Monday, March 26, 2012

The Stuph File Program - Episode #0136

Welcome to the latest edition of the Stuph File Program.

For a program list of the items included and all their accompanying links in this one hour show, you can find the information on my website in the Stuph File Program section, or just follow this link to #0136.





To download the podcast, right click here and select "Save Link As"

Featured in this episode:

  • Stu McMullin, co-director, Hell Pizza
  • Don Sammons, mayor, owner & operator, Buford, Wyoming
  • Angela Paul, Life Coach
Click logo for iTunes podcast subscription If you have any comments or suggestions, or items for the mailbag, feel free to click on the "Comments" link below to add your thoughts.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

The Stuph File Program - Episode #0135

Welcome to the latest edition of the Stuph File Program.

For a program list of the items included and all their accompanying links in this one hour show, you can find the information on my website in the Stuph File Program section, or just follow this link to #0135.





To download the podcast, right click here and select "Save Link As"

Featured in this episode:

Click logo for iTunes podcast subscription If you have any comments or suggestions, or items for the mailbag, feel free to click on the "Comments" link below to add your thoughts.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Candy Is Dandy, But Costly

I have probably spent more time in a darkened movie theatre than most people. I grew up being a major film buff. As a teenager I spent six years working in cinemas in jobs from usher to projectionist. And one of my first gigs in the media was as a movie critic. So I have a bit of experience sitting in the dark, feet on a sticky floor, watching still pictures bounce off the wall at 24 frames per second. In my theatre working days I also sold quite a bit of merchandise at the concession stand. Because of this, I find a current lawsuit in the news rather amusing.

In the state of Michigan a class action case has been filed against the AMC Theatre chain. It would appear that a penny-pinching patron is upset because of the high cost of movie snacks and the double whammy of the movie house denying him the ability to bring his own soda and candy in. Oh, the horror!

The 20-something plaintiff says he’s tired of movie theatres taking advantage of him. He's suing because he believes the chain is in alleged violation of Michigan's Consumer Protection Act.

While I cannot dispute that movie snack prices are outrageous, I can also state from personal experience that this has always been the case. Let’s go back to the simple days of my youth when everything was cheaper (no, a loaf of bread wasn’t a nickel; that was in my Dad’s day!)

In the outside world (that would be any corner store) I could get a ten ounce Coke for fifteen cents and a bag of chips for a dime – total expenditure, one whole quarter. In the movie theatre that I worked at, that quarter wouldn’t even get me the same sized drink. That was 35 cents (and that drink was considered the small cup, which we kind of hid away because we were prone to selling larger ones). The bag of chips was 50 cents. So, you see, the movie theatre mark ups were disproportionately high then too.

In today’s world, it’s not only the mark ups that are high, but the size of the containers the food comes in. Soft drink cups so large that they have an undertow, and popcorn containers big enough to require a gas station pump to add the butter, seem to be the norm. And with those big containers, naturally comes even bigger prices.

Analysts recently reported that for every dollar spent on candy and soda in movie theatres, 85% is pure profit. Another study shows that $30 worth of raw popcorn is worth as much as $3,000 to movie theatres.

And contrary to what some in the general population believe, theatres don’t really make their money on the ticket prices, as most of that goes back to the studios. Theatres clearly get their biggest bang for their buck playing the role of pusher to the sugar junkies that line up like Pavlov’s dogs at the mere scent of popcorn in the air. Believe it or not, the high cost of the food is what’s actually keeping the ticket prices where they are (and many believe they are also high enough as it is already).

Going back to my movie working days, we were very cognisant of understanding on which side our popcorn was buttered. I was a master at making popcorn. The trick was making about three or four batches the normal way in those big industrial machines; then adding another batch that was heavily laden with popcorn salt. When you mix them all together that salty kernel you popped in your mouth was like a time released capsule designed to make you want to drink more (and possibly stroke out a diabetic).

So I understand the anger some might feel about being gouged at the candy counter. And I sympathize with the fellow that feels so strongly about the prices that he wants to sue. But conventional wisdom doesn’t believe this lawsuit has any legs. And for me, I believe the reasons for failure are two-fold. One, nowhere does it say that you have to buy snacks; and two, how did we get to a point in society where people can’t even last 90 minutes without eating?

When I go to the theatre, I fill up on entertainment, not snacks. Movie theatres probably hate me, because all they’re getting out of my wallet is the price of admission.

That’s the Stuph – the way I see it.

Monday, March 12, 2012

The Stuph File Program - Episode #0134

Welcome to the latest edition of the Stuph File Program.

For a program list of the items included and all their accompanying links in this one hour show, you can find the information on my website in the Stuph File Program section, or just follow this link to #0134.





To download the podcast, right click here and select "Save Link As"

Featured in this episode:

Click logo for iTunes podcast subscription If you have any comments or suggestions, or items for the mailbag, feel free to click on the "Comments" link below to add your thoughts.

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Home Dating Etiquette

This is a reprinting of a story I wrote over 20 years ago. It was originally published in the Montreal Suburban on Wednesday, November 27, 1991


When it comes to dating, a lot of the pressure is on the male once he has made up his mind to impress the object of his affections. Women bring out their magnifying glasses to scrutinize potential Romeos, and first impressions are very important.

Most men seem to understand this. That is why they're on their best behaviour on the first few dates. They eat with the right fork, listen attentively to their date's conversations, reply with witty remarks and facial reactions that were long practiced in the mirror and most importantly, they keep all of their bodily functions in check and under control.

Where men seem to fail is when they bring a woman home to their apartment for the first time. Cars are an extension of what a man thinks his personality is like. Apartments, however, tell the truth. This is the reason why Home Dating Etiquette is so important. A few rules to live by:

1) Except In Frat Houses, Carpets And Clothing Are Not Interchangeable:
Men have a tendency of dropping their clothing on the floor to mark the spot where they originally took it off. This habit usually results in a trail of slightly soiled garments that take on the characteristics of a multicoloured throw rug....not a pretty sight. Likewise, the half hearted attempt to stuff all of the refuse in one location at the last minute is almost guaranteed to backfire. Don't forget guys, the lady probably won't go to the extreme of wearing white gloves, but she is checking you out. She's going to open doors and closets, and if she picks the wrong one, you'll need a winch to get her from underneath last month's laundry.

2) If Mom Wouldn't Like Your Magazine And Tape Collection, Chances Are Your Date Won't Either!:
From the time you have met the "soul mate of your dreams," you have been trying to show her that you're a sophisticated, sensitive, modern man who treats women as equals, not sex objects. You enjoy her company, and you love her mind. This image will go out the window if she finds Miss January hanging in the linen closet, and Snow White Enjoys The Seven Dwarfs sitting on top of your VCR.

3) Serve Drinks In Real Glasses:
Living alone is not like living with Mom. All you had to do there was to open up a cupboard and take out a glass. You never had to concern yourself with how it got there. As a bachelor, however, you have to learn how to buy glasses. Glasses you get from your favourite fast food restaurant or in a box of detergent are fine when the guys are over watching the ball game. But real women don't like to be wined and dined while drinking out of something that has either Tweety Bird, R2D2 or "Go Jays Go" on it.

4) Cleanliness is Next To Godliness (Except In The Dictionary - Godliness Is Next To Goggles. Cleanliness Is Next To Cleavage):
It may not be important to have floors that you can eat off of, but a plate would be nice. If you have to search high and low for a plate, never mind a clean one, your date will be searching high and low for the phone number to a cab.

5) Dinner Should Not Have Originally Rattled In A Box:
Nobody is expecting you to be a gourmet chef, however, your date would like to know that a little effort went into the evening. If when she arrives, you pop something into the microwave, and it's finished before her chair is warmed, she won't be amused. Likewise, anything served in an aluminum tray or little cardboard boxes won't go over big either. Adult food would also be a good idea. One rule of thumb is to avoid serving culinary delights most commonly associated with stadiums.

If you are lucky enough to survive the evening by using these helpful tips, she may actually return future calls to her answering machine. Should you fail to follow these simple instructions but still get another chance, then that's either a sign that you should marry this woman immediately, or a warning never go to dinner at her house.

Wedding Guest Blues

This is a reprinting of a story I wrote over 20 years ago. It was originally published in the Montreal Suburban on Wednesday, December 11, 1991


It is quite fashionable these days to be a hyphenate. What's a hyphenate? Anybody who claims to be more than one person, like producer-writer or actor-director. If you're still single when you hit your thirties, you get a special hyphen. Mine is broadcaster-professional wedding guest.

It always seems to be that at this time of the year the mailbox is stuffed with all types of colorful envelopes requesting my appearance at somebody's nuptials. This is usually followed by the demonic chanting of my mother repeating the phrases, "when are you getting married?" and "I want grandchildren."

When the wedding involves extremely close friends, or relatives, there is very little surprise and much glee in receiving an invitation for the blessed event. I hastily put a "will attend" in the little box on the confirmation card, place it in the accompanying miniature envelope, and skip with joy to the mailbox to drop it in.

What concerns me are the invitations that come out of the blue. Co-workers I barely know or don't like, people I haven't seen since college or high school, old girlfriends or those who I thought were long dead, insist that I share their moment of joy, like an extra in a bad home video.

What goes through their minds? Was there a minimum quota for the amount of people needed at the reception? Since they never ask if I'm bringing a date, do they assume that I'll round out the dinner arrangements at a table that seats an odd number? Perhaps they're just gift greedy, and having me there is just one more toaster oven to add to the list.

Regardless of the reason, everybody knows the routine. You get the invitation, but you really don't want to go. The question is, what excuse do you use for saying no? After much pondering, you soon realize that you have no excuse. Either that or no backbone.

If you say no, you'll look like a pre-nuptial Scrooge. Word would get around, you'll be blacklisted, and as a result you might not get an invitation for a wedding that you really want to go to. Or worse yet, should you happen to take the marital plunge yourself someday, anyone with half a memory will boycott your wedding, and you won't get any toaster ovens.

So you do the polite thing. Say yes to the wedding, head to Thrifty's House of Discount Merchandise for that perfect gift, get the suit out of the dry cleaners and prepare for another long day.

At the church the closest parking spot is about three blocks away. It's a pity nobody will see the car, since you went to all the trouble to wash and wax it.

Some weddings like to have the gifts brought to the church, and the chances are good that it's an extremely hot summer day so here you are walking three blocks in a three piece suit, with an incredibly heavy toaster oven in tow.

Once at the church, the usher mentions that wedding gifts will be collected at the reception hall, wrong guess again on your part, so you'll just have to hold on to it until then. Picture it....there you sit, next to a toaster oven, listening to your beads of sweat hit the pew like missiles, waiting for the wedding to start.

During the service you suddenly realize just how long this whole thing is taking. There was a time when the officiating member of your faith could get the congregation in and out faster than photo processors, but those were the days before couples wrote their own vows.

Today they seem compelled to gush uncontrollably for long periods of time pledging undying love, in a fashion that would have greeting card convention delegates scampering for the exits.

Just when it appears to be all over, someone who fancies themselves as a vocalist has to get up and sing either Feelings, We've Only Just Begun, or both. About this time it finally sinks in that the church is not air conditioned and the woman in the next pew failed to miss a pore when she applied her perfume this morning.

When the service finally concludes, you leave the church, toaster oven in hand, and wait outside to throw rice. It is easy to pick out the couple's close friends and relatives from the also-rans like yourself. Your group is throwing the rice with great accuracy and velocity.

On the way to the reception, guests with cars and itchy palms are moved to announcing to the world, via the horn, that the couple in the first vehicle have officially entered the world of joint bank accounts.

Once at the reception, with ears still ringing, you are forced to eat extremely expensive, yet tasteless food, in a dimly lit room, while listening to music most commonly heard in elevators and dentist's offices. (So far today you've already heard someone vocally butcher Feelings. Now you're hearing it played by a string quartet with a glockenspiel.)

The only thing that breaks the monotony are voyeuristic souls who have a novel way of gaining the bride and groom's attention with only a fork and wine glass as bait. This somewhat Neanderthal ritual signifies the desire to tear the couple away from their meal and have them kiss continuously. A request that the couple is only too glad to comply with since they're so much in love, and they don't like the food either.

After several hours of dining, drinking, dancing and avoiding other single guests who are caught up in the whole event and wish to be single no more, it's time to politely leave. You say goodbye to the bride, the groom and the toaster oven, and head to the door. It's at this point that I usually make a mental note of the wedding party and guests that remain. I know I'm going to get even one day. I'm going to invite them to my wedding.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Snowboarding: Getting Stoked, Staying Young

This is a reprinting of a story I wrote for the Montreal Gazette many years ago, originally published on Sunday, March 8, 1998.

The Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan have come and gone. Like so many I was hypnotized by the glow of my television at odd hours of the day soaking up the Games and Canada's excellent contribution to them.

I was most keen to watch one of the newer sports on the scene. Well before the controversy surrounding Ross Rebagliati stirred up, I was interested in my new favorite sport . . . the sport that just last year at the ripe old age of 39 I took up for the first time. I was glued to watching the snowboarders.

Snowboarders crashed the oldest tradition in organized sports, and they did it in record time. In just over a decade, snowboarders have gone from "those crazy kids on the hill who antagonize the ‘two-plankers'," to Olympic medalists.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not going to even think about competing, or remotely comparing myself to those "stoked" guys and gals in painted-on body suits. At my age, and having never even gone skiing before, that would be foolish indeed. Just the idea that I strapped a board onto my feet for the first time as I approach my forth decade on this planet had many thinking that this was some sort of mid-life crisis. There was no crisis. This was just an awakening.

You see, it took me this long to find out that some people actually do things outdoors in the winter! Born and raised in Montreal, I considered myself an inner city youth while growing up. The greatest peaks I conquered in the past, were the ones created by those generous workers from the City of Montreal road crews. The swiftest downhill activity was when I would go tobogganing while visiting friends who happened to live on a street with an incline.

Being a child of West Indian parentage, outdoor winter activities were not something Mom and Dad would eagerly endorse. I'm supposed to enjoy summertime activities like soccer or cricket. This foolish North American desire to be part of fun in the snow can only lead to other dangerous quests like joining the Jamaican bobsledding team. And let's be honest . . . even in these politically correct 90s, as a Black person one can still turn a head or two by walking through a ski lodge geared up for the hills.

So it was quite the surprise to everyone who knows me, and a nightmarish episode for my Mother, that I accepted a friend's challenge last year to attempt snowboarding. I say challenge, because to many people this is something that is supposed to be ethnically impossible for me. Besides, this was also the ultimate test of my friend's teaching skills.

It's not that I'm a person who courts danger. This Nordic adventure was well thought out. First of all, my teacher also happens to be my closest friend, Mario Leblanc. I trust him with my life, despite his being in my will.

In addition to being a constable in the MUC Police Department, Mario is a certified snowboard instructor and a member of the Canadian Ski Patrol. His girlfriend, Lisa Connell is also a ski patroller and a certified trauma nurse. If either one could administer last rites, I would have been covered all the way around.

So it was off to Owl's Head in the Eastern Townships to tackle the mountain and winter's wrath. There was no room for fear in my plan. Of course that was before I got a good look at the chairlift . . . but I am getting ahead of myself. Decked out in borrowed equipment, Mario quickly put me through the drills. How to stop and start, how to distinguish the front end of the board from the back, determining whether I was "goofy" or not. This is not a derogatory term. A goofy-foot rider is one who is most comfortable with their right foot forward. Alas, I am not goofy!

I had seen snowboarders on television and on film. I had an image of zipping down the hill in wild abandon, the wind in my face. Well a day of constant drills was painful, and the only thing I felt in my face was terra firma as I hit the deck more times than Bambi on ice. My toes were constantly trying to grab the board like a parrot on a perch - a parrot who's afraid of heights. By the end of the first day I was very wet, very bruised, and mildly disenchanted with the whole process. I did manage to have fun though. It must have been the company.

In hindsight, nonetheless, I now realize what wise ol' Mario was up to. He was not interested in finding out how fast I could get down the hill, regardless of my physical condition. He's my friend, not a scout for America's Funniest Videos. He was only interested in teaching me the basics so I could get down the hill safely. I know this now because of my experience on Day Two.

Day Two was a chance to put all I had learned into practice from the top of the hill to the bottom and, suddenly all the valuable tips sunk in. I knew how to "carve," how to turn, and most importantly how to stop before I get to that tree! I was like a child again on the first day Dad took off the training wheels. I was free and having a hoot on the side of Owl's Head. I will never be confused for one of those young whipper-snappers who are getting great "air" (leaving the ground). No, my style at the moment would best be described as "ballroom boarding" (watching me you might get the urge to hum "The Blue Danube").

I managed to spend an entire day snowboarding with confidence, without serious injury and, with very few falls. Many said it couldn't be done, but now, I have witnesses. Notice that I mentioned without "serious" injury. Oh, I did get hurt, and that brings us back to the chairlift. . . .

Perhaps the most difficult art to master on a snowboard is balance. Yet, to ride the chairlift, a snowboarder must have the board attached to one foot and be prepared to dismount from a moving throne. Surely you see the problem. I would have to say that my first ten or so experiences on the chairlift would have done Vinko Bogataj proud. Trivia fans will quickly remember that this is the poor Yugoslavian skier better known as "the agony of defeat" on Wide World of Sports.

In one of the many times I cartwheeled off the lift I twisted my ankle, but good, but, like Kerri Strug there was no stopping me! With tips from a jolly lift operator (I assumed he was jolly and not just laughing at me), I managed to learn the proper dismount and my snowboarding lessons were complete. I was now a snowboarder! Mario has created a monster and my Mother will never have another pleasant winter's night sleep.

Now that I've mastered snowboarding (okay, just amuse me on that point) maybe I'll take up some other sport that you don't traditionally see people of color doing. You know, I did spend a lot of time watching the curling during the Olympics. Hmmm!

Monday, March 5, 2012

The Stuph File Program - Episode #0133

Welcome to the latest edition of the Stuph File Program.

For a program list of the items included and all their accompanying links in this one hour show, you can find the information on my website in the Stuph File Program section, or just follow this link to #0133.





To download the podcast, right click here and select "Save Link As"

Featured in this episode:

Click logo for iTunes podcast subscription If you have any comments or suggestions, or items for the mailbag, feel free to click on the "Comments" link below to add your thoughts.