered baseball bat in the direction of Nazi skulls, Sgt. Donny Donowitz brings a special brand of crazy to the band. It could be his post ‘at bat’ commentary, or his unique ability to provide a touch of entertainment for his fellow brothers, it could be his unwavering love of those special moments between ‘healthy captured Nazi’, and ‘f&@ked up pile of mess’, or it could be all of the above that make the Bear Jew a first team all-star Basterd. And who better to animate this instant Tarantino classic than the master of Gorror Films himself, the sick and twisted Eli Roth (director of such elegant carve-up Horror flicks as the ‘Hostel’ outings and 'Cabin Fever').

Lt. Aldo Raine: I need to know about Germans hiding in trees. And you need to tell me right now.
Sgt. Werner Rachtman: I respectfully refuse, sir.
Lt. Aldo Raine: Actually, Werner, we're all tickled to hear you say that. Quite frankly, watching Donny beat Nazi's to death is the closest we ever get to going to the movies.
[shouts offscren]
Lt. Aldo Raine: Donny!
Sgt. Donny Donowitz: [from offscreen] Yeah?
Lt. Aldo Raine: Got us a German here wants to die for country. Oblige him.

Col. Hans Landa – Those sneaky Germans have been hiding Christopher Waltz. Buried deep within local Mini Series and trapped in the bodies of tertiary TV characters, the mastermind behind Col. Landa was a surprise inside a secret (the surprise: Christopher Waltz is a Trophy caliber actor, the secret: Landa is the star of this film). Like the ‘Jew Hunter’ that Waltz danced across the movie as, Tarantino hunted down this veiled talent and added another treasured personality to his long list of Mr. Pinks, Stuntman Mikes, and ‘the Man from Hollywood’s’ Chester (who I have a sneaking suspicion is Tarantino himself, played perfectly by Tarantino himself). Col. Hans Landa battles and wins every scene he’s in and doesn’t waste a word as he works his mesmerizing hypnotics.

Col. Hans Landa: What a tremendously hostile world that a rat must endure. Yet not only does he survive, he thrives. Because our little foe has an instinct for survival and preservation second to none... And that Monsieur is what a Jew shares with a rat.

the jagged, rusty Edge of Classic Tarantino – From the rich and vivid characters that wander around the film, to the teasing Chapter titles that divie up the movie, to the gor-tastic violence that flirts with the amusing idea of Unnecessary, Quentin smears the screen with a new twist on his unique brand of Awesome. It’s QT’s take on the War Film, and along with the brainy dialogue, mild to extreme flavors of ‘offensive’, and energized ridiculousness that true fans of his work have come to need, there’s a great patients to his telling of the crisscrossing tales that draws you in with a new curiosity. Plus there’s scalping, which I’m surprised Quentin Tarantino hasn’t worked into any of his previous cinematic quests.

[Maj. Hellstrom aims his Walther at Lt. Hicox's genitals under a table]
Major Dieter Hellstrom: That was the sound of my Walther pointed right at your testicles.
Lt. Archie Hicox: Why is your Walther pointed right at my testicles?
Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz: Because you are no more German than that Scotch.
[Lt. Hicox quietly aims his gun]
Lt. Archie Hicox: That makes two of us.
[Sgt. Stiglitz comes up behind Maj. Hellstrom and aggressively forces his gun into Maj. Hellstrom's crotch]
Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz: That makes three of us.

Hitler, the SS, and killing ‘Natzees’ – How can the suits allow QT to let his Basterds run rampant all over the big screen? You fill the opposition’s roster with a bunch of Nazi Pons, give them SS loaded special teams, and toss Adolf behind the bench. There’s no wavering, no one is questioning the actions of these lunatic Basterds, and the complaint boxes are empty. Nazis are getting invited to the big hurt and it’s a smile. The bottom line is, we are not confused about who we, as an audience, are rooting for. Nazis are bad, Basterds are killing them, we the spectator are happy.

Adolf Hitler: [slamming his hand on a table] Nein nein nein nein nein nein!

Strong QT Soundtrack – No one does movie music like this guy. Tarantino allowed for the soundtrack to distract from the film, which distracted from the actors, which distracted from the cinematography, which distracted from the story, which distracted from the soundtrack, which left the entire experience continually challenging itself to be better. Movie capitalism at its very best. From German show-tunes, to secrets from his dusty record collection, to carefully composed journeys that compared the honor of war with the heroics of the Western, every track that Tarantino laid across his footage gave power to the film. Only Quentin Tarantino is able to release Soundtracks so good that labels make compilations of his OSTs (the Tarantino Connection is without a doubt the greatest Soundtrack of Soundtracks… or the only Soundtrack of Soundtracks… either way, it’s worth a listen).










the Basterds – It’s who you came to see and they’re as Inglourious as you could hope for. It’s an all-star team of soldiers with a deep bond that unites them like a family. Sure they may be a family of American-Jews highly skilled in the art of killing the Nazi, but every family has their own little quirks. Your average Basterd isn’t much of a talker, but instead emits a persona that is equal parts ‘Unstable’, ‘Bat-Shit Crazy’, and ‘Lovable’. You want to be their friends, but at the same time you’re afraid they might use your body as a back-country snowboard. These guys are why they make sequels.

Lt. Aldo Raine: [the Basterds are breaking Sgt. Stiglitz out of jail] Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz?
[Sgt. Stiglitz nods]
Lt. Aldo Raine: Lt. Aldo Raine. These are the Basterds, ever heard of us? [Sgt. Stiglitz nods]
Lt. Aldo Raine: We just wanted to say we're a big fan of your work. When it comes to killing Nazis...
Nazi Guard: Uggghhhhaahhh
[one of the Basterds shoots him]
Lt. Aldo Raine: -I think you show great talent. And I pride myself on having an eye for that kind of talent. Your status as a Nazi killer is... still amateur. We all come here to see if you wanna go pro...










an Auditorium full of Tarantino Fanatics – Friday night, 7pm, only hours after the first projector has warmed up, there is no way any seat is being occupied by a non-fan. No one is wandering in mispronouncing Tarantino or wondering why there are only 3 scattered seats available with a half hour ‘till curtains up. This is a quality sell out. The air is charged with an energy fueled by everything from the first Basterd teaser poster to the ten second radio clip that has nearly caused accidents. And by the time the masses have reached the cinema door start-gate, the excitement has grown into a mild frenzy. Quotes from the trailer are floating around the packed house, people are watching their favourite Mr. Blonde scene on iPhones, last minute production rumors are being discussed as everyone crams for the main event. This is the audience you were meant to watch the film with. This is the audience that will back you up when you laugh at the sick sadistic line that never should have made it passed the censors. This is the audience that will cheer when the Bear Jew takes his first swing. This is the audience that will kick out new classic quotes before the end credits have even stopped rolling. You know this is the audience that QT made his movie for. They can provide the mid-movie comment that adds to the scene, they will start the applause during the fade-to-black, they certainly appreciate those secret details that only the trained Tarantino follower can spot. It’s these fanatics that bring the movie to the next level, allowing it to penetrate through the screen. And it’s these fanatics that have been suffering through the release date countdown long enough, so jazzed for the opening credits that they can’t plan for life again until after the Friday reveal. These people take their watching as seriously as QT takes his making.

the Bad
- It’s only 2 and a half hours… I wanted more, so much more!
- With such Nazi-killing success, there will be no Part 2 for the Basterds... did somebody say Prequel though...
- It will now be cliché to carve swastikas into the foreheads of captured Nazi’s













‘Mixed Reviews’, ‘Box Office Numbers’, ‘Word of Mouth’, these are all fancy little categories that can sidetrack you from truly absorbing all the Basterds’ goodness. It breaks down like this: you should watch it, you should Big-Screen-it, and if you’re able to research it then you can unlock it, but that doesn’t matter because whether you catch it at the Theatre or not, you can be damn sure that QT will load up a Blu-Ray full of action-packed issues. The bottom line is, I loved it, and now you don’t need to read anymore reviews.

















A Few Extras…

Marcel: What are we talking about?
Shosanna Dreyfus: Filling the cinema with Nazis and burning it to the ground.
Marcel: I'm not talking about that. You're talking about that.

Sgt. Donny Donowitz: We punch those goons out, take their machine guns, and burst in there blasting!

Col. Hans Landa: [to a bound and blindfolded Lt. Aldo] You are now in the hands of the SS.
[raises hands in a dramatic manner]
Col. Hans Landa: My hands, to be exact.

Sgt. Hugo Stiglitz: Say "auf Widersehen" to your Nazi balls!