It’s bad enough that the person behind the counter is often struggling to function, but when the customer is also only two or three evolutionary steps beyond a slush puddle, it’s enough to burn your ass with rage.

Okay, maybe just mine. But you know what I mean.

The other day I’m at a mall food court (I’m not proud of it, but sometimes ya gotta eat). There is only one lady ahead of me. Mind you, she has four young kids with her, but I figure things will still move somewhat quickly. After all, there is plenty of time to look at the large menu that is proudly displayed overhead in large letters and bright colors, listing all of the available food items and prices. There are even pictures for those who don’t know what “chicken” or “hamburger” means.

For some reason, this lady decides to wait until she gets to the cash to figure out what she wants. Even though she’s been standing in front of the menu for several minutes, it’s as if she is now just seeing it for the first time. First she asks the kids to choose what they want, an event that proceeds in a calm and orderly fashion. Much like your average soccer riot.

Time drags and drags, stops for a bit, and then drags some more. Finally, everyone seems to agree on what they want. But she is not satisfied. Now she feels the need to start mucking things up.

“How much would this be?” she asks. “How much would that be? Can I get this if I get that? Do I have to have this if I order that? Does that come with pickles? Could he get a large juice instead of a medium? How much mayonnaise is on that?”

I swear this went on for years. Even the young girl working the cash, after tapping in orders, canceling orders, answering questions, then tapping in orders again, looked ready to either break down and cry or blow her brains out. In the line-up, you could glance around and see the murderous thoughts lurking in everyone’s eyes.

First of all, figure out what you want before you get up to the cash. If you cannot figure it out, or need more time to contemplate such an earth-shattering decision as to what fatty, shitty food to stuff in your mouth, kindly step aside and let the other hungry people who do know what they want go ahead of you. This is called “courtesy”. It’s the same thing that keeps all of us who patiently wait from smashing your skull against the counter.

Second, stay home and wait for the trucks. They will be around to pick you up shortly.

My brother and I were beaten all the time as kids. I remember being held down and burned with cigarettes, thrashed with belts and wooden spoons, and being confined to a 3×3 foot cage until I “learned my lesson”. Did I learn it? Of course! To this day I sit quietly with my hands folded, and always say “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” when I am spoken to (and ONLY when spoken to). My parents loved us. I mean, how many other parents would take the time to teach the lesson of the hot stove by actually placing your hand on the scorching hot burner? Ours did.

And how many parents these days help keep their kids fit by chaining them to a trailer hitch and driving so fast that you either keep up or end up being dragged along the road? Ours certainly did. My brother and I excelled at track in high school, and though our parents never attended our events or awards ceremonies (they didn’t have to—they knew they had trained us well), we knew they were proud. And when we forgot to go out into the yard and clean up the dog poop one day, our father simply took the dog away. We don’t know where ol’ Sam went, but we had learned our lesson. Thanks Dad!

So I say go easy on this guy. He’s only trying to do what’s right. Now excuse me, I have fires to set and small animals to torture.

Our waitress, for whatever reason, just seemed to have an instant dislike for us. There’s no way for me to explain this, it’s just one of those “vibe” things you pick up on. Maybe she was having a rough day or something, but she was friendly enough to the couple at the table behind us. A warm welcome, some friendly chatter. For us, it was right down to business. No pleasantries at all. I ordered a “Theos Skillet”.

A short time later, a different server brought out our plates.  My wife’s order was correct, but they had brought me a “Theo’s Omelette”. I informed the server that there must be a mistake. Without apology, she informed me that it would take a few minutes to prepare a new plate. So I watched my wife dig in and waited for the correct order to arrive. When it did, it was brought over by yet another server.

Meanwhile, our original waitress ignored our table completely. Maybe she thought I would say something nasty to her. Anyone can make a mistake. I’m certainly not going to rag on someone for making an honest error. Regardless, for the rest of our meal she did not stop by to check in, ask if we wanted more coffee (at $2.05 per cup, a refill would’ve been nice), or apologize for the mixup. The only time our server came back was to deliver the check.

The server who’d corrected the mistake (who seemed to be a manager or at least a supervisor) also chose not to follow-up to see if everything was satisfactory now. I didn’t need my balls cradled while sweet-nothings were whispered in my ear; all I wanted was for someone to say “sorry about that, is everything okay?” But the impression I got was that they were pissed off at me. They were certainly NOT going to apologize for bringing me the wrong order. It’s not that big a deal, but simple gestures go a long way.

By contrast, when my wife found a rotten strawberry in her fruit cup at the Wright Avenue (Dartmouth) location, they apologized profusely and gave her $20 in gift certificates. We thought that was a bit much, but hey, they screwed up and felt badly about it and wanted to make sure we came back. Hmmm. If we do decide to eat at Cora’s again, I wonder which one will get our business?

Hairloss stalks you slowly. You know it’s happening but it doesn’t really hit you until that moment you just happen to see yourself in a particular photo or you suddenly catch a glimpse of your reflection and realize, holy shit when did that happen? I’m bald! At that point I went through the same motions almost every other guy goes through. Panic, anger, sadness, anxiety, rage, melancholy, shame, despair, mourning, denial, vindictiveness, and finally, sighed resignation. Though the genetic gods had seen fit to bless me in so many other ways, in this way they had, in their infinite cruelty, decided to curse me.

Baldness. Nature’s way of kicking you to the sidelines and taking you out of the game.

I tried various shampoos and lotions, herbs and pills, and fingertip massage. Once I even went to Vancouver’s Chinatown in search of some mysterious red tablets. I can’t recall the exact  nature of these pills, but they were likely something extracted from dessicated tiger testicles. It’s probably best I did not find them. Needless to say, nothing worked. But hey, at least my scalp felt great!

Though the loss of my lions mane did give me concern, I tried not to obsess too much about it. Fleeting thoughts of wigs, drugs, and even transplant surgery came and went. The fact is that aside from surgical replacement of the dead follicles, hairloss cannot be cured; it can only be slowed down or at best, mildly reversed.

Hairpieces are 99% obvious. The only people who think hairpieces are undetectable are the guys wearing them.

Drugs like Rogaine and Propecia might help a bit, and in some cases allow strangulated follicles to recover, but once you stop taking the pills or rubbing on the lotion all that magical hair vanishes. And there are always side-effects when you start messing around with drugs and hormones, not to mention the monthly side-effects to your wallet.

And surgery. Well, a decent surgeon is going to set you back several thousand dollars, and even then your results are not guaranteed to resemble the flowing mane of your youth. And if your surgery goes bad, well, that’s a whole ‘nother set of problems you now have to deal with, in addition to your balding. And the spots you didn’t have replaced might need touch ups (i.e. more $$$$) down the road.

The question ultimately becomes: how much is your hair worth to you?

In my case (and yours might differ), it was not worth a substantial financial investment or health risk to attempt to preserve or recover my hair. Sure, I miss it. Absolutely. But hey, did you ever notice that in science fiction movies, most of the advanced species are hairless? Us baldies are ahead on the evolutionary path.

And where once hirsute Chewbaccas and Sasquatch creatures roamed the beaches of the 60′s and 70′s, it seems body hair is persona-non-grata these days. “Manscaping” is now a lucrative business as guys go after their back, shoulder, and chest hair. Even scrotal shaving is popular thanks to the abundance of porno. The shaved head is actually cool now, and celebrities like Jason Statham and Vin Diesel are proving that the measure of a man is not reflected by the amount of hair on his head. But for CEOs, movie stars, and others who rely on style over substance, a full head of hair is still an asset.

As for women, I’m sure most prefer a full head of hair, but I’d wager that none prefer a comb over or some other attempt to disguise the loss. Keep it short, keep it neat and clean, and work on your confidence. Besides, women are more attracted to what’s in your wallet, not what’s on your head.

It will take time for society to stop stigmatizing the balding man as “loser” or second fiddle to his more gloriously coiffed peers. But the first step is to stop letting ourselves feel that way.

They both ordered the Curry Chicken Linguini ($19) with Scallops. I decided on the 10oz Angus Strip Loin. Both of their plates arrived “cold” and had to be sent back for reheating. My steak ($25) looked like one of those charbroiled cheapo steaks you’d get at the Zellers Skillet or, even worse, a Ponderosa. Fatty and greasy, it was what I call a “gristle steak”.

For the amount they charge for it, I was expecting something on par with the Keg or even Montanas. I swear at least half this steak ended up on the sidelines of my plate once I carved off the fat and ligaments. The potato was unspectacular; a simple baked spud with some sour cream and chives. The veggies were good, but this meal was hardly worth $10 let alone $25.

Our service was decent, but they should have at least offered to eat our beer tab (2 draft) for serving the cold meals. And I should have tossed the crappy steak on the floor for the dogs and asked for a real cut of meat for such a ridiculous price. I guess they figure that as a “hot shit” establishment, quality is not required. Total cost for this lousy dining experience: $82.

Ya suckered me once, Syperek. Never again, Victor. Never again.

First of all, we had an excellent visit. Not a problem. Not one. Nada. We landed, walked what felt like 100 miles through JFK to get to baggage claim, and somehow found ourselves standing outside waiting in a line for a taxi. The dispatchers kept people moving; waving the cabs up, handing passengers tickets, loading up the luggage, and sending them off. It seemed like you just had to walk and you would magically arrive where you needed to be. There was no headscratching, no asking for directions, no standing there wondering where you were and where you were supposed to go. Like a part on an assembly line you just kept moving along. Before too long, we were in front of our hotel in midtown Manhattan.

There were two things that really impressed me about New York: transit and customer service. The transit system in NYC is nothing short of amazing. Two dollars gets you from Brooklyn to the Bronx and all points in between, within very reasonable times. Live outside the city? The state? No problem, commuter trains run in all directions at all times of day. Here in Halifax, you’d be lucky to get anywhere without multiple transfers and having a lot of time to spare, even if your destination is only a 15-20 minute drive from your home. Yes, NYC has more people, more money, and more infrastructure. But they also have competent planners and visionaries.

As for customer service, you’d think waiters would be snappy, that retailers wouldn’t give you the time of day, or that your food/item would be tossed at you so they could quickly move along to the next task at hand. But we experienced great service that was not only courteous and respectful, but competent. I watched deli workers take order after order from a beehive of hungry customers and have everything coordinated to a “T”. You arrived at the cash at the same time as your food, which was actually prepared the way you asked for.

Here in Halifax, it often seems I can’t even get a coffee without having to repeat the order 2 or 3 times. And have you ever gone to a fast food restaurant at lunchtime? In HRM, if a place is busy, it is a goddamned disaster zone. The workers are confused, the customers are waiting and irritable, and the place is a mess with overflowing garbages and dirty tables. In NYC, every place we went to was clean, well-attended, and the service was top notch. You went to the bathroom and there was actually soap in the dispensers and paper towel in the bins. Wow, what a treat!

There is absolutely no doubt about it: in NYC, the immigrants are the lifeblood of the city. They are the ones sweeping the sidewalks in Times Square, driving the cabs, working the shops, preparing the food, serving the coffee, selling the papers.They take pride in their jobs, are happy to be there, and that makes all the difference.

Sure, we were tourists in a tourist-friendly city, and yes, if you hang around long enough you’re sure to find a mean and ugly side as well. But if NYC can make it work with millions and millions of people, why can’t a small city like Halifax get it together? I think our “planners” and “leaders” here need to study places like New York and take some much needed hints. But that might involve some effort and the ability to think beyond the next 5 minutes, so I wouldn’t count on it.

When you purposefully opt out of parenting, people sometimes assume it is because you just don’t give a crap about anything but yourself.  They figure you’d rather spend your time in a hedonistic frenzy of consumerism and self-absorption, frolicking around in a never-never land of no responsibilities and complete freedom rather than contributing to the molding and shaping of the next generation.

That’s not being selfish; it’s being smart.

But all joking aside, being a parent is a tough job. It is perhaps the toughest job that one could ever undertake. It has risks and rewards just like anything else. But having children does not automatically qualify you for a “hero” award, nor does it mean you are a better person. It simply means you have chosen to become a parent. Not all parents are credits to humanity, nor are all children.

Many teachers, social workers, community volunteers, youth group coordinators, athletic coaches, art instructors, politicians, and people from every walk of life have chosen to remain child-free while making huge contributions to their communities and fellow-man. All of them are helping to pave the way for the future generations, and many will have a lasting influence and effect on the lives they touch.

Do we discount their contributions because they did not raise children of their own? Of course not.

It is also wrong to assume child-free people do not like kids, or are damaged from bad childhoods. Many have simply evaluated the decision and concluded that for whatever reason, parenting is just not an option they wish to choose for themselves. In this day and age, having kids is not a social obligation; it is a lifestyle choice.

We are all selfish to some degree, in the interests of ego and self-preservation. But if the reasons for deciding not to have kids are to be viewed as selfish, so too must the reasons for deciding to be a parent. After all, there aren’t many people who can answer the question “why did you have kids” without starting with “because I wanted…”

At the end of the day, we are all just trying to make the best choices for ourselves. The important thing is to make the best of it, whatever choices we’ve made.

The ad campaign is sponsored by the Freethought Association of Canada , which is raising funds for it through their Atheist Bus website.

Find out more (and donate!):

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Sure, she might give me the evil eye and that Marge Simpson grumble when I leave my boxers lying on the floor, mere inches from the laundry receptacle. Or when she comes home to find a sink still occupied by yesterday’s dishes and me with my feet up on the coffee table watching TV—but that’s beside the point. We hang out together all the time and that’s fine by us.

But I also suffer from a chronic disease, something that all healthy, red-blooded men suffer from. A disease so deeply entrenched in our cultural and biological psyches that to overcome its effects is all but impossible. The gnarled fingers of this sickness have grown like determined tree roots into the murky depths of our collective unconscious and are clasped tightly around our very souls, poisoning our minds, torturing our thoughts, tormenting our every waking moment. And there is no known cure. What is it, you ask? What is this horrible thing?

Quite simply it is the all-consuming desire to go out and have sex with other women. Lots of ‘em. Christ had his cross; I have my libido.

Now wait—before you go off and start spouting self-deluding romantic bullcrap like “You don’t really love your wife if you want to sleep with other women!” and so forth, hear me out.

There is a basic truth of the human condition that most of us won’t admit to or like to believe exists. If you are a man involved in a serious relationship with someone you truly love and respect, you will still frequently entertain the notion of having sex with someone who is not that person. Period. If you deny it, you are a liar.

For a long time I thought these desires made me a bad person and a crappy husband. I thought: How deep can my feelings really run when I’m thinking about a torrid tryst with the checkout girl or that babe who just walked by wearing the tanktop and spandex shorts, the one with a body so hot it pains me to even gaze upon it? How can I have any type of meaningful or lasting relationship with my wife when my penis wants to be anywhere but safely tucked away in my pants?

But fantasies come and go and there is a big difference between having one and actually acting it out. Once I realized that it was okay and normal to have these thoughts and that hey, my wife was having them too (and yes, so is yours), I didn’t feel so bad. In fact it feels good knowing that I can be as naughty as I want to be within the safe confines of my imagination.

Monogamy is not a natural state for human beings. It is a choice and it is a discipline. It is based on friendship, love and genuine respect for another person. We deny our natural urge to satisfy the lower, more primal instincts of our nature (which is simply to hump everyone and everything) out of respect and consideration for our loved one, which in turn strengthens and honors our sense of commitment to them. And men and women with character and a highly developed ethical sense don’t have a lot of trouble doing it.

Some would say that this kind of open communication would encourage adultery, but it actually has the opposite effect. Couples who can admit that beneath the surface we are all sexual beings, with all sorts of fantasies and fetishes that demand expression in thought or action, often have healthier sex lives than couples who live in denial. Women can forbid their men from going to stripclubs, bachelor parties, watching pornography or enjoying the sights of the local mall or beach in an attempt to isolate his desire for her and her alone, but this will never—in 100% of the cases—ever work.

Let me try to make it easier to understand. To men, sex is a release in much the same way as scratching relieves an itch. When we get hungry we want to eat, and if Jenny next door has steak on the grill we will drool and wish we were eating at Jenny’s. But we know that in reality we would be better off eating at home, where we know the food won’t make us feel ill or send us running for the bathroom (or the free clinic). If we always had a full belly, then we might not…well, actually that steak would still smell pretty damn good. Sorry, thought I was going somewhere with that one.

And men aren’t the only ones who walk around in a pornoscape of endless intimate encounters with strangers. Women are also wondering what a torrid afternoon with Brad, George, or Denzel would be like, or even how a sex sandwich with one of your Friday night drinking buddies might taste. It’s just that somehow men have been saddled with the shorter leash and the tighter muzzle when it comes to talking about it, especially when it comes to admitting it to our wives or loved ones.

So women, your man is having thoughts about other women all the time, and it does nothing to cheapen or otherwise demean your relationship. Don’t make him throw away his porno collection; watch it with him. Don’t pretend he isn’t looking at other women every time he gets the chance; he is, but that’s all it is—just looking. It doesn’t mean you aren’t beautiful and it doesn’t mean you aren’t sexy and it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. You just aren’t as beautiful or as sexy as that woman. Just kidding. It is nothing more than a natural response, like the way we collapse to our knees when kicked in the scrote.

Men, stop doing the head-spin when an attractive woman walks by. If you are with the woman you love and respect, then respect her. Treat her as the focus of your attention—even if in your mind you are ripping off that other woman’s panties with your teeth while pounding your chest like the lean, mean sex-machine you are.

Just make sure to call out the right name the next time things get heated up and you’ll be fine.

I haven’t read these books, but if Pullman is an atheist and uses his stories to warn against religious tyranny, they can’t be all bad. The buzz on the movie isn’t very good, but I’ll probably end up checking it out, along with all the others who will be buying books and tickets to see what all the fuss is about. I’m sure Pullman is writing a “thank you” note to these groups for providing him with so much free publicity.

Apparently, the Church is not satisfied with ruining its own image with rampant corruption, deception, and centuries of sanctioned pedophilia. Now it seeks to further denigrate its integrity with bullshit protests against childrens fantasy books. Well, if the Catholic groups know about anything, they certainly know about books of fantasy. And children. Especially soft and supple doe-eyed children who know how to keep secrets…

This sad attempt to “protect” children is laughable given the history of predatory priests being shuffled around from church to church. But then again, those priests weren’t writing fables that posit the idea God doesn’t exist; they were only confirming it each time they reached into a child’s pants. Looking to the Catholic Church to protect children is like asking a dog to guard a steak.

In a properly advanced society, no school board would be subject to the whims of organized religion. But Catholic School Boards will continue to try and hide the truth about this world from their students, and thousands of parents will willingly send their kids to be molded by these institutions into good, God-fearing, guilt-stricken, anxiety-ridden, intellectually-impaired adults — something the public school system already does well enough.

When the Church is able to clean it’s own yard, maybe then people will take their criticisms seriously. That is, if we can get past the funny hats. But for now they will continue to grapple with their weakening grip on the minds of those they seek to control and watch helplessly as their credibility and relevance continue to decline.