Category Archives: Stories

March 13, 2015

And The Paranoia Begins…..

By Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants

I went out for a beer last night with a friend of mine. One of those friends who you share old stories with, and then near the end of the night when you start doing the math, you realized that most of the things you talked about happened more than half your life ago which makes you feel old and weird. Nevertheless, these little beer nights seem few and far between for whatever reason, and the last thing I wanted was for either of us to get killed, but I’ll get to that later.

We’re at a bar that I’ve been to a few times before. One of the best beer selections I’ve seen, and they keep the pricing very reasonable considering the rarity of some of the beers they have. Great beer, low price is a fantastic business model if you ask me. I’ll give them all the money I can spare. The food wasn’t as good as I’d remembered, but you can’t have it all. The waitress was cute, and did a good job answering our questions. We had a nice spot right near the front of the restaurant beside a window. Life was good, and we were having a good time catching up, when the paranoia sets in.

A guy in his mid 50s comes in with a sandwich board looking sign over his shoulders that says “What Is Love?” He stands right near the front door, which is basically right near us. I’m waiting to see what sort of disturbance he’s going to cause. We were in downtown Toronto, which is really safe by large urban metropolis standards, but there are still quite a few weirdos out there, and on a scale of 1 to 10 in terms of weird parts of town, this bar was located between 8.5 and 9. At first I thought maybe this guy was homeless, but with the sign and all, he’s clearly got a bee in his bonnet. Perhaps he’s protesting something. Or maybe he’s selling flowers. He took the sign off his shoulders to take a little rest. I didn’t see any flowers under there. Have you ever had someone sell you flowers in a restaurant? Not on a Wednesday. He seemed like he was waiting for someone, but he didn’t grab a table (it was seat yourself). Then he went outside for a second. Not for a cigarette, just to do it. Then he came back in and stood. Near our table no less. All of which caused my friend and I to have the following conversation which I sort of remember sounding like this…….

Me: Do you see this guy?
Him: Yeah. What is Love?
Me: Baby don’t hurt me….don’t hurt me….no more….(you won’t get that unless you’re between 38 and 43, so let’s move on)
Him: What do you think?
Me: I think we’re gonna get stabbed. This is the beginning of Fisher King all over again.
Him: Yeah, you might be onto something. Although he doesn’t look too crazy. More like a recluse.
Me: I know. Those are the ones. The ones that look really crazy get arrested more often because people see it coming. This guy? What is Love? Nobody will see it coming, and then on the news the police will be all mystified. The neighbors will be like ‘he was so quiet’.
Him: Should we get our next round somewhere else?
Me: I don’t know. Let’s wait it out for a bit. I’ve still got half a beer left. It’s really good. Do you want a sip?
Him: Sure. Why is he carrying the sign around? Was there a march we didn’t know about? What is he protesting?
Me: He’s protesting happiness man…. He’s gonna off everybody in here that looks happy, and he’s gonna start with us.
(Waitress approaches…..by now the guy has taken a seat, but he’s facing us, and he’s opened a laptop)
Me: Oh, hey…..
Waitress: Do you guys want another beer?
Him: Uhh we’re just debating that right now. We’re kind of concerned that the guy behind you with the sign is going to open fire on the entire restaurant. What’s with that sign?
Waitress: I know, right? He’s been in here before, I think he’s waiting for somebody.
Me: I feel like there’s a button on that computer that is going to blow up this entire street if he presses it, and he’s just deciding whether to or not.
Waitress: I’m pretty sure he’s harmless.
Me: Lower your voice, he might be the type that could hear a pin drop from a mile away. We might be one ill-advised comment away from getting it…… In the meantime, bring us 2 more.
Waitress: OK. (Leaves)
Him: So, what are we going to do if the shit goes down? At least we’re close to the exit.
Me: Keep your bottle within reach.
Him: Maybe we should change the subject.

So the story ends like this…… This fairly attractive black lady comes in and she has to be 15 years younger than him. She gives him a full on kiss on the mouth, picks up the sign even, and walks with him toward the back of the bar where there was more privacy. I debated whether to include her race because it doesn’t matter, but I do think it adds to the ‘that was the very last thing I was expecting’ vibe of the story. She seemed as normal as can be. There were guys in their 20’s in this bar whose dates weren’t nearly as attractive, but she came for this strange older dude with a sandwich board strapped to him. I always think I’ve seen it all. When the waitress came around I asked what they were drinking. Him tea, and her tequila neat. I should have bought them a round just to hear their story. I’ll bet it’s fascinating.

I don’t know how this whole thing reads for someone who doesn’t know me. I really wasn’t overly concerned, but was more just having jokes with my buddy. That said, there’s always some element of truth. I was staying mentally prepared just in case this guy was a psycho, because you NEVER know. On the opposite end of my learnings, the theme of not judging a book by its cover was present here as it always seems to be in life.

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October 17, 2014

He Didn’t Know

By Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants

My father died this day 2 years ago. When he woke up in the morning that day, he didn’t know it would be his last day. When the alarm clock went off, he didn’t know it would be the last time he’d listen to CFRB talk radio. When he had his last breakfast, and his last cup of morning tea, he had no idea they would be his last. When he did his morning routine, and picked out a suit for the day, and consulted his wife on which tie to wear, he didn’t know that was the last suit he’d wear. When his wife read him my blog, and he laughed his ass off (thank goodness it was one of my better ones), he didn’t know that would be the last one he’d ever read. When he kissed his wife good-bye and told her what time he would be home for dinner, he didn’t know he wouldn’t be home for dinner, or that he wouldn’t see her again. When he drove his car to the train station and found the most ridiculous parking spot outside of a Tim Horton’s, that was nowhere near the station parking lot, he didn’t know that less than 12 hours later a priest would be driving me around for over an hour trying to find that car (unsuccessfully).

As his excitement mounted for the birth of my son, his first grandchild, due to arrive the following day, he didn’t know he would never get to meet him in person. He really didn’t know that a year later, his daughter would provide a second grandchild. When he saw us for the last time for a family dinner a few days prior, he didn’t know it would be the last one. When he went golfing for the last time, he didn’t know that it would be. The last ballgame he watched, the last restaurant he ate at, the last time he went to church, the last time he drove up to his hometown. He did all of those things, and entered all of those places with the same smile and enthusiasm that he’d always had. He didn’t know.

Sad.

Here are a few other things he didn’t know. He never knew loneliness or abandonment. He was well-loved, and a very popular guy. He never experienced the kind of disease and illness that take many lives in such a slow, painful and unforgiving way. He died fairly quickly, without a lot of advance notice. In a lot of ways it was a blessing. He died handsome in a suit, and a lot of people aren’t fortunate enough to go out like that. While trying to cope with this I’ve always reminded myself that I don’t think I would have liked to see him deteriorate. To have some extra time with him, would it have been worth it? Probably. I really wish he got to see his grandchildren, but not if it meant that he would be too sick to enjoy them. Not my call though.

What if he knew all of these things? When he was going to die approximately. When he would experience all of these ‘lasts’. Would it have been better? Would he have enjoyed those moments any more? Or would they have just been filled with incredible sadness and grief. Who knows? I just instinctively feel like somehow I was lucky to have as much time with him as I did, but without having to watch it all fall apart slowly. I kind of like that the last time I saw him didn’t feel like the last time.

10 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Stories, Uncategorized

October 1, 2014

Dear Ndugu

By Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants

You either get the reference or you don’t. There was a movie called ‘About Schmidt’ that starred Jack Nicholson, in which he played a retired/widowed man who goes on a journey to visit his daughter, and attend her wedding. As per usual, Jack plays this character brilliantly. Without getting into the nuts and bolts of the plot and spoiling it for whoever hasn’t seen it, Schmidt has an orphan in Africa that he sends money to. He occasionally sends a letter to this orphan chronicling his life over the last few weeks, how it’s falling apart, and other 1st world problems. It always starts in that classic Jack voice saying ‘Dear Ndugu’ which gets a laugh every time. It’s mostly the editing, and how they drop it in that makes it funny, so if you don’t get it, don’t worry, you had to be there.

Is this a movie review? No. Just a lead in. Something that’s been on my mind lately is that I happen to support a child in Africa as well. (We’ll use the name Ndugu to protect the innocent.) I never talked about it much. If I were to bring it up, it would seem like I was fishing for compliments. I feel a little strange about it to be honest. The main reason I did it is because when I worked downtown, I walked past people who worked for this organization pretty much every day. It seemed like a good campaign, and I respected the people out there every day trying to get people to sign up, but at the end of the day, I just wanted a coffee, not another commitment. I walked past them for a year. I never stopped to talk. I just kept it moving and avoided eye contact. They were always smiling and upbeat. They took rejection very well. One day I succumbed to their charms. I stopped and listened. They started telling me about all the horrible shit happening in certain parts of the world. This is information that I typically avoid, because it makes me feel shitty, and there’s not much I can do to change it. This guy asked how much my coffee cost me. Then he did the whole, ‘for less than a cup of coffee a day……’ routine. I knew what it was. It was my turn to pay the tax. I don’t think I had done enough for others up to this point. I’d always wanted to, but there was always a reason (good or bad) why I didn’t. Here I was. In a fortunate enough position that I could probably afford it. What was I buying when I pulled out my Visa? I was buying a feeling. A feeling that I had done something good. It wasn’t as much about medication or clean water (although I hoped my cup of coffee a day would buy lots of that for somebody), but like a lot of people whether they like to admit it or not, I was paying money to lessen the guilt that I feel for being fortunate in life.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. My wife comes into the room with an envelope from the organization that handles this arrangement. She asks if I’m ever going to open any of these envelopes. I usually don’t. I give the money so I don’t have to think about it. I don’t want to know about some other part of the world that needs help, or read the heartbreaking statistics of the area in South Sudan where the child I support is, or that they really encourage us to write letters to the children we support, and how much that means to them. Am I not stressed out enough by my own life?

She opens the envelope. Sigh!

Did you know? Girls in the South Sudan are twice as likely to die in pregnancy or childbirth as they are to finish primary school? 45% of people do not have clean drinking water? Many children die of preventable diseases like diarrhea!! Awful.

The envelope also contains a postcard. Another reminder that I should just be a man and write a letter. It’s not that I couldn’t, or don’t have the time, but it signifies a further emotional committment that I don’t know if I want to make. My wife reminds me that I “write a blog for god’s sake, so it’s not like you don’t know how to write!” How hard can it be? My dad used to write me postcards all the time. Everywhere he went, he’d buy a postcard and write to me. Probably just so I could see a picture of where he was at. They were short and sweet. He did this, he saw that, doing this tomorrow, see you soon, Love Dad. I could do that! What would I say though? That a kid suffering through poverty would want to hear? Should I talk about how excited I got when I found this awesome Belgian beer at the Liquor store that I’ve been searching for ages for? Should I talk about the awesome meals I’ve had recently? How living in an air-conditioned building, and driving a car are awesome? They don’t want to hear that!!!

How about how just about every moment in my life that I complain about, would potentially be one of the most amazing moments in their life?

Then like a ton of bricks, it hit me. It brought me perspective that I hope I am able to carry with me every day for the rest of my life. It’s helped me at home, at work, and everywhere in between. I realized that my life IS amazing. I remind myself of this when I start complaining about dumb things. Am I starving? Do I have clean water? Yes? Then perhaps this lineup I’m standing in isn’t so bad, right?? I’ve been preaching this to anyone that will (or has to) listen. What did you complain about today? Something inconvenienced you? Would Ndugu think it was inconvenient? No?? Then you probably shouldn’t either. Strangely, this is making me a happier person. I do feel guilty that I now constantly have to reference Ndugu to remind me how none of my problems are really all that problematic at the end of the day. Not compared to what Ndugu goes through. Every moment of my life that I’m fortunate to have is an absolute blessing.

Ndugu has provided perspective for me. I will thank Ndugu with a postcard that reads like this……..

Dear Ndugu,

Greetings from Canada! I hope this letter finds you well. I want you to know that your life, both triumphs and struggles, are an inspiration to us here. We are wishing you the best, and cheering you on in all of your pursuits. You will be in our thoughts and prayers always.
Be good 🙂

Love,
Your Canadian Family!!

2 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Humor, Stories, Uncategorized

August 1, 2014

Oh, I Know What You’re Thinking About

By Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants

I went to the grocery store on a Friday. Not as bad as a Saturday or a Sunday, but not as good as a Monday through Thursday. I don’t mind the grocery store as long as it’s completely empty, or almost at least. I like food. It’s people I don’t necessarily like. That sounds harsh. People are OK I guess, but when they are pushing shopping carts I find them completely intolerable. Friday it seemed like everyone got paid, and left work early to stock up the refrigerator for whatever weekend madness they have planned. Perhaps that’s what people were also thinking about as they meandered through the aisles aimlessly with their shopping carts, and made perfectly sure that there were no available spaces for the functional humans who might actually have other things to accomplish this day to maneuver through.

Starting with my man who walks up to the cart line to grab his cart, and stops in front of it to read a text message. Don’t get your cart and pull it over somewhere first!!! Read that message now! Make haste! No, it’s OK, I’ll wait here. You must be confused with that alternate universe in which you are the only person in it. It’s ok, I’ll just pretend to look at the massive display of Oreo cookies which are promotionally priced. While I daydream about Oreos, you daydream about some ridiculous weekend decision like which checkered shirt to wear to Phil’s Barbecue, and whether or not Stacey is gonna bring any of her single friends this time. I know based on the fact that you don’t possess the intelligence to pull a shopping cart out of the stack and move it to the side, or alternately move yourself to the side, so other people can shop here too, that you will have a weekend highlighted by your own mediocrity, and if you do manage to get a girl’s phone number, it will be a fake, and you won’t have removed enough barbecue sauce from your ignorant little fingers to accurately punch it into your phone anyway.

Or the Fifty-something guy who is staring at the canned corn with his shopping cart JUST DIAGNONAL ENOUGH to prevent another cart from getting by. I wait patiently, listening to Air Supply on the speakers. How much analysis can you possibly do on canned corn? Let me run it down for you. The name brand one costs more, but they’re both exactly the same. Make sure you check for dents in the can. Are you waiting for the cans of corn to start dancing? That would be about the only reasonable excuse for standing there in full on space cadet mode with your cart blocking the aisle. Just tell me that the show’s about to start, because if these cans of corn start dancing, I will park my cart diagonally as well and watch the show with you, only after I pick up some Cheetos from aisle #3. Oh, they aren’t about to dance? THEN MOVE YOUR CART!! GET OUT OF THE WAY!!! STARE AT CORN WHEN YOU GET HOME!! Or are you trying to avoid going home? Is your wife gonna make you clean the windows and trim the hedges? Are you stalling? I understand, just move your cart to the side.

Or the obnoxious lady checking every single egg in the package. Both sides. While standing in the doorway of the fridge, so less OCD people could just grab some eggs, do a cursory glance at them and check the date. She’s checking them over like she’s at the antique road show trying to put in a bid on some hand crafted trinkets from the 18th century, not like they are something that she will crack in half in less than 2 weeks, and guess where her cart is while she’s doing this? Blocking the way! Was there ever a doubt. She’s obviously thinking about how her life is spinning out of control, and making sure that these eggs are absolutely perfect is the only way to bring some semblance of order to her existence. The irony here being that if she only went through life as the type of person who didn’t stand in the fridge doorway blocking people from getting eggs while her shopping cart blocked the aisle, that she would probably be in a better place where she didn’t have to make sure her eggs were perfectly crafted works of chicken magic.

I of course would also be able to get home quicker.

10 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Humor, Rants, Stories, Uncategorized

March 11, 2014

My Texas Mickey

By Thoughts and Rants in Jogging Pants

I found myself telling this story more than once this week. At this late hour, I can’t even remember how it came up, much less how I told the same story twice. Did I force it into the conversation? I must have. Now I’m forcing it into my blog.

The story goes like this….. Once upon a time in my earliest of 20’s, I was invited to a Stag & Doe, or Jack & Jill if you prefer. If you’re not familiar with such an event, it’s a pre-wedding party for the bride and groom which for all intents and purposes is a cash grab, or more politely put, a fundraiser to help pay for the wedding. I have no qualms with these types of events because I like to hang out, eat & drink, and enter raffles. What better place to do that?

The Stag & Doe in question might have actually been the first one I ever went to. I wasn’t at the age where friends of mine were getting married yet, but I was at the age where I could drink legally, so that would have put me anywhere between 19-23. I don’t remember much about this party except that the items that were being raffled off were not as desirable as one would hope. There was however, a HUGE bottle of Canadian Club Whiskey. I could tell that whoever won that item would be the envy of every man there, and would be best served to high-tail it out of there before being asked to share. I never win anything (oh I remember how this conversations came up….. we were talking about the roll up the rim to win contest at Tim Horton’s and someone asked me if I won, and I told them that I never win anything which segued into this story), so you can imagine my surprise and elation when I won this Texas Mickey of CC Whiskey. The thing is I don’t drink Whiskey.

I just learned from the Urban Dictionary that they don’t have Texas Mickeys in Texas. Apparently it’s a Canadian thing. Go figure. So if you still don’t know what it is, picture a bottle of booze the size of a small child. It comes with a pump because you couldn’t actually tip it to pour or Whiskey would go everywhere. The name is a play on words…. Mickey being a small pocket-sized bottle, but everything is bigger in Texas…..it’s supposed to be funny. If you’re male and under 25, you want this as a strange status symbol of some sort. I had it, but Whiskey wasn’t/isn’t my drink. So how was I going to consume this much Whiskey?

One night a couple of friends and I got together to sort out my Whiskey problem. One of these friends was having a house party that was fast approaching. It was slated to be the highlight of the summer. We’d be drinking Whiskey, but how? We bought a bartender book, and tried to find some drink recipes that suited us, and we couldn’t come up with anything. So off we went to the corner store, and came back with a variety of sodas, mixers and fruit juices. Like a bad grade 11 science project, we started experimenting. The details got sketchy fast. We did settle on a drink, and I’ll share the recipe with you because the world needs to benefit from something I’ve done, and why not this?

Recipe for a Rye and Austin (my name is Ryan Austin…. this is supposed to be funny)

– Rye Whiskey (I’m not gonna tell you how much, I’m not your daddy)

– Wink (If you don’t know what that is, it’s a citrus soda bottled by Coca Cola. Drinking it straight will rot your gut, which I think is why it’s harder to find now, but it’s a great mixer)

– 2 kinds of fruit juice (the catch is that each juice has to contain at least 2 kinds of fruit, like Orange/Banana…..you heard correctly, 2 varieties of multiple fruit juices)

If you can even find these ingredients, much less mix them properly, then you will have tasted the greatest Whiskey mixed drink known (or unknown) to man! Drink Responsibly!

4 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Humor, Stories, Uncategorized