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.