The Word Show

It’s 4:30pm on Thursday, and I am experiencing severe hunger pangs. Luckily, I planned ahead and brought with me a snack: lentils mixed with rice, courtesy of my Lebanese friends at Amir. I think I’ll go ahead and pat myself on the back for making such a healthy, yet delicious, snack choice. The secret to the tastiness is the fired onions that Amir likes to throw in.

Unluckily, I forgot to pack a utensil to eat this ethnic amuse bouche. After scavenging unsuccessfully for a plastic fork in my desk drawer (I do keep a lot of random junk in there), I have grown desperate, and have resorted to scanning my desktop for something that might, in a pinch, serve as a spoon or a fork. So far my choices are HB pencil (too skinny, eraser tastes bad), pink highlighter (too visible to my co-workers as a non-piece of cutlery), opened stapler (a bit unwieldy, but quite good for scooping), magic marker (same issues as highlighter), and a large-sized paper clip (discreet, but tiny surface area, even in x-large format, and hence not very functional).

Funnily enough, it seems my 1 gig USB thumb drive may be the best candidate – it’s cheap, probably worth only a couple of bucks and therefore fairly disposable, small enough to not be visible to my coworkers, and has a surprisingly broad surface for carrying lentils to my mouth.

If that doesn’t pan out, the “wildcard” would be to just hold the plastic container of lentils over my face and let the tasty chunks just drop in – though I don’t like the lack of professionalism that scene would convey to my coworkers.

I’ve just remembered: when I was 6 years old, I desperately wanted to have a long trunk, like an elephant’s. Good Lord, a trunk would be the perfect utensil indeed. It’s almost as if my 6-year-old self knew that, for all the potential ridicule an elephant’s trunk, grafted onto a human face, would have posed, it would’ve paid off so wonderfully – so deliciously for that human,  nearly a quarter century later. It makes me wonder what other prescient thoughts my 6-year-old self had. God, I’m hungry.

It’s been over a week and I’m still reeling from the news that my childhood tennis idol, Andre “Rebel” Agassi, was using crystal meth during the height of his early career. A true champion – he couldn’t settle for an addiction to prescription pain killers or even cocaine, the celebrity party-drug of choice. No, he had to reach over the top and go for the most dangerous narcotic available, the one that, when ingested, can up your blood pressure and alter your sense of reality to the point that normal people are mistaken for demon-wolves.

Agassi’s meth use does explain his choice of on-court attire; stone-washed jean shorts, fused with bright pink spandex biker shorts. If drug movies and reruns of Cops are any indicator, that’s basically the American speed freak’s uniform of choice, though the typical Tweaker wouldn’t think to actually COMBINE the spandex undershorts with the denim cut-offs – rather he would just wear them as “separates.” Indeed, Agassi was a visionary, both on and off the court.

The meth also explains Agassi’s full-power mullet. The hairdo seemed to scream, “I love Davey Crockett’s racoon skin hat, but I also like to party, and party HARD.” That the mullet was fake just hammered home in what a bad state Andre was.

I’m glad he’s better now.

I attended my first yoga lesson a couple of months ago, with a young lady whom I was seeing at the time. Short of the physical end of things, we didn’t have much in common, but I knew her to be a yoga devotee, so I thought I might impress her with my open-mindedness and willingness to try her class with her.

What ensued instead was her ending our relationship via text message some 6 days after the yoga lesson. Do I blame the “Hot Yoga” class we attended for revealing too many of my physical faults – perhaps too many for her to bear (e.g. I’m not very flexible, I have a low threshold for pain, I still get “wood” at inopportune times, I can perspire more in 60 minutes than most healthy males will over the course of an entire summer)? No, I think we were simply – indeed, laughably -  incompatible.

But please treat mine as a cautionary tale: Downward Dog can lead to a relationship’s downward spiral very quickly indeed – attend a yoga class with your girlfriend/boyfriend at your own peril; because you’re just one audible fart away from relationship death.

There we were, walking down College St., the busy Toronto thoroughfare. It was Halloween, and my friend, Guy, and I were on a mission to procure some red lightbulbs to lend his apartment the appropriate “spooky glow” so integral to a successful Halloween party (spoiler alert: the party was SICK).

It being Halloween, there was a distinctly ominous vibe in the neighborhood. More accurately, I think I was just a bit weirded out, Montrealer that I am, to see so much English signage – or perhaps I was still just feeling the effects of the 6-hour drive down the 401 from MTL. Whatever it was, I was feeling an eerie vibe. I was bracing myself to bear witness to any number of supernatural occurrences – a ghostly apparition, perhaps a UFO sighting, or maybe the audible cry of a lone, howling wolf (“but there aren’t any WOLVES in downtown Toronto!” I would surely exclaim).

So Guy and I make our way down the street; our destination, the Shoppers Drugmart, in sight. We begin to cross the street along a crosswalk when Guy sees something moving towards us. He points at it, and we both freeze. It’s white – a blinding white – almost glowing – and it’s moving with a deliberate rhythm – much faster than we are. But it wasn’t a ghost.

No, my friends, it was far more menacing: it was a mid-1990’s Acura Integra, customized to include an obnoxious “fart can” exhaust. Freshly waxed, the whip’s white paint was like porcelain. But not Ming Dynasty porcelain, more like freshly-cleaned Crane urinal porcelain. Still, it was shiny.

The mid-90’s integra was the kind of car that would usually come, straight from the factory, equipped with a neon-lit undercarriage, and a rear spoiler only slightly smaller than a park bench. I don’t want to stereotype or racially profile the owners of these cars, but I’ll simply say that drivers of tricked-out integras tend to be young, male, reckless drivers…but also extremely good at math. Fine, I’ll say it: they tend to be Asian.

The acura was careening towards the crosswalk, and Guy, projecting all the confidence of a Toronto urbanite, high on lattes (or whatever Torontonians drink – lord knows it isn’t beer) said simply “watch this.”

And then it happened; the Acura, all exhaust backfire bluster, light show, and booming bass, screeched to a halt at the crosswalk in front of us. I was shocked.

I looked at Guy, who turned to me and said “That’s right Dan, in Toronto – EVERYBODY stops at the crosswalk.” I was floored. All these years, I had convinced myself that Torontonians were a cold, soulless tribe; people who were obsessed only with money and status. I was sure the city was simply a bastion of douchebaggery – where people were cutthroat and had little regard for their fellow citizen – that is, unless said citizen played for the Maple Leafs. I was wrong.

What’s more, in Montreal, it’s a positively rare thing to see someone stop at a crosswalk. It’s not done.

So there you have it. Toronto: it’s not so bad!

As I sit here at my desk, neck-deep in “Twilight”-themed plus-sized merchandise (Vampires are very big with the kids, especially the very big kids), I’m thinking about Halloween. Specifically, I’m hoping my costume this year will offer a positive return on the time I invested in producing it.

I will be going as a “Douche.” The key elements of my costume will be a life-sized, homemade label for Summer’s Eve Feminine Personal Douche (to tackle the literal end of things), complemented by a bevy of douchey accoutrements: liberally-applied self-tanner, baseball cap with oversized ‘BMW’ logo, Bluetooth wireless earpiece, aviator sunglasses, golf shirt with popped collar, and a tribal arm band tattoo.

My return on investment, or “R.O.I.” in douche parlance, will hopefully come in the form of hearty laughs and some safe, no-strings-attached heterosexual intercourse which, now that I think of it, is itself a fairly douchey aspiration. Luckily, douchebaggery is an irony-free pursuit.

So this past Saturday, I may have hit a new low point whilst playing every modern drunkard’s favourite existential word game, “Would you rather…” This is a game where you’re asked which of two fates you would prefer to face. Some examples are; what animal would you rather have to fight to the death; a lion or a grizzly bear? Which would you rather be; the coolest retard, or the most retarded cool person? What looks gayer on a man; tight pants and a puffy shirt, or puffy pants and a tight shirt? You hopefully get the idea.

And so on Saturday night, we arrived at our latest scenario to ponder. 6 pints deep into intellectual discourse, we came up with this: would you rather have cancer of the aids, or aids of the cancer?

You’re welcome.

Here’s a speech I gave at my good friend’s wedding party a short time ago. Names have been changed to protect their identities, if you really want to know who’s who, I’ll probably tell you.

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Everyone, if I could please have your attention, my name is Dan Reitman. You may remember me as one of Richard’s groomsmen. If you attended the wedding but don’t remember me as a groomsman, you may remember me as the lanky guy at the party attempting to breakdance at 1am. I know what you’re going to ask, and the answer is, no, I’m not a professional dancer, it’s just talent I like to share.
For those of you who could not make it to Aberdeen, rest assured the wedding in Scotland was spectacular. It was a wonderful melding of Canadian and Scottish families and culture, Francine was a beautiful bride, and Richard looked amazingly presentable.

My official responsibility, as groomsman # 3, was, as Richard and Francine told me, to hold on to this set of keys [hold up plain set of keys], and make sure they did not leave my sight. I’m still not sure what these keys are supposed to open, and I have the distinct impression that Richard and Francine gave me this task because they didn’t want me to feel left out. That’s the mark of true friends.
Anyhow, I’m thrilled to be able to stand before you today, on this, the one-month anniversary of their wedding – I’m not sure if they’re planning on having one of these every month, but you guys should know you are only getting one gift from me.

I’m going to say a few words about Richard and Francine; why I think they’re good people, and then I’m going to wrap it up, because I probably will have been rambling for quite a while, In fact I’m probably already doing that now.

I’m honoured to call myself a close friend of both Richard and Francine. Richard and I have known each other since grade 7, and I like to think I know him pretty well. Richard is a great friend. His enthusiasm and motivation in all things is infectious, and he brings out the best in people. He is also a man of contradictions. On the one hand, he’s a competitive athlete who loves sports, especially football and hockey, but this aggressiveness is nowhere to be found when he is confronted with, say, the common pigeon. It’s true, he is absolutely terrified of birds. Francine, on the other hand is a lover of animals. Especially cats. And unicorns. Try to explain to Francine that unicorns do not actually exist, and it’s your funeral, my friend.

Anyhow Richard and I have had some great times together with our crew of idiots. We had it all figured out in our mid-20’s, and then one day Richard realized that he needed to take some time off from the busy rat race – so he moved to Australia. We got e-mails from him detailing his exploits, about meeting Francine and their travels together in their rusty Toyota jeep with the funny name.

When Richard came back from Australia, it was clear that the unforgiving Outback and all the kangaroo meat he had ingested had changed him. He had fallen in love with two things: Australian slang, and [point to Francine] surfing. Richard would strain to work Australian words into his sentences, saying things like “arvo” instead of “afternoon”, or “chuffed” instead of “excited”. Luckily that wore off. But in all seriousness, while the surfing and aussie-speak were new interests, it was Francine that occupied most of Richard‘s thoughts.
When Richard returned from his Australian odyssey, he and Francine then endured a tough year of long distance phone calls, and then Francine decided to bravely make the voyage across the Atlantic to come live with Richard in Montreal, where she would live with us in our apartment on Terrasse St. Denis. It was an unbelievably gutsy move, and I could just imagine what questions were swirling in Francine’s mind as her plane crossed the Atlantic: how cold was Canada going to be? Will things work out with Richard? Are Richard’s roommates crazy? Do they have unicorns and kittens in Canada?

Francine had nothing to fear, though, because it was clear right from the get-go that Francine, whether she liked it or not, fit right in. She was, for lack of a better term, an instant hit with our group. Francine is an incredibly thoughtful, sensitive, caring person, with a wicked sense of humour, but then anyone who has spoken with her for even a few minutes can tell that right away. Possibly my favourite thing about Francine is that she laughs at all my jokes. Even better than that is how much this aggravates Richard.

And it was clear that they were truly great together. Francine has absolutely changed Richard for the better: where previously, Richard was known to saunter around our apartment in nothing but a skimpy bath towel for hours on end, clapping his hands enthusiastically at the TV in order to rally his beloved Habs, with Francine around, he did less of this. That was a good thing. There are probably more profound ways Francine has improved Richard that I can’t see, but they aren’t as embarrassing and satisfying to describe as Mr. claps-his-hands-loudly-in-a-bath-towel. But in all seriousness Richard and Francine are true complements to each other, and it’s wonderful to be able to celebrate their marriage.

I thought I might end my little speech with a quote. Because I’ve heard quotations make people sound smart, even if they aren’t. I wanted the quote to encapsulate how I feel about my two close friends, Richard and Francine, tying the knot, and how excited I am for their new life together. I thought it would be appropriate to use a hockey quote, so I spent about 3 hours online, looking for some interesting stuff, and I found it, but then I realized that I had gotten seriously sidetracked, and they were asking me for my credit card #, so I spent another hour, and I found this, and if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to read this, a recent quote from Hockey Legend Don Cherry :

“When you skate along to the blue line, and you’re about to take your shot, first you need to stare down the goalie. Get a read on his mind. Then look at the penalty box, it’s empty, that represents the risks in your life, where all your mistakes will be visible. You look up at the score board and the scores have been replaced by Scottish flag overlapping a Canadian one. Then look over at your bench, and your team is composed of one person; uour life partner. Francine . You take the shot, you score, and the crowd goes wild.”

I’m going to be honest with you, that was not from Don Cherry, I made that up 2 hours ago. What’s worse is I don’t know anything about hockey. But I do know that I’m so thrilled and excited for Richard and Francine, and I want you guys to know I love you both and wish for you a lifetime of happiness together. Thanks very much.

Well the big news on my end is my sister got married last weekend. The wedding was great – pomp and pageantry and heartfelt sincerity, tied together with more food than you’d find on a cruise ship full of American BBQ enthusiasts – a proper Jewish wedding, then. Better still, any doubts I had of my new brother-in-law’s coolness were assuaged at the party when he, unprompted, did “the worm.”

It was a black-tie affair, and it was only on the morning of the wedding that I realized I didn’t know how to tie a bowtie. So, in what I’m sure was supposed to be one of those seminal father-son moments, my dad showed me how to tie a bowtie. As my dad only knew how to tie a tie around his own neck, he attempted to tie mine the same way; by standing behind me and tying the tie around my neck.

The problem with this setup was that my father had developed a sizeable paunch over the years – sizeable enough to make it difficult to get his arms around the neck of his son. This problem was made apparent when he wrapped the tie around my neck and started fumbling. His arms struggled to get around my neck – sort of like a nervous UFC fighter trying to force a sloppy chokehold. I wondered, does my father want me to “tap out“? The joke would be on him, because I wouldn’t give up. Reitmans don’t quit.

Sure enough, I became light-headed, at which point I suggested to my dad that it wasn’t too late to seek a clip-on replacement at Ogilvy’s up the street. My dad ignored this plea, and the frantic fumbling continued.
A minute passed and I started to feel seriously faint, and so I began to weigh the pros and cons of passing out at my sister’s wedding (pro: I get wheeled out on a stretcher – stealing my sister’s thunder on her big day – and get home early enough to catch Inside The Actor’s Studio on Bravo, Con: this week’s interviewee is Christian Slater…not worth it.) Luckily, before I could decide, Dad released his death grip and revealed a bowtie so beautifully tied that it would have made James Bond look like a filthy hobo. It was that good. Needless to say, the wedding was a success.

Half your age plus 7. That’s the unofficial cut-off for how young you can aim in the dating pool. I’m not sure who came up with the rule, but I‘ve known about it for a few years – which means, based on my often delayed absorption of such cultural norms, that it has probably existed for decades. I’d like to think this dating maxim was established by a meeting of the great thinkers of the day; a summit of philosophers, scientists, and ethicists who met to solve this age-old question: how low, age-wise, can you go? I’m thinking they probably met at Mount Olympus. They would have agonized for days over what should really be the line of decency – of social acceptability – when it comes to dating someone younger. These great thinkers would face the Herculean challenge of fusing the quantifiable with the utterly unquantifiable: Mathematics versus Romance. Finally, after days of impassioned arguments back and forth, they would emerge from the summit with a golden rule, to be passed onto lotharios the world over. Half your age + 7. And so it would be.

But more likely than that scenario is this one: a college senior, sitting alone in the corner booth at an Applebee‘s, sulking over a beer and a half-eaten plate of jalapeno poppers, is desperately smitten with a freshman who is 4 years younger and therefore, as said freshman is still not 18, jailbait and off limits. A half dozen beers later, however, the college senior has his “aha moment”: he devises the “half your age +7 “ justification. The senior knew being a math major would eventually pay off, but not so quickly.

But I’m speculating on how this golden rule came to be – what about its legitimacy in the real world, outside Applebees and Mount Olympus? Lucky for you, dear reader, in my quest for the truth, I undertook my own experiment this past summer to see if “half your age + 7” held any merit. The conclusion? Inconclusive. It could work, but it depends on the ages involved. If you’re 30 and she’s 22, for instance, that’s a pretty big valley. I like Daft Punk and Led Zeppelin – she enjoyed Tiesto – a newer watered down version of Daft Punk – and had only heard Stairway to Heaven out of the Zeppelin catalogue – kind of unacceptable, and very clear indicator my 22-year-old subject was in need of some life experience. Less crucial than the dearth of Led in her iTunes was she didn’t know much about current events; e.g. that Israel had some not-so-minor problems with its neighbors in the middle east, for instance. So I guess the key learning is that half your age + 7 can work, but in my case it would be nice if she watched the news or – failing that – could enjoy a good Jimmy Page riff.

This summer has been an all-out bonanza of wedding activity for yours truly. I only attended two actual weddings this season – but inasmuch as both weddings were of close friends, there was a constant chatter amongst our posse leading up to both events; e.g. talk of the planning, the anticipation, which people were left off the guest list and dragged under the friendship bus, etc. What’s more, my own sister’s wedding is coming up in a few weeks, so that will be yet another big deal.

After my sister’s marriage, the focus within my family will be on me, so the logic goes, because I am the next-oldest cousin and, logically, the next one to marry. The truth is I don’t plan to get married for a while, that is unless I hear back from South African beauty Charlize Theron about my written proposal – seriously, how long does it take to respond to a letter ( I’ve sent 15)? I don’t understand what the hold up could be. I used a classy serif-based font, and went as far as to spray each missive with a mist from the extract of a dozen Giant Proteas, South Africa’s national flower. But still no answer. Some say my persistence is creepy, but I know better. People said the same thing about a too-short young basketball player who grew up in North Carolina, and couldn’t make his high school basketball team. That young man’s name was Michael Jordan.

The last wedding I attended did not disappoint. It was a joyous occasion and, while the father of the bride was Greek, there were, sadly, no flying plates or champagne flutes – though it was pretty amusing how we, the non-Greeks, kept looking at each other for cues as to whether a particular moment was the right time to huck our empty glasses at the wall. That moment never came, but luckily the father of the bride would prove more entertaining than any airborne, high-velocity flatware: the FOB was fabulously drunk, but not the quiet drunk, slouched over in the corner. No, sir. He actually peaked early, delivering a toast to the bride and groom, where he repeated himself at least a dozen times – asked for a LOT of grandchildren (translation: I look forward to you bedding my daughter, sir) and confessed, clearly only half-jokingly, that the groom was not yet, and I quote, “100% welcomed into the family.” I say well done, honesty is important in any family relationship.

He finished strongly by groping a good half of the women at the party – his preferred move was the old “let-me-take-a-picture-with-you-lovely-ladies-so-I-can-grab-your-asses” trick. Hey, the guy paid for the wedding, so at least he got his money’s worth. I think the rule should be that if you’re paying for a wedding, then you can say – and repeat ad nauseum – whatever you want in your speech. If you’re paying for a wedding and it’s open bar, then say what you want, and then grope away.