Old people 101

This project I'm working on recently required the creation of a radio spot to promote a non-profit organization. It only had to be 30 seconds long. I had no idea it was going to take me 10 hours to make it. OK, so it might not have taken sooooo long if my plan hadn't been so ingenious.

I chose to support a project that assists the elderly in Montreal. Basically, they pair up a fogie with a yungin' and, if all goes well, they'll help them shop and get to appointments...and go to picnics...and all that sweet stuff.

Imagine how good you would feel knowing that because you gave 2 hours each week, an older person was able to continue living in their own home? I mean, no one wants to be institutionalized and it really pisses them off that just because they are scared of breaking a hip on the ice, people start treating them like they're crazy.

To promote these people properly, I was going to have to give them a voice. So I wrote a script, armed myself with an audio recorder and realized: I don't know any old people.

Well I do, but Peter and John don't count. Even with their 0/20 vision they undress me with their eyes. In fact, if they slipped on the ice in front of me, I would suspect they just did it to cop-a-feel when I pick them up.

Where could I find old people? I mean, the whole point is that they can't get out of their houses in this crappy weather! Then, then I realized just how resourceful I could be, donned my boots and headed for the food court at the mall.

Now, I don't know if you've ever approached old people with a tape recorder and some papers, but it was generally like approaching an injured bird. They get really flustered as you near them, and wish more than anything that you would just go the hell away.

These people have been harassed by soliciters for nearly as many decades as there's been electricity. If they seemed like injured birds to me surely I was a frothing rabid toy-poodle to them.

To put them at ease once I introduced myself, I assured them I was trying to sell them nothing. And when I heard myself reassuring them, I realized I sounded like a door-to-door religious recruiter. Apparently I did, because the question to follow was inevitably, "Are you one of those Jehovah's Witnesses?"

OK, so I got off to the wrong start...there was still hope. I told them I was promoting a non-profit organization, supported by credible insititutions and can assist older people in need of a little extra help with grocery shopping and other errands...

At this point they would cut me off and tell me how old they were, what diseases they'd suffered, wars they'd fought, the number of children they'd raised and to which Christian sect they are part.

Then, I would remind them that I needed them to read a sentence aloud that I would record for this commercial. The most common answer: "No no no no no. Ohhhhh, no no no no no. Good bye."

I'm sure it would have been easier to convert them to Raelianism, than get them to co-operate.

Some of the people I asked were downright rude, some were mean, some were annoying, some were scared of me, some were really wonderfully sweet...

... but it took me nearly 3 hours to find them.

Old people, my friends, are simply people who've gotten old. I fear not all of us learn to be kind to our neighbors and love unconditionally...some of us just get pissed off.

In any case, I wish I had more time to share the bloopers of the project, the strange things said and just why it is complicated to have diabetes, high cholesterol and a bum knee...

But, with limited time and space I will simply share my successes.

A delightful woman, aged 86, was kind enough to yell into the microphone: "THERE'S GOING TO BE A PARTY!"

And a delightful man, aged 80 with a thick Russian accent, yelled "RHOCK MUZEEK, RHEALLY HLOUD MUZEEK, RHEALLY HLOUD HROCK HMUSIC..."

I didn't *ask* him to say that...but he did.

And it made my day.

So, thank you to the food court crew! May the coffee be fresh and the summer come soon.

What the Hell is going on?

Sheesh, I mention that Satan called and the next thing I know, the Blogger banner at the top of my blog page suggests that people who are interested in my blog might also be interested in:

"Related Searches: • satan • church of satan"

Thanks, Google.

Me, God or the Rabbi, none of us will answer your call, not at this number

Forgive me for not expanding on my Christmas story about drunken mothers, dirty old men and canapés. I have far more important entities to discuss: God.

Last week a woman called my house asking for him. "Hello, is God there?" OK, so maybe she was asking for 'Gad', but how would I know the difference? Either way, I could safely answer, "You have the wrong number."

It is an odd coincidence though, considering that last week, a man claiming to be Satan repeatedly called my friend's house to tell us he was watching us through the window and would soon be gnawing our flesh to the bones.

The world was blessed with caller ID for several years, that mighty feature really helped keep prankers at bay, but the curse of *67 soon followed. It's the balance of good and evil. In any case, the most dreaded of all callers beckoned me by way of an incessant ring-ring today.

My day began with some wonky auto-dialer with short-term memory loss. It just kept calling and beeping at me all day long. I started imagining that the auto-dialer had an otherworldly agenda, and was calling as part of a tactic to take over the developed world. It's duty was to drive the warmbloods crazy, household by household, using our own infrastructure against us. Or, I dunno, something. Finally, a real human called.

Initially, I was relieved, but only initially. Ultimately, I concluded that the most annoying man in the warmblood world had acquired my phone number. The aliens must've gotten to him already.

He asked to speak with the Rabbi. Apparently, about 10 years ago, the Rabbi could be reached at my number, which lead me to believe this man hasn't spoken with his Rabbi as often as he should. In any case, I get this request a lot. Usually telling the caller they've reached the wrong number is sufficient. This time was different. I was asked to look up the Rabbi's phone number, instead. After assuring the man that I haven't a clue how to get in touch with the Rabbi, he scolded me: "Well, what kind of Jew are you then?"

"Actually, I'm not Jewish" I told him, and he seemed surprised. With a real desire to get to the bottom of this situation, he cleverly asked, "Well then why do you have the Rabbi's phone number?"

"Wellllllllll, it's not the Rabbi's phone number," I said, "It's my phone number."

"Well then shouldn't you at least know his number in case people call you who need to talk to the Rabbi?" he demanded.

"No, those people should look his number up themselves," I answered, now incredulous.

"Are you Sephardic? You sound Sephardic. You know what? I think you are an Orthodox Jew," he concluded, and I wondered what, exactly, he was trying to say.

"I am not Jewish, I'm sorry."

Now, completely annoyed, he raised his voice a little more and said, "Do you even know the Rabbi? Well, do you?"

"No!" I was relieved. We were finally making progress, I thought. Then, he asked the next question.

"Do you even know what he looks like?"

"No! No, I don't! I am sorry, I have to go now." I couldn't take any more.

"I think you should changed your phone number if you aren't going to give people the Rabbi's phone number."

"You know what!? The next time you talk to the Rabbi you can tell him that I would like it if he didn't give my number out to you," I yelled. He'd pushed me too far.

"You know I really thought you were Sephardic."

...click...

My mom does coffee with the angel of death

All hail the "Supreme Pessimista!" Bow down to her, resistance is only met with a heavier arsenal. All attempts to protect oneself from the avalanche of depressing news will be thwarted by dismissive "mmm..."s and "yes, well as I was saying..."s and "so anyway..."s. Or worse, a defensive, "Well I just thought you should know!"

How can so many terrible things happen to people she knows over the course of a single week? How can my mom know it all? My mother, I've realized, is a dark humourist, my dark humour muse. I have a feeling a disproportionate number of entries in this journal will be about that. Please bear with me on that, I'm coping.

Instinct doesn't always translate well

I am a person who truly believes in first impressions. When I first meet you, I'll receive information processed subconsciously that will then cause a very discreet physical reaction. Every time I meet with you after this, I'll have that very same reaction. It's subtle, but it's powerful.

Sometimes this feeling comes as an unpleasant taste, other times as a shiver and most often ennui. We can call this "instinct."

If you're a creep, don't expect me to get into an elevator with you. Don't ask for my name. Don't ask why I won't tell you what it is. Don't expect me to make you dinner at my house. Don't ever touch me without explicit permission. In fact, I may never want to see you again. If it's really bad I won't want YOU to see ME again.

If you're wonderful, I might try to communicate your wonderfulness to you and soften the ol' eye contact, listen to your stories even if I am thinking I should really be doing my homework instead, and laugh at even your lamest jokes.

This sounds like a great, fool-proof system...but every system has its security issues. The kryptonite for "instinct" seems to be alcohol. Or more specifically: Ladies' Night. You see, in Quebec, Ladies' Night means that all women can drink as much as they want, for FREE. This usually makes the bars more popular with men than women. I assume this is not because women are easier after a sip or seven too much, but rather that their instinct is faulty, or absent.

If we've been drinking, my instinct departs for safer grounds and I find myself in the strangest of situations. The most recent of which involved having my neck unexpectedly bitten by a 20-something francophone Quebecois big-attitude wannabe-punk named "Rose" with a tattoo on his, well, on his entire torso and part of his face. How did I not see that coming?

I'll blame it on the language barrier.