Ridiculous: Found

Late September is an odd time in Toronto; the white-knuckled grip of humidity finally breaks and the headiness brought on by frosh and TIFF has faded like the next day's hangover. The city seems to be settling, perhaps hunkering is a better word, any way you want to slice it, preparing, for the long dark seasons yet to come. But before this present gloom descended there was one hell of a party.

Toronto during TIFF (the Toronto International Film Festival) is like a city possessed. A rabid energy seems to take hold; the bars stock up on top shelf liquor, orange-shirted volunteers swarm the streets and everyone with a set of vocal chords starts speculating where the 'it' spot is going to be this year. This year the centre of the festival has been moved down to King Street, near 'the people' since the residents of Yorkville are no longer human but honorary members of the botulism species.

Unfortunately I work on King Street...and I'm just trying to get to work on time.

The sidewalks on Yonge are clogged with overflow from the rush ticket lines. The clock is ticking. I step out into the street to navigate around the crowd since traffic is at a standstill. Several bike couriers almost run me over and I'm feeling so harried that I don't even stop to mock Rick Campanelli's horrible fuchsia dress shirt as he hurries past me in the other direction. As a matter of fact not one of movie goers who are standing in line with bovine passivity notice Rick either. You've fallen far since your Much Music days Mr. Campanelli.

I do make it to work on time and as I scrub the restaurants patio railing, water and suds flying everywhere very much reminiscent of a cheap soft core flick, I notice an increased number of fedoras and superfluous looking scarves being worn by the usual hipster passers by. Ah yes, everyone has busted out their 'look I'm a filmmaker' costume kit.



It's Saturday night and the star fuckers are out in droves their plastic tits hoisted up, necklines pulled low and all standards for decorum and good behaviour have been completely forgotten. Anyone who is engaging in the favourite celebrity habit of wearing their sunglasses after the sun has gone down is instantly mobbed in the remote possibility that they might of had three lines in a Twilight movie.

The restaurant is beyond busy, it's slammed. And for once everything runs smoothly. The restaurant's record for covers (people served) in one night has been surpassed and all without tears, drama, hair-pulling, threats etc. And if I can permit myself to be immodest for one moment, I rockstarred it up! As I'm doing my cash out I tally up the amount of tips which I made, unfortunately for the tip pool and not myself, it was over $700.

Walking home I was tired as hell but I was happy, I was proud and best of all I felt like there was hope that work was going to be something other than a dead and festering albatross around my neck.

And then I came into work on Tuesday and my delicately dream of a happy work life was shattered.

According to those who were there it was the restaurant's worst night...ever! And that's all they would say, no one wanted to talk about it or provide any dirty details other than the fact that Woody Harrelson came in during the height of the shit storm. But based simply on the vacant listless gazes of those who had survived this apparent night from hell it must have been a doozie.

With 'the fear' already creeping up my spine at the pre-shift meeting my worst suspicions were confirmed: Saturday night had been a fluke.

At 5 pm the entire floor staff is sitting at the bar ready for our daily meeting. Bootylicious is not there. Napoleon pulls on his cuffs and aggressively slurps his coffee.

"See this is what I'm talking about, WASTING TIME!"

Bootylicious is apparently upstairs printing new wine lists for the third time this week. Every time she prints a new batch Napoleon finds a spelling mistake (anyone interested in a fine bottle of Pinot Noor?). Though apparently the printers are not working, naturally we require wine lists for service which brings the situation to this impassable juncture.

His patience exhausted Napoleon starts yelling at Bootylicious in the office upstairs through the ceiling and to make the situation even more ridiculous she yells back and they proceed to have an entire conversation in this manner.



"__________ EVERYONE IS WAITING!"

"THE PRINTER IS BROKEN, I'M TRYING TO DOWNLOAD THE NEW DRIVER."

"I GUARANTEE YOU THAT THE PRINTER IS NOT BROKEN."

"IT IS BROKEN! I WAS TRYING TO GET SOMEONE TO COME HELP ME BUT NO ONE WOULD COME HELP ME. CAN SOMEONE COME HELP ME?"

"THEY DIDN'T COME 'HELP YOU' BECAUSE THEY WERE SETTING UP THE FRIGGIN' RESTAURANT FOR SERVICE."

"WELL THAT DOESN'T SOLVE THE PROBLEM DOES IT?"

And so on.

That night were busy. It's TIFF, people who want to pretend to be someone or maybe just see someone who's someone flood our doors. Service is scrappy. We get through it but barely. And I decide I've had enough.

"Don't you dare leave me here!" Says K, the other girl who started at the same time I did. "No one else has a goddamn sense of humour about anything!"

But I'm not going to wait for this silly restaurant to break me. It's better to leave as a rockstar than as a bitter flat-footed waiter.

It's time to boldly go and seek ridiculousness elsewhere and in this city it grows in abundance. The pictures attached to this post were taken at the university mall a couple of days ago. One of the candidates in Toronto's mayoral election staged an 'I care about the plight of the indebted student' photo op bringing a legion of green shirted buffoons...I mean supporters with him. What you can't see is that dancing around behind the cameras is a spin doctor, PR type who keeps miming gestures to the slack-jawed supporters reminding them to smile. He's the fellow wearing a blazer on the left side of the photo directly below. Too bad computers aren't equipped with 'Slimeball O' Vision' though I think he does a pretty good job of oozing through the screen all on his own.

Mission, find ridiculousness: Accomplished.

I Spy...

For various reasons I don't feel particularly verbose this week. So I thought I'd post some photos of the KISS concert from a few weeks ago, some streets scenes of the city and conclude with a picture of my bed which has been doubling as an "office" for the last few days. There are more hilarious stories close on the horizon, so trim that sail ye yella' bellied land lubbers and prepare to be boarded by the infamous and bloodthirsty Captain Rhetoric sometime very soon. Yaaarrrr!

Day Care

Despite appearances I did not move to Toronto to be abused by bitchy career servers and their narcissistic overlords. Back in Vancouver each day of slinging beers and scraping stacks of greasy plates was chipping away a small part of my soul. Every night as I hauled in the patio furniture and waited for the last drunks to leave it was glaringly apparent that serving nachos was not my destiny. So I did what most people in their mid-twenties with a useless arts degree do; I went back to school.

And not just any school, one of the best for my new discipline, 25,000 students deep, the campus located in the heart of Toronto's belching teeming core. This was going to be awesome.

Due to no fault of my own I sleep through orientation. The story involves insomnia, a few too many double cocktails on a patio, swimming in an outdoor public pool in my skivvies and the inevitable visit to McD for a 4am french fry chow down. As you can imagine when my alarm went off at 7:30 motivation to leave my bed could not be found and so I didn't.

The result of my truancy is that as I make my way to my very first class, brain bleary and fogged up from a night of anxiety fuelled insomnia, I have no idea what I'm walking into.



None of the credits from my first degree were "transferable" so I'm right back to first year. But I'm sure there's bound to be some older students, there has to be...oh god, please let there be.

First year classes are always easy to find, just look for the milling confused crowd of kids who are talking a bit to loud and trying a bit too hard to be liked. My first class of my new life is Grammar. I enter the lecture theatre and grab an aisle seat near the front. Slurping my saccharine spiked coffee I look around the room and my heart sinks.

The noise is the first thing that hits you, that high whine, that cadence exploding with enthusiasm. "OMG!" "I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S THE FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!" "I HAVE, LIKE, A FOUR HOUR LECTURE AFTER THIS. I KNOW!" "MY ROOMMATE IS SOOOOOO WEIRD!" "OH MY GOD, I KNOW." The girls are all wearing makeup and carefully chosen outfits, smacking their gum as they fidget. The boys, and oh yes they are boys, look like walking Clearasil ads. Their adams apples protrude from their scrawny necks, clothes hang awkwardly on their unfinished frames and quite a few of them are obviously still virgins.

The gum-smacker to my left turns to me and introduces herself.

"You're older aren't you?" Is the second thing she says.

Gum-Smack here is only 19 and it takes only five minutes for me to realize that, other than school, we have absolutely nothing in common.

It's the same in all my classes. Young people, unsure and unrealized, barrage the profs with questions about correct assignment formatting and term grade breakdowns. They're so eager to 'get it right' and 'do well', as if grades were the most valuable thing to be gleaned from this experience. I want to scream at them; "LIFE! This is about life goddamnit! You don't even know who you are yet. Even your faces still look like silly putty. You have no shape yet." But I don't and instead listen to them fuss over details which won't matter one whit once term papers and exams are bearing down on them like a herd of rabid rhinos.



One of my program requirements is a first year english class and though I like my prof and she strikes me as an intelligent and thoughtful person there is one overwhelming factor in this equation; there is no lower common denominator than a first year university english class. The first day we get into groups and do the introduction game. "One person from you group introduce everyone else and include one interesting fact about each of them. After that it will be time for your bottles and a nap." The required reading material fares no better. As I wait in the interminable line at the bookstore I make use of the time to read the first selection. It begins: "The truth about stories is that is all we are."

I wake up to find it's night and I'm locked inside the deserted bookstore. No not really. But I had to fight down a powerful wave of disinterest to wade through the derivative and righteous tone of this simplistic tripe. Only two and a half months to go hurrah!

To survive first year with my mind in one piece I must have a strategy. I must stay focussed.

1. Avoid all extracurricular activities, this includes pub crawls, orientations, sporting events and activist/anarchist groups.
2. Do hang out on campus.
3. Do assignments as soon as they are handed out, no lolly-gagging.
4. Kick serious academic ass.
5. Use my age and cunning to beat their youth and enthusiasm. They won't see it coming mu ha ha ha!

That's right, when those bushy-tailed first are dragging their asses to class after their beer bong or keg stand experience I'm going to be right there in my seat alert, ambitions and ready with a big ole can of whup-ass.

I leave you with some peaceful photos taken at the City Hall farmer's market.