ROBBLOG # 258

Forget You Mr. Harper!

In the words of Cee Lo, that’s actually F**K You but I wanted to watch my mouth in this RobBlog.

I don’t like Stephen Harper, Prime Minister of Canada.
I am angry that he is the leader of our country. I cannot understand why many Canadians see no wrong in anything he does like his perroging of Parliament-twice, or the fact his government- the Harper government, has been charged in contempt of Parliament.

If you like Mr. Harper and his Government and are intending to vote for him or rather the Conservative Candidate in your riding you had better not read further.

So, as I was saying, I don’t like him and therefore say Forget You Mr. Harper!
Here’s a compilation of points that make me feel this way:

Stephen Harper is pleading with traditional Liberal voters to support his Conservatives to stave off a “disastrous” leftist government headed by NDP Leader Jack Layton.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

Conservative Leader Stephen Harper is refusing to say if he would honour any decision by Governor General David Johnston to invite NDP Leader Jack Layton to form a government if the Tories fail to win a majority on Monday. Harper repeatedly ducked the question during a tense media availability in Richmond Hill.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

In 2009, Harper appointed a Minister of Science who wouldn’t discuss evolution. Harper then cut science research funding by $138 Million.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

For the G20 summit in Toronto, Harper spent $1.9 million building a fake lake and nearly $1 Billion on security.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

Harper had his people check out a teenager's Facebook page and then have her leave a campaign event because she had posted a photo of herself with Liberal leader Michael Ignatieff.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

Harper has cut funding for women's advocacy by 43 per cent, shut 12 out of 16 Status of Women offices in Canada.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

Harper brought the Same Sex Marriage question back before Parliament for a vote on whether or not to open up the debate again- even though it was already the law of the land.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

The Alliance Church, to which Harper has belonged for decades, believes Jesus Christ will return to Earth in an apocalypse, won't ordain women, strongly opposes abortion and divorce, condemns homosexuality as the most base of sins.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

65 Fighter Jets costing 29 Billion Dollars?????
Forget You Mr. Harper!

He says the USA- particularly the conservative movement, is a light and an inspiration to people in Canada and across the world.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

The “Harper Government” gave the Province of Ontario in the neighbourhood of 4 billion dollars to implement the HST. Let’s not forget another Conservative PM- Brian Mulroney, gave Canada the GST in the first place. Stop blaming Dalton!
Forget You Mr Harper!

Harper said that the Health Act gives the federal government too many powers and that the funding should recognize “different levels of economic development in the provinces.” That’s code language for opening the system to user fees and extra billing.
Forget You Mr. Harper!

You decide…

ROBBLOG # 257 W E E K E N D Edition

A cashier at Wal*Mart the other day attempted to sign me up for a Wal*Mart MasterCard.

“No Thank You. I use debit.”- said.

“Oh but the Wal*Mart Card does this and that…”

“No Thank You. I already have a credit card.”- I added.

She continued- “Well, with a Wal*Mart MasterCard Credit Card you can Bah, Blah, Blah.”

“No. Really. I’m fine.” I kept smiling as I swiped my Debit Card.

“You know”-she said, “Sometimes I tell my customers to rip up their current credit card and get a Wal*Mart Master Card Credit Card!”

“You know what I do sometimes?” I looked her square in the eye as I waited for my Debit transaction to process.

“No, what?”- she asked excitedly.

“Sometimes I tell cashiers to shove their cash registers up their Wal*Mart arses when they try to press me to get a Wal*Mart MasterCard Credit Card!”

Her mouth dropped. She was shocked and disappointed that her sales attempt didn’t work on me.

“Have a nice day!”- I cheerfully said as I grabbed my bags, placed them in my Wal*Mart shopping cart and headed for the exit. I like shopping at Wal*Mart as much as the next Wal*Mart shopper but give the credit card thing a rest. If a customer politely declines that should be the end of it.

Then, I go into Zellers. It’s a different tune. By the way I must mention here that I really hate that red colour scheme that Zellers has adopted in recent years. I know they are no longer “Truly Canadian”- being owned by Americans. When you think of it what True North Proud and Free Company isn’t owned by Americans? Besides Zellers- The Bay and Tim Horton’s comes to mind. I did read where Tim’s was being returned to Canadian ownership under the Red Maple Leaf but I don’t think that has happened. As far as I know that stalwart- Canadian Tire, is still Canadian. Imagine “American Tire”?
Just doesn’t have the same “patriot” ring to it.

Anyhow, at Zellers it’s-

“Is this on your HBC Card today?” says the beefy, tanned young man standing at the cash, a pencil stuck over his right ear.

“No. I don’t have one. Debit please.”

The jock cashier begins his sell- “Oh Sir, if you sign up for an HBC Card today you’ll receive 10% off your purchase.”

“Really?”- I say, “and will you strip to the waist and give me a manly massage if I get an HBC card today? There has to be something in it for me!”

I was being so cheeky. The cashier was surprised. Probably the best offer he’s had all day! He smiled broadly and said-
“You know if they paid me enough my shirt would be laying on the floor at your feet right now!”

We both laughed.
I continued.

“So how much interest does that HBC Card offer if I run a balance every month? About 30%. Sears is at 30%. So I would say 30%- or higher!”

He smiled and said-
“Slide your card through. Stripe to the left sir.”

The cashier knows he doesn’t have a credit card sale here but flashes me a Hollywood smile as he tucks my purchase into a red plastic Zellers bag.

“Have a great day!” he says.

“I’ll do my best!” I tell him.  “You have to give me credit for that.”

ROBBLOG # 256

This wasn’t the blog I had intended to post today.

That blog will have to wait for another sunrise. You see I was reading a column today that had been written by someone who was at the infamous Bathhouse raids in Toronto back on February 5th 1981. 30 years has passed.

I also learned something new. Maybe I had read it before but I have just forgot. I forget a lot of things these days.

In 1975 Police in Montreal raided a place called “Sauna Aquarius”, known as a Gay hangout, I suppose. The following half dozen years saw the beginning of the Gay and Lesbian Community being harassed on a regular basis in areas that Gay and Lesbians frequented. Police and Law Enforcement agencies were trying to keep a rising Gay Voice quiet in the media. However, the LGBT movement could not be silenced- even after the Bathhouse raids in Toronto in 1981.
I was living in the City in 1981.
I just didn’t go downtown that evening.
As a matter of fact, I had never been in a Gay Men’s Bathhouse. Not that I was against the idea, it’s just that the opportunity never presented itself. I was more of a going-out-to-dinner kind of guy. A “bar boy”.
I liked going to the bars although it was daunting and most uncomfortable at first. It took a while to adjust even though these were “my people”.

So today, I was reading a first-hand account of the Toronto Bathhouse raided written by Phillip MacLeod. It was very interesting. Accompanying the article was a photo of Phillip. An attractive man with a beard and tousled hair. One would have guessed the photo was taken yesterday. Looking at the picture, he appeared to be a man in his 40’s or so. Reading along further I was shocked to discover that Mr. MacLeod passed away a year ago, on May 31st, 2010. He was 86 years old.
What?
I had to take out a pen and do some figuring.
He was born in 1925.
So he was 50ish in the photo and was 56 when the raid took place.
My mind did a flip.
How could Phillip be dead?
I was reading the article like it had been written recently when in reality it had been written the day or two following the raids in 1981.
Wow!
This definitely messed with my mind. This is “today” but the whole story- picture included, was of yesterday. I am talking about a life lived and passed on to the next level.

All these thoughts and more flooded into my mind as I took a walk in the afternoon rain. After reading the story Philip had written and discovered that time truly waits for no man, I had to get out and get the adrenaline flowing or whatever it is that flows when one walks a distance and feels 100% better in body and spirit when the walk has terminated.

A friend had e-mailed me earlier today, answering another e-mail where I had lamented the loss of Ken Kostick at 56 years of age and a friend of local theatre Moe Cloutier at only 40 years of age. Both passing’s were much too soon.
She said in her e-mail- “None of us gets out of this life alive.”
It’s true.
We all are treading down the same path to eternity, some sooner than others.

This brings me to some kind of point I was trying to make when I started writing this blog.
Life is short.
Here I am staring 60 in the face.
Whuck?
I know people tell me- “God, you don’t look 60!!”
Thanks for that. I don’t feel 60- whatever 60 is supposed to feel like today.
“Things” make me feel like 60 however. Recently, I applied for my Canada Pension. I start receiving that in August- if that asshole Harper doesn’t spend all the money in all the Government Banks in Ottawa on those freeking fighter jets.

Another friend said- only a year ago, “Rob, the way I figure it, we’ve got 20 good years left.”
This year on her Birthday she e-mailed- “19 years left!”

It’s all going too bloody fast.
I still have a load of travelling I want to do.
I want to write more.
I want to do new things.
Maybe I want to move again and start all over again.
There’s still a world full of new people and places.
In the meantime I get my senior’s discount at Zellers. That’s a plus. I am working on getting discounts elsewhere.

Finally, one other friend tells me once I hit 60 I have to ask every clerk or salesperson I deal with in every store I go into-

“Do I get a discount on that? I’m a senior living on a fixed income!”

ROBBLOG #255

Readers- like you, have sent in a few more Questions for God. So I sent the Big Guy an “Angel-Gram” and he dropped by last week.


No listen, I can hear all you Catholics out there saying- If God doesn’t come down and make his physical presence known to the Pope- God’s representative on Earth, why would he sit down and speak to a “plebe” like you?

I don’t know why but I ask a rhetorical question-

"Why does God speak to Billy Graham, The Prayer Place’s “millionaire preachers” and US Preachers who continue to have sexual relations with prostitutes or other men. Not that there’s anything wrong with that but I ask you…"

Here are your questions and replies. Think of me as the Post Office at Christmas and all those letters they answer to H0H 0H0!

Thanks for this Big Guy. Let’s get right to the questions. Are you ready?

Was Mary a Virgin? Is the Pope Catholic? Does a Bear…

I think we get it Heavenly Father. Someone from Brechin e-mails…
Dear God, How come the Catholics have a Pope that they consider to be your representative on Earth. What makes them so special?

Now, the Catholics have always had their own peculiar little ways about things- all that smoke and those bells ringing! I’ve been in some of their palaces…I mean churches, where they actually have bones and things in glass cases they consider to be “Holy relics”. Jesus! That stuff even creeps me out.

What’s the buzz with that fellah Lazarus and your son?

Rob, I knew someone would ask me about that- eventually. My pat answer is “boys will be boys”. Laz was a young and handsome dude and my offspring had some stuff going on and with that olive skin of his and his black hair well…You see it’s like when a couple of guys snap their towels at each other’s naked butts after they shower in a public place. So what if the guys spent 30 days together locked away and didn’t want to be disturbed. What am I supposed to read into that. Okay...there’s that sexual stuff but he tells me he was just comforting Lazarus. Wouldn’t you do the same if you had a friend who had been rotting away and he suddenly jumped back to life and look fabulous?

Right. I guess… Next question. Why do some people attend Bible Class each week and what do they get out of it?
They attend because nothing worthwhile is showing at the Galaxy Cinemas. Hah. Hah. I love that one. Pulling your leg there Christians. Look whatever turns your Christian Crank but seeing as the Bible- my book, was re-written back in the day of King James I think you’ll find that mortal man threw a few things out of the original script and re-worked other bits.
Now, it’s just human nature isn’t it? I’m not going to say “stop analyzing the Bible” but really people- "Stop analyzing the Bible!"

Next from Martha in Udney...

Udney. That always makes me chuckle...

Ahem~
Hi God. Did you actually tell earthly beings what to write in the Good Book?

Oh Heavens no! I’ve never been about forcing you people to do anything. Look- Live. Love. Be happy. Be nice to people. Don’t do anything to hurt your fellow man. Don’t kill someone or mess with someone’s husband or wife. Enjoy life.
Simple- isn’t it?
I don’t know why you let a bunch of guys who sat around a table back in 200 A.D. tell you who and what to believe. Believe what you will but just be nice. Try smiling. Buy yourself a new chariot- I mean car. Take a trip. See the pyramids. Try doing something on your own for a change. You don’t have to run everything past me and beg for more.
Grow a pair people!

God, why did you make Opera?

Why did I make Opera and classical music? Holy smokes. Don’t hang that one on me. When the angels get together for a jam session on their Lutes and flutes and harps- I skip town! I head up to that 3rd level of Heaven. Maybe some of you have studied that in your Bible Classes.
It’s like Maui. I go there for some peace and quiet. So look, don’t blame me for that Opera Stuff or even Beethoven. He did that on his own. Too much time on his tiny hands.
They were you know.

Well God, thanks again for coming down and answering these questions. I know you have to get back home.
Yes I do. The “other half” is BBQing tonight. Invited a multitude over apparently and I promised to do the steaks.

One final request… from me God.
What is it Rob?

Keep an eye on Ken Kostick. He left us much too soon.

I will do my best....and thank you.

ROBBLOG #254 EASTER

Flopsy, Mopsy…and Florence were three of the cutest little bunnies you would ever want to lay your eyes upon.

They were so glad it was finally spring!
The days were warm.
They loved to tumble and nibble on the fresh, green grass that covered the big field next to their log home like a fluffy comforter on a big, brass bed.
The grass tasted oh so sweet.
However, the greens in Mr. Alabaster’s garden were even sweeter- especially in the spring, just as the first few sprouts of lettuce popped out of the warm earth on a warm sunny day.

The bunnies weren’t thinking about Mr. Alabaster’s garden at this particular moment. Flopsy was sitting next to a big, gray boulder grooming her white fur. Mopsy and Florence meanwhile amused themselves trying to do headstands in the tall grass. They tried and tried but fell over with every attempt giggling and snickering louder each time. Their bunny laughter is contagious. A few chicadees in a tree near the boulder chirped merrily too at the funny goings-on below.

“Come on you two”- cried Flopsy. She had finished her grooming. “Let’s run all the way down to the old cedar fence!”

“Okay Flopsy. Bet I can beat you!”- Mopsy squealed and she was off like a shot.

“Running. Always running!” Florence stood with her paws on her hips tapping her right paw gently on the green grass. “Really you two!” She was raising her voice now since her brother and sister were half-way across the field.

Flopsy and Mopsy soon reached the cedar fence. Flopsy was just a hare ahead of Mopsy.
They both collapsed in a heap near one of the cedar fence posts.

“Honestly, you two. Get a life. Both of you.” Florence had hopped on down to the fence. She seemed a little upset.

“What’s the prob Flo?” It was Mopsy who dared even ask the question.

“Florence had placed a paw on each of her furry hips once again-
“Look, it’s just that there are more interesting things to do you two.”

“Like what?”- asked Flopsy.

“Well…” Florence thought for a moment. “Like thinking about what are we going to do for Easter. We haven’t even looked for a present for Mumsy and Dadsy yet.”

“Awwww. Get ‘em some chocolate eggs. They’ll be happy with that.” It was Mopsy who spoke and suggested the idea.

Flopsy snapped a paw and added- “That’s a good idea! We can place them in a nice basket filled with fresh grass and tie a big pink bow on top and ohhhh…we can tuck Michael Buble’s new CD in the basket too!”

Florence and Mopsy looked at Flopsy. They stared for a couple of seconds, then looked back at each other again. Their little bunny noses twitching. Finally, they turned back, looking Flopsy right in the eye and speaking in unison said-

“That is so Gay!”

The End

ROBBLOG # 253

Do you ever find you get to the point where your brain cells are “fried” and you just can’t think of a single thing to talk about- let alone write about?

I live in that void from time to time. I wonder where have all the little smidgens of stuff go that give me an idea that enables me to write about something especially something that would be on interest to you- my readers.

If I could snap my fingers when these “quiet” time come upon me and find myself away from it all in a new environment, that might activate something to write about. I used to travel quite frequently to- let’s say England or Germany, even Hawaii. Today, all that traveling is just not feasible in a busy life, filled with responsibilities. Of course there are those who think I don’t work. I do claim to be “semi-retired”- I’m hitting the big ummm…I think I’ll save that for another column but I do have much more on my plate now- that ever.

Some people claim that I am “busy doing nothing.” That might translate to another thought such as- “all the worthless things I am doing!”
Really, that’s it you know.
I am so busy “doing what I do”, I’m really not doing anything at all- really. I write.

I am not even a great writer. I try to improve and read what others write to learn how I can improve- but I am no Toronto Star columnist or even a “cub” reporter.
I have my own style.
Usually I don’t get much feedback concerning my Rob Blog or anything I write for Swisssh the Website anyway- but does that deter me?
Nope.


Me and Deb Drumm onstage with The Garage Door Players

 I’m really a one-man band. I write shows for my Garage Door Players. I write my Rob Blog. I write for Swisssh the Website where I occasionally write a review or story on an event or a piece of theatre I’ve seen- like last week’s Ricky Martin show. As well, I sell and write commercials for Swisssh Radio.

Ya gotta love Swisssh Radio. It’s heard around the world- throughout Germany, in Spain, Nicaragua, Latvia, Japan-even after the Tsunami, Brazil, the States, Turkey, Ireland, England and in various cities and town across this great nation of ours. Swisssh Radio allows me to be an announcer, something I feel I am good at and have been doing since 1972.
I love it!

Although there are those in the radio business who think otherwise, it’s a sorry state that radio finds itself in today. Many Broadcast management types need to give their collective heads a shake and return radio to its former dimension and reason for being.
To communicate, educate and entertain.

So there you have it.
There are times when I am fried.
Nothing comes.
Not one idea.

There are other times when I can actually write about nothing and come up with something.

Guess this has been one of those times.
Thanks for reading!

ROBBLOG # 252

I was riding a city bus the other day- in my dreams.

It was a vintage thing with big wheels and rounded fenders. A dark, sage green colour with white trim on the wheel’s rims. I had hopped on at a regular stop but I have no recollection as to where I was going- or why. The driver was amicable and was whistling a bright little tune as I threw some coins in the fare receptacle. As the bus roared into gear, I took a seat a few rows from the front- on the right side.

There was an old man sitting in front of me on a bench seat that was turned sideways, allowing him to face towards the other side of the bus, behind the driver. He was wearing a pair of black trousers held up with a pair of brown suspenders, a reddish plaid shirt and an old army jacket. A row of medals was pinned proudly to the jacket just above the left breast pocket.

Along came another stop. The brakes squealed to a stop and a couple of ladies with shopping bags climbed up the pair of steps, deposited their coins and sat in a row opposite me.
The bus started up once again and rolled merrily along the busy city street. As it did, the elderly man wearing the army jacket, turned and spoke.

“I am going to tell you a story. A story of a day back in France during the war. World War Two for you young folks sitting there at the back.”

I turned. I hadn’t noticed the gaggle of teenagers sitting at the back of the bus. They must have been chatting to each other quietly, perhaps not saying a word in case the adults overheard what they had to say and “poo-pooed” their intelligence. It seemed strange not to see them on a cell phone or madly texting absent friends.
This was- I gathered, the 1950’s after all.
No cell phones.
No texting.
No tablets.
No Stephen Harper!

The ladies across the way clutched their shopping bags and purses, gave me a brief glance and turned their eyes to the old man. He continued-
“My fellow foot soldiers and I were making a trek through the French countryside just a few days after the armistice was announced. Just ahead we could see a tavern- or pub, sitting on the edge of a small village. It looked to us like a Chalet or pub one might see in any number of small villages dotting the German Countryside- just not in France! Strange. We were tired and thirsty, so we decided to go in and refresh ourselves. It had been a long war. We approached the door and entered. Suddenly the sound of a piano and a female voice singing an upbeat song could be heard.”

As the old man related his story, I could hear a piano begin to play. Looking at the bus driver, I saw that he had been suddenly transformed into a beer hall fraulein, dressed in a colourful skirt and frilly white blouse with puffy sleeves. What had been the steering wheel of a bus- just minutes before, had magically changed into a piano and the fraulein- the former bus driver, was masterly tapping the black and white keys while singing a jolly song all the while swaying to the right and to the left. She turned her neck to look back at us- the passengers, eventually urging us to sing along. We did at the top of our lungs! When the song was over the old man continued.

“We found a table not far from the piano and after the happy song ended Gerta- who introduced herself as she sat, joined our table.”
She slapped me on the back and said-

‘Vell Boyz…vats it going to be for a troupe of wary handsome Canadian soldiers, eh?’

"She was just delightful."- The old man smiled broadly as he remembered the time.
“She told us she had lived in the French Countryside for at least twenty years. Imagine. She had made it safely through the war and she told us she was glad that things were finally finished. We soon ordered up a bunch of beers and chatted, laughed and sang with Gerta into the late evening hours. We ate Bratwurst and French-fried potatoes. The brats were the best any of the boys had ever eaten!

‘Zo. You boys just passing through or vould you like a place to lay down your head for the night?’

‘No some beds with some clean sheets- and maybe a bath, would be good. Very good.’

‘Zats no Problem.’

“So we stayed the night. We didn’t have to be at out destination for at least two days and we deserved a little rest and relaxation. It was such a good time! None of us ever forgot Gerta and the little pub in the countryside.”

The old man stopped talking and gazed out the front window of the moving bus. The driver was back in uniform. He had removed the skirt and blouse.
The piano was a steering wheel again.
Shortly, the bus came to a stop. The old man stood up and walked to the door. He turned and waved a cheery goodbye to everyone on board, then disembarked.
The door closed with a Shhhhhhsst.

“Next stop Main Station!” cried the driver. The engine growled and once again we were on our way.

…I woke up.