A Quirky Trigger

We all have our quirks... well, at least that’s what I’ve told Cupcake. It‘s been said everyone is normal until you get to know them and Cupcake knows me quite well. She says I’ve always been “blessed” with my quota of quirks, plus a few extra eccentricities thrown in for being an early adopter. One particular peculiarity of mine, though innocuous enough, drives me crazy. I know many think my journey to join the barmy army is a short drive indeed; walking distance, really, but I wondered if it’s just me or if it’s one of those strange characteristics everyone does but nobody ever talks about, like stop light nostril exploration.

The aberration works like this; something in my surroundings will make a random noise and my subconscious mind processes it instantaneously (Cupcake disagrees with the speed she feels my thought processes occur at but that’s not important right now.) The memory sorter-outer part of my brain (That’s what we amateur brain experts call it) compares it with all previously heard noises to see if it is recognizable. When a possible match is found, it’s kicked upstairs to my consciousness for assessment, sort of like E-harmony without the dating. Invariably, the random noise; a persistent tapping or a chime or a squeak or really anything, reminds me of a song or a melody or often a few bars of some long forgotten tune.

Here’s an example. When I play FreeCell on my computer (instead of knuckling down to write the article you’re currently reading) there is a synthesized electronic organ note that is produced every time a card is added to the “home cells” in the upper right. At each occurrence... like 52 times a game, I am reminded of Boney M’s version of the Christmas song “When a Child is Born” as the first chord is quite similar to the annoying electronic note noise. It got so bad I shut my sound off on my speakers when I play FreeCell, although it still plays in my head every time a card moves up just like Pavlov’s stupid mutt drooling over doorbells.

I’ve had something as simple as a randomly plucked  string evoke music ranging from Beatle hits to the theme to “The Jackie Gleason Show”. Just the other day I ended up with the world famous one hit wonder from the early 70’s; Mouth and McNeil’s immortal “How Do You Do?” from listening to a passing road grader. Some sound in thrum of the motor or clank of the machinery conjured up that mouldy oldie and I’ll never know what. I can’t count how often the sound of something rubbing rhythmically on wood brings to mind CCR’s “Looking Out My Back Door”.

I will admit being reminded of these dusty ditties is kind of cool sometimes. An errant sound triggering a pleasant musical memory is a good thing. The problem lies with the fact that it isn’t just a fleeting thought. The song stays with me, sometimes for days. The worst part is that occasionally, I only know a snippet of the song and that wee snippet will play over and over again. If it’s an instrumental, it’s even more frustrating since the only way I know to rid myself of a stuck song is to locate it on the ‘net and play it over and over. Unfortunately, finding the name of a snippet of music is tough to locate when all you know is “la de do de da do da da da da de de de” plucked out pizzicato-style on a violin. So it plays over and over like a Meatloaf 8-track tape at a ‘70’s stoner party, only much shorter.

Part of the problem for me, is since I was a teenager, some of my siblings and I would play “radio race” constantly. When a song came on the airwaves, first one to name the band got a point. The points never added up really but were more of a point of honour. Thus, it became imperative for me, in my formative years, to be acutely aware of the opening strains of any song I happen to hear. The urge to yell out the artist from somebody else’s music is strong and it takes all my strength of will not to look like a dork. I believe this caused my affliction. It neatly explains why, when I hear a faint whistle of brakes just starting to go, I am reminded of the first high pitched whistled notes of Manfred Mann’s 1967 hit “Mighty Quinn”. (It always makes me wonder why “When Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody’s gonna jump for joy”. Can he catch a Ricky Ray pass?)

I’ve asked a few people whether this phenomenon has happened to them and there was a mix of responses from my admittedly tiny polling group. There were those that looked at me pityingly as if I’d just divulged I had begun to use Depends. Then there were those that would shake their head and snicker “You are a weird one, McKerracher... but then we knew that.”

But there was also a small group; they would lower their voice and look furtively about before blurting out their shame. There weren’t many of them but I was still relieved.

It’s not just me.

Introducing the 2010 Cupcakemobile

         My cherished bride of what seems an eternity, (albeit one that flew by faster than a flat-out Ferrari) my sweet Cupcake, has many wonderful qualities. Besides being an able administrator for a company at the airport, she’s also a fine cook, craftily creative, and a dab hand with a sewing machine (for new items only, mind you, the clothing in the mending pile has gone in and out of fashion four times).
        However, there’s one area Cupcake is sorely lacking. There is a skill she is so bad at, she actually lets me take charge. That skill is car shopping. Here’s an example of Cupcake’s negotiating strategy with a car salesman.Salesman: Here’s one you’ll like; it’s not black.
Cupcake: I LOVE IT! I WANT IT I’LL PAY ANYTHING FOR IT!!
Me: Oh no!
       Salesman: Mwahahahahaha!
       It was this exact strategy that, a few years back, forced us into the purchase of a four wheeled pile of feces, the brand I will charitably leave unmentioned, although, I’ll admit, it wasn’t black and did have a sunroof. Cupcake thought it was “cute” despite the fact it was lousy on gas for a car that looked like it was swiped from a L’il Tykes Gas and Go Garage set.
        I’d eyed the interest rate it was bought at, the years left to pay and the current market value. I then factored in the reality that things have begun to go haywire with it. (It cost about a grand to find out the problem causing the “check engine” light to go on was, ultimately, a flaw in the “check engine” light.) Logically, I came to the conclusion it was time to make a change.
         Trying to select a vehicle was going to be a chore, however. Since we owed more than the car was worth, we would have to tack the difference onto the new car loan. To offset that, though, we’d be trading a loan at over 8% on a six year old car to 2.49% for a brand new one. Another strong motivator was that winter was coming and her poop-mobile is colder than a serial-killer’s smile.
          When I told Cupcake of what I’d decided, she was cautiously excited. She itemized the “must haves” that any prospective vehicle would be equipped with.“My needs are really simple,” she asserted nobly. “I just has to have an automatic transmission, a decent heater and for it not to be black.”
           Cupcake once had a black van and she’d swelter in it in the hot days of summer, something anyone living here for less than eighteen months would not have yet experienced. She argued her anti-black vehicle stance by pointing out how all of her subsequent vehicles have been white and she never had another in-car crematorium problem.
           Telling her I’d made sure all her subsequent vehicles had air conditioning following her overheated van experience was for naught. Logic rarely works on Cupcake. She remained undeterred. No black vehicles. Period.“Oh, and also,” she hastily added, “I need it to be higher off the ground; like a van or an SUV but I don’t want a truck.  It has to get good gas mileage and have a long lasting warranty. It has to have cruise control and a CD/MP3 stereo and keyless entry and...”
          “Woah, woah, woah!” I broke in on her in panic. “Do you think a loans manager is made of money? What happened to ‘I don’t care as long as it’s not black’?”
          “Well, you asked,” she maintained haughtily. “If you don’t want to make me happy, that’s fine.”
           Being married this long, I knew it wasn’t fine. I listened for a half an hour to the rest of her “simple needs”. Since she has the shrewd poker face of a five year old, I made my initial foray to the dealership alone. No sense getting her all fired up if a new vehicle isn’t in our budget. I will admit, however, my heart raced (outwardly controlled, of course) when I sized up the model I had researched. After a discussion with the salesman, I called Cupcake.
          “It’s got more bells and whistles than an obsessive model railroad fancier,” I told her enthusiastically, “All the things you want plus everything else you can think of. It would be perfect for you and I am sure I can beat them down to a price we can live with.”
          “Oh, Honey, thank you!” Cupcake squealed with joy. “I have to ask though.... what colour is it?”
          “Oh... ahh... errrr.... uh...” I frantically groped for the most tactful way to describe it but finally decided on the truth. “Well, it’s not black... more of a... well... to be honest, a ‘baby poop after eating squash’ colour. ‘Burnt orange’ would be my closest guess, but it’s brand new, fully loaded, has a 5 year warranty and is only a few bucks more a month than we are currently paying for your four-door Fridgidaire.”
          “BABY POOP!” Cupcake gulped. “Really? Baby poop?”
          Then there was silence.
          “Well...” she finally responded heartily. “I like babies!”
         She’s already named it “Punkin”.

In Defence of Pennies

           Between the sheets of this very newspaper, a fellow scribe had offered up a vicious condemnation of the least among our coins, the ignoble penny.  His misguided attitude was that pennies should be abolished because they cost the system more than they are worth.  Spouting “statistics” left, right and centre (but mostly right of centre) he cruelly made the case for their death sentence. (Speaking of which, where in heck did the “cent” button go?)
            But pennies are vital. It’s common knowledge a penny is the going rate for thoughts, although admittedly for many, they are overcharging. And what manner of coinage will fall from heaven if pennies are abolished? Twoonies? Man, if you get one of those in the head, it could kill you.
            The problem is pennies aren’t considered real change. We hoard them like television interventionees but we sure don’t roll them up and cash them. Apparently, it’s not worth the effort to go to the store, get some rolling papers, take them back and get the correct coin rolling papers, count out piles of fifty pennies, try and make even stacks and somehow manage to neatly arrange the coins in a tubular shape tightly bound in coin wrapper; repeating this step until all of your decades of penny hoarding has been twisted up, then take the time to go to an actual bank, (rolled up coins are a drag to deposit in the “insert money here” slot in the ATM) wait an eternity in the mystifying rope-fence labyrinth waiting for an organic banking interface, (also known as a teller) while looking like some kind of wishing well coin rustler, all for, maybe, a whole $17.32. Not a chance, unless, perhaps, I was a starving student, struggling artist or a Pipestone Flyer employee.
              The reason my venerable colleague is incorrect (again) is that the problem isn’t the penny. The issue is in the lack of circulation. We need to get those babies circulating like a cougar after the divorce. What pennies need is better PR. We need to find a way to give value to the penny; to make it the symbol upon which the concept of collective worth is built. If we could harness the power of these pennies, just think what good we could do without missing a dime.
              Imagine, if you will, communities competing to see who could amass the most pennies with the winner flying the other’s flag for a day or some such. The collected coinage could be rolled up by volunteers with a rented/borrowed/temporarily stolen automatic coin roller and cashed in for a community project in need of a hefty cash injection (is there anybody that can’t think of even one?) The worthy causes would be, ahem, rolling in dough. (Sorry, it had to be said.)
             If the idea goes bacterial or viral or whatever they call it, volunteer associations all over the country could use the power of the penny to enhance their communities, too. Soon, all those pennies will begin to wash back into the copper pipeline to be reused over and over. It will allow the Canadian Mint to cease having to make another half a billion pennies every year and we will all save the $130M from the federal budget, rid ourselves of a storage nuisance and feel good about doing acts of charity without feeling nary a pinch.
             So how do we round up the pennies? Well, the Loco World Group Research Centre has so far failed to develop a magnet that attracts pennies although they did create an awesome recipe for Tequila Caesars. Therefore we will have to go back to the basics. We could get the cubs and scouts to do a penny drive while the grads are doing their bottle drive. We could have industrial strength scales at competing town offices that people could dump their pesky pennies into when they stop by to pay the water bill or whatever. There could be a central dump off point at the annual fair perhaps, offering onlookers  free throws at the dunk tank with each donation of a pound. The possibilities are only limited by the imagination of the community groups and it’s been my experience that those groups’ imaginations are bounded only by those activities frowned upon in the criminal code and even then, well, there’s been some grey areas.
              I will admit that so far, the two notable nations to have succumbed to penny-hating riots and banned pennies from cash transactions have both reported few problems with the change in pocket change, but let’s face it; we’re talking about Australia and New Zealand, for crying out loud. They’re way down there on the bottom of the planet and all their blood is constantly rushing to their heads. They are as crazy as koalaroos or whatever freakish creatures they have roaming about. They probably never noticed the difference. I don’t know what my aforementioned learned colleague Brian’s excuse is, however.
             So instead of throwing out pennies, let’s all gather them up and see what we can do when we all put our heads and tails together. Perhaps a penny saved is a playground earned.

Advice for School Kids

          Ahhhhh.... the kids are back in school. The parents of school-aged children are all breathing a collective sigh of relief that their world can get back to normal, as if “normal” exists. Still, educating the yard apes of the land is a good thing. I, personally, am a big supporter of education. It is rather sobering to realize, though, that had I stayed in school, I’d be in grade 45 by now. Still, it is impossible to miss the hubbub at the stores and the incessant “It’s The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year” commercials, even for us folks whose kids have already run the public education gauntlet. Therefore, as a public service, the think tank at the Loco World Group headquarters (AKA Jeff’s Bar and Grill) has developed a number of guidelines to follow for a happy, well-adjusted educational experience.

1) If you ride your bike to school, to be cool, make sure it’s a Harley.
2) If your dog eats your homework, blame anything else. That excuse has never worked; not even once. Maybe try, “Mom and Dad were drunk again and I couldn’t concentrate while hiding in the basement.”
3) Demand the best I-gadgets from your folks; I-Pad, I-Phone, etc. Just remember the magic mantra “I-Want”.
4) There is an age when it is no longer cool to bring a “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” lunchbox to school. That age is thirty-five.
5) On fake sick notes, you will undergo less scrutiny if, instead of putting something like the flu or a cold, you   say you had blood in your stool. Shuts ‘em right up.
6) Fellas, when getting the strap, it is not cool to pull away. Take it like a man. It makes for a great story when you’re older. What? They’re not allowed to do that anymore? Pity.
7) Never put your tongue on the metal pole of the swings in the school playground in winter, even if you’re double-dog dared. Actually, it’s not even advisable in summer. Ewww!
8) High school is no place for drugs and alcohol. That’s what university is for.
9) Never tell your parents how many apples you’ve thrown out from your bagged lunch without eating them. They would kill you.
10)You don’t have to be dropped off a block from school so you’re not seen with your nerdy parent. To be cool, get dropped off right in front of the door. Make sure you ride in the backseat and as you get out of the car, say in a loud voice, “Pick me up at three-thirty, Jeeves, there’s a good lad.”
11) When the snow flies, remember toques just wreck your hair and wearing mitts makes it hard to smoke. It’s way better to jam your hands deep into the pockets of your light fall jacket (which looks so sharp compared to that bulky parka) and hunch your shoulders like Quasimodo. It’s almost as warm and WAY less geeky.
12) Girls, now’s the time to really go for the gusto with back to school outfits. Whine that the new stuff you got is so last Thursday and that you’ll just die if you don’t get the latest style from (insert trendy store name here. Value Village need not apply).
13) Boys, it’s true that girls have cooties but the cooties eventually grow into curves you’ll appreciate later. You still won’t understand girls any better at this juncture, however. This never goes away.
14) Never, ever, ever take a paper clip and bend it into a “U” shape and place it on an elastic band you’ve strung between thumb and forefinger and let fly, bow and arrow style at, say, the teacher’s posterior. You will be ratted out for sure and there would be grave consequences. But it IS fun to think about.
15) Tired of always being picked last for sports teams? So was I. Sorry, can’t help you.
16) Don’t sweat the small stuff. In job interviews and performance evaluations throughout my thirty-year career, I have never had anyone ask what mark I got on my grade eight science final.
17) When it’s your turn for show and tell, never bring a dead thing. The teacher always freaks out.
18) Don’t understand algebra? Don’t worry. I’m almost 50 and I’ve never needed it. I think the only purpose in becoming good at it is to be able to teach it to others. Other than that, it probably has no practical purpose. Sort of like learning Latin. Or Klingon.
19) Are you young guys still wearing your jeans ten sizes too big so they droop so low they advertise your choice of undergarment? If so, just stop it!
20) Don’t pull anyone’s finger. Sadly, the advice doled out by the Loco World Group think tank is highly suspect and must, for liability reasons, divulge warnings associated with their use. May cause nausea, vomiting and light-headedness. Some have experienced sharp pains...in the neck. May contain nuts. Not to be used with other advice columns as interactions may occur. If you experience any of these symptoms, call a doctor.

Someones Watching

       Have you ever been in a room in your house all by yourself and yet, not feel alone? You are suddenly alerted, by who knows what sense, that somehow there’s some other entity in the area and its eyes are on you. The hair on the back of your neck starts to stick up like someone’s duct-taped an icicle to your spine and you look around but there’s no one there.
        Usually I chalk it up to Cupcake spying on me but when I know she’s in bed fast asleep (no doubt halfway through yet another whodunit she’ll never figure out) the sensation is unsettling to say the least. It’s not just me that has sensed this... presence in our house. Our boys have told us over the course of their lives about strange experiences, sounds and sensations they claim to have witnessed. We always did the “good parent” thing and told them it was their imaginations and they better quit stalling and go to sleep or it could go badly for their video game allotment. It shut them up at the time (a skill I have long lost) but to this day they are absolutely convinced there is, well, something, but they’re not sure what, in the house.
        Even staunch Cupcake, who’s only succumbed to nonsense once in her life (the day she agreed to marry me) and is stupendously unshakeable (unless mice are involved), has had odd experiences. When asked if she had ever noticed anything out of the ordinary, she admitted to hearing some weird, inexplicable sounds when she has been sitting home by herself (since I never take her anywhere, she had to add).“Swear you won’t tell anyone,” she confided, “because they would think I was crazy. (I bit my tongue on the crazy line... too easy.) “Shortly after our black lab, KC passed away, I am certain I heard the sounds of a dog eating from KC’s metal bowl. I turned around to where the metal bowl used to sit but I didn’t see anything that could have made that particular noise. Still, I heard it clear as a bell.”
        A chill coursed through my body as if a parade had just walked over my grave.
        “The exact same thing happened to me!” I told her, my heart pounding like the stereo of a teenager’s muscle-car. “I’m not kidding! It was exactly as you described!” We both executed a creepy-feeling shoulder twinge simultaneously.
        It’s not just weird noises, either. Things go missing in our house with alarming regularity. Sure, we share our house with two sons that couldn’t remember where they put something down to save their souls. “Nope, never seen it,” they say. “Uh huh”, I think to myself.
        Still, that doesn’t explain every incident. About a week ago I was up for work early. I was the only awake person in the house. I looked for my daily pill holder thingy where I keep it on the vanity in the bathroom. It was nowhere in sight. I searched high and low. Finally, I gave up and jumped in the shower. As soon as I emerged from the plastic curtained cabinet, my eyes immediately alighted on my pill container sitting exactly where I’d left it, on the vanity the day before.
        When I relayed the event to Cupcake, I was surprised that she wasn’t.
        “Stuff like that happens all the time to me,” she admitted airily. “It doesn’t seem particularly malevolent. What’s the big deal?”
        “Well, I get creeped out when I’m on the computer and I feel as if someone has just blown air from their lips onto the back of my head but there’s no one else in the room.” I answered, watching closely to see if she was taking me seriously, a rare event.
        “I agree, that would be a bit unsettling, but, really, what can we do about it?” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “We don’t know what “it” is. Practically everything that has ever happened can be explained away. You can’t explain a gut feeling and you can’t deny it’s there but it makes for lousy evidence to take to the authorities, whatever authorities might actually take us seriously. At most we could phone one of those stupid cable “Ghost Hunter”-type shows but what would that accomplish except to make us the laughingstocks of Calmar?”
        “Okay, fair enough,” I conceded, “there is little we can do. So what do you think it is?”
        “I’m not sure,” Cupcake looked off reflectively. “Many possibilities come to mind. It could be a person who is caught in some kind of temporal shift or alternate universe. It might be an unseen observer from another planet who does things to see our reaction. It could be all kinds of things, really.”
         “I notice you didn’t suggest it might be a ghost,” I prodded.
         “Oh don’t be silly,” she chuckled mysteriously, “You’d have to be crazy to believe in ghosts.”

SETI - Close Encounters

        A couple snippets hot off the wire caught my interest recently. (Okay, it wasn’t really on “the wire” whatever “the wire” might be, but were actually internet news websites, however “the wire” sure sounds all journalistical don’t it?) The first was a report concerning Seth Shostak, Senior Astronomer with an institute based in Mountain View, California dedicated to the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.  (SETI, not to be confused with “yeti”, the possibly mythical mountaineering cousin of Sasquatch that hangs out in the Himalayas.) Cosmo-politician Shostak claimed they feel confident we Earthlings will be in contact with an alien life form within 25 years.  The assertion was contained in a speech given to a SETI convention in Santa Monica, California, in which the researcher made the bold prediction, adding the momentous event is very likely to be in the lifetimes of the mostly youthful attendees. (I’d bet afterward, the bulk of the attendees went home to their parents basements to play World of Warcraft.)
          ‘Holy mackerel! 25 years!? We better start cleaning up before the visitors arrive! Quick! Hide the homeless!’ was the first thought through my mind.  Then my head was filled with the voice of my father which temporarily drowned out the other voices. It was a recollection of him giving me advice regarding the news media.
          “Follow the money,” he said. “To find out why things are happening, just think of who stands to gain.” I instantly recognized that it was obvious. Of COURSE Mr. Shostak has to deliver an optimistic prognostication for contacting little green men or whatever size and colour they may be. He may even believe it himself, although that may be irrelevant. The point is, as a privately funded institution, according to Wikipedia, anyway (and Wikipedia IS the sum total of the world’s knowledge, and not Ben Stein as reported by his publicist), in order to continue to receive grants and funding, Mr. Shostak must be more optimistic than a teenage boy buying a condom for his wallet. Sure, much of the search for interplanetary neighbours consists of scanning for radio waves and there is only a slight possibility advanced alien cultures might not have some other broadcast medium, cable perhaps, but there’s jobs at stake here, including Senior Astronomer Shostak’s.
           Don’t get me wrong, by the way. I am very interested in SETI and even offered up my home computer for a time to the SETI@home research group. This organization has harnessed the down-time of an estimated 290,000 home computers which makes it the 7th most powerful computer system in the world. (The most powerful being, of course, Bill Gates’ home computer followed closely by the one that checks to see if I’ve made a car payment or not.)
           In addition to my SETI phase, I’ve always been fascinated with the space sciences. Cupcake likes to say I have space between my ears but I think she means something else. Still, I think it would be great to have friendly foreigners from neighbouring nebula show up to say “Hi!” and be on their way. But what if they like it here so much they want to stay? How would we feel about that? Would they be processed by the immigration department or would they remain illegal aliens? Would they be allowed in Arizona?
            Even worse than simply over-friendly, what if they’re hostile, mean and vicious; a planet of divorce attorneys, for example? What if they are like Klingons with no Star Fleet to come to our rescue? I doubt even Ronald Reagan’s Star Wars project could have shot down a Klingon photon torpedo. There’s so much at stake!
           On the bright side, there may be helpful aliens out there in the cosmos, committed to helping us achieve an environmentally sustainable planet with fair distribution of food; with peace and harmony in all our lives and tofu burgers for everyone. At least it would shut David “Eeyore” Suzuki up. However, I’m not sure that having some off-worlders telling us what to do would be really popular. We much prefer being bossed around, repressed and manipulated by our own kind.
            Another newsy bit to “hit the wire” (actually, the “The Mother Nature Network)” was that when/if aliens ever stopped for gas on their way to visit relatives in the Andromeda  galaxy, their interest would not be in any part of the entire body of science from the first head-bashing rock to the IPhone 4. Rather their focus would be on our arts and music. Obviously the “panel of experts” quoted in the article (their names or credentials were not mentioned, probably to protect their professional reputations in other fields) have never watched TV or listened to any of the music coming out of my son’s MP3 player. What if they don’t have fiction? What if they don’t get that TV and movies aren’t real? What would they think of “gangsta rap”? It makes you wonder why they would ever want to meet us. Maybe that’s why we haven’t made contact. They don’t want us to know they’re there. How embarrassing!

The Jetblue Blues

             Unless you’ve been living entirely out of the news loop recently, perhaps camping or just coming out of a coma, you must have heard about the flamboyant flake who quit his job at JetBlue Airlines in a blaze of media-fuelled glory. He allegedly (we news guys can say anything we want if we preface it with the word “allegedly”) got irate at a customer who smacked him on the head with some luggage and refused to apologize or some such. It’s hard to say because many of the reports of the original altercation are more vague than a politician answering questions about his college days. The flighty attendant, one Steven Slater, was said to have (almost as good as “was alleged to”) then flounced off to the galley and proceeded to commandeer the intercom to give the passengers a totally different in-flight instruction than they were used to. He told the assembled customers in general and his new nemesis in particular, to “F___ off”, swiped a couple beers (he was, possibly, an undercover Canadian) and slid down the emergency escape to make his getaway. He somehow managed to evade airport security (not a particularly difficult feat, apparently) and made his way home.  A media circus that would make P. T. Barnum jealous was, of course, on hand when police showed up to arrest him on a couple charges but he appeared happy enough when he was led off. He was obviously enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame.
             The situation has brought into focus a number of issues that require more examination than a Paris Hilton home video. The first facet of this story that troubles me is the fact that his creative resignation technique has raised the bar on leaving one’s employment. Suddenly, it’s just not good enough to yell “I quit!” and go off in a huff (or a car or bike or whatever). Now, your exit strategy has to be worthy of a YouTube video, appearances on all the talk shows and a book deal. To steal the limelight from other guys who are going to “go flight attendant” (formerly “go postal”) they will have to do even crazier and outrageous stunts to capture the public’s ephemeral attention span. What’s next? Giving the CEO a “wet willy” at the annual shareholders meeting then streaking out of the convention centre? Where will it all lead to?  This can`t be good.
             Another issue this guy’s daring departure raises is the fear this is the beginning of a trend where  service industries workers are going to  demand to be treated like human beings. On the surface, this may seem like a reasonable request given that their jobs are often stressful, low-paying and difficult. Take flight attendants for example, since we’re on the topic. Their list of responsibilities includes everything from thwarting would-be terrorists and hijackers to handing out amazingly small packages of peanuts and slinging beer. After all, an airplane is essentially a flying tavern where you aren’t allowed to toss out the drunks. (The paperwork after such an event would be staggering, much like some customers.) The attendants are both bartenders and bouncers that also hand out itty-bitty pillows when you’re sleepy. And yet many are treated poorly by their cranky customers because, in our society, like so many others, the service class is fair game for our grumpy tirades. We pay their salary, by gum, and we expect to be treated better than royalty, which airline ads with their smiley-faced actors lead us to expect. Then reality hits.  You mix 300+ parts stressed out air traveller with seven parts airline employees, add liquor and what you have is a recipe for trouble.
               If this trend continues, society may suffer dire consequences. If you are a wee bit curt with the teenaged Timmy`s toiler making your ice capp, is he/she going to spazz out and fling the delicious, icy treat in your face, then flee the scene amid the strobes of paparazzi camera flashes? The people behind you that must now wait even longer in line for their toffee coffee and Timbits are going to want blood; namely yours. We may all end up being forced to be civil to every single person in the service sector, yet another group we’ve never had to be nice to before. Where’s the fairness in that?
              The last wrinkle to this story we need to explore is the personal consequences of Mr. Slater’s great escape. After giving the paying public the finger with more fanfare than Michael Jackson’s funeral, who would ever hire him? How could any self-respecting HR manager (there must be one or two out there) trust a man known to be demonstrably willing to tell their hard-won, paying customers to eff off? Even worse, he stole beer! That`s lower than Michael Ignatieff`s approval rating. When he slid down the inflatable slide to freedom, his chances for future employment plunged downward even faster. Very few companies will take a chance on a temperamental, surly employee. There’s nothing left for him but the civil service. Poor guy.