tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19055342333551317092024-03-07T23:00:01.701-08:00Big City JamesJameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-70451534896567068172016-10-17T13:51:00.002-07:002016-10-17T13:54:09.281-07:00Kids<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Trump keeps me up at
night. At this point, even if he loses the election, the vitriol he’s stirred
up will only increase. He and his supporters, those working to “Make America
Great Again”, have taken anything resembling political discourse and turned it
into the basest, most frightening ideologies. Mexicans are rapists. Muslims are
terrorists. Black people are criminals. Women “will let you do anything [if you’re
a star].” It’s gross, and it’s inescapable. I’m a grown up, and I don’t even
live in the United States, and it causes me significant anxiety. I can’t even
imagine what this is doing to American kids.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Kids, I’m sorry. As
adults, we have failed you. Most of us, American or not, Right and Left, have
passed on the articles, retweeted the tweets, made the jokes. We’ve consumed
every morsel of this nonsense, we can’t get enough. We’re throwing words like “pussy”
around now. This sucks. I can’t imagine it. As kids, you’re supposed to have a
vague, fuzzy knowledge of politics. In Canada, that’s something I still enjoy
as an adult. Instead, I doubt many of you are shielded from the ugliness,
because Trump is ubiquitous. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What I hope is that
you are smarter than we are. That you know if your hearts that bullies don’t
prosper. That building a wall is silly because it’s not <span lang="EN-CA">neighbourly</span>. That bad
manners are to be punished. That we keep our hands to ourselves.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was in the 4<sup>th</sup>
grade in 1992, we had Current Events. For whatever reason, I remember a girl
cutting out the front page image of our local newspaper, which had a group of
smiling people on the cover with the headline, “Clinton Wins.” Our teacher
asked the girl, “What does that mean?” The girl responded, “I don’t know…
America?”<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hope the exact same
thing happens in four weeks, kids. You deserve at least that.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-87808292401030008732015-11-06T11:46:00.001-08:002015-11-06T11:46:02.850-08:00An Alternate Timeline...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Saturday, November 7<sup>th</sup>,
2015. 11:29 PM. <br />
Studio 8H, New York, NY.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Trump readies himself
behind the set of the Oval Office in semi-darkness. He believes this cold open,
“President Trump”, will set the proper tone for the rest of the evening. In the
wings are Taran Killam dressed as Vice President Donald Trump, and, as a special
guest for the evening, former cast member and current announcer Darrell Hammond
is dressed as Secretary of State Donald Trump. After several rewrites at his
insistence, Trump believes this sketch is just the way he wants it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“Ten seconds!” the
director bellows, and the crowd hushes expectantly. Cloaked by a moving panel,
Trump makes his way through the darkness to sit behind the President’s desk.
The panel will be moved just before the lights come up. The big reveal. “Five
seconds!” the director uses a strangled, panicked voice that makes the crowd
laugh. Trump adopts his “cat who ate the cream” smile. The On Air light
flashes, and the monitor reads, “An Alternate Timeline: 2017”, while the
announcer intones, “And now, a message from the President of the United States
of America.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The panel rolls away
and the lights come up simultaneously. Trump is greeted with applause and a few
boisterous “Woo’s!” There are a few unmistakable boo’s from the crowd as well.
Trump is prepared for this, and heeds the advice he gave to all of the cast and
just ignores it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“My Fellow Americans,”
he begins, but the boo’s grow louder. He smiles patiently, and puts up his
hands, as if to silence applause. “My Fellow Americans…” he tries again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“You’re a racist!” an
audience member shouts. The audience member is cheered, as the booing gets even
stronger. Trump glances offstage, where he sees NBC security personnel quickly
advancing. He holds his grin and waves, again, as if addressing applause.
Security will take care of the troublemakers, he thinks. Inexplicably, the
security guards enter through the stage. They are on the set. Trump frowns—this
completely overshadows the sketch. Surely there’s an alternate route to get to
the audience! Instead of walking down into the seating area, guards appear to
be advancing on him! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’m sorry sir,” says
one of the security guards, quietly. He is not wearing a microphone. This can’t
be a bit. The second guard says, “You are not permitted on the premises. Your
relationship with NBC is terminated and, as such, we ask you to leave.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The audience is quiet,
save for a few uncomfortable giggles. The booing has stopped. The cheering has
stopped. As a guard advances to take Trump’s arm, he jerks it away. His red
face reddens further. “This isn’t…” he falters. “Lorne…” he looks to the
control room, but can’t see past glaring studio lights. He is about to scream.
This is a travesty. This is un-American. To humiliate him this way, so
publicly! But he bites his tongue. A tantrum would only satisfy the haters and
losers. He turns, silently, slowly. Following suit, the guards move slowly too.
They walk off the set.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is no sound. A
static shot of the fake Oval Office is being broadcast to millions of homes
around the world. An audience member starts to clap. Others join in. The
applause grows to thundering, and the “Woo’s!” start again. This is the loudest
sustained cheer in SNL history. People are screaming, stomping their feet. The
noise is deafening, cacophonous. This is louder and more frenzied than any cameo
appearance, and the stage is empty. After nearly a full minute of near riotous
reaction, Killam and Hammond, in full Trump drag bound onstage and, abandoning
any pretext of an impersonation, they yell, “Live from New York, it’s Saturday
Night!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The credits roll. The
real Trump, already in his limousine, tweets his fury, but nobody’s paying
attention. By this time, anyone DVRing the broadcast has been alerted via texts
and social media that this is not an episode to be “watched later.” Every bar
changes channels on their television sets. Twitter nearly crashes with the #SNL
hashtag. On the broadcast, the announcer finishes the cast and featured player
credits, says, “Musical Guest: Sia!” and the music plays over a shot of the
skyline and no host is announced. Then the announcer says, “Ladies and
gentleman, the cast of Saturday Night Live!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The cast, all in
plainclothes, including a quickly changed Killam, stand on the unadorned stage
with Executive Producer Lorne Michaels. The applause is thunderous, still. Some
cast members appear visibly moved, struggling to hold back tears. Lorne speaks
first. “Our show is an open stage for actors, comedians, musicians, sports
stars, and yes, even political figures to have their say. Over the years, we’ve
had the famous and the infamous on our show, and we’ve created our share of
controversy, too. Donald Trump has hosted our show in the past, and done a fine
job. But it became clear that inviting him back a second time, in light of his
recent comments, was a mistake.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Cecily Strong speaks
next, too quickly to allow for any audience reaction. She is teary, but her
quavering voice grows stronger with each word. “Donald Trump’s comments on the
Hispanic community, not to mention women, don’t reflect our views at Saturday Night
Live. In fact, it was these comments that caused NBC to ban Mr. Trump from our
network outright. I guess we just forgot?” she shrugs to her fellow cast
members, who feign confusion, generating the first big laugh of the night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We like ratings,”
continues long time cast member Kenan Thompson. “We thought at first having
Trump on would be a great thing for us.” He pulls a face, “Then we went on the
internet.” Another huge laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We heard you,”
confirms Bobby Moynihan. “So, we’ve put together a host-less show for you.
There might be some bumps along the way, we might be a little under-rehearsed,
but when are we not?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“We also heard
rumblings that our show, this show, might have a race problem!” says Sasheer
Zamata. “Something that I, frankly, was not aware of.” Laughter and applause. “But
we did notice, thanks to a blog post from Margaret Cho, we haven’t had an Asian
American appear on our stage in a long time, so… Darrell, you want to take
this?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Darrell Hammond
announces, “Ladies and gentleman, Margaret Cho!” The cast scatters, the door
opens, and resplendent Margaret Cho takes the stage and crushes. Her air-tight
five minute set is irreverent and timely, with just the right amount of Trump
potshots. To close, she announces that she is so proud to be the first ever
Asian American woman on the SNL stage, only to be interrupted by Lucy Liu, who
actually holds that honour, having hosted in 2000. For good measure, Cho and
Liu are joined by Constance Wu, again to riotous applause. “We’ve got a great
show!” Cho announces, “Sia is <i>still</i>
here! So stick around, we’ll be right back!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What follows is the
funniest and most joyful episode of SNL in anyone’s recent memory. The cast is
loose and fun, clearly appreciating the opportunity to take the reins of an
episode. Killer sketches include “Leslie Jones’ Diary”, where Jones recounts
her week working with The Donald with increasing panic and rage. “Family Feud”
brings back Margaret Cho, Lucy Liu, Constance Wu, and her Fresh Off the Boat
co-star Randall Park to face off against the Trump family (but again, without
the genuine article in attendance). Previously underutilized cast members (pick
your favourite) shine in hilarious sketches, all with a let’s-put-on-a-show,
last-day-of-summer-camp energy and enthusiasm. Aside from Cho, Liu, Wu, and Park,
there are no further cameos, no former cast member appearances. This is a 2015
episode, all the way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Sia slays. The
performance art bend to her numbers has never been more appropriate and, as in
her last appearance, her dancers are evocative and breathtaking, as she sings
from the shadows.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Goodnights are almost
melancholy, as no one involved wants the show to end. No mention is made of
Trump, but cast members thank the other special guests, the musical performers,
and each other. As always, they hug it out as the credits roll.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You could totally do
this, SNL. I know the ratings for this upcoming Trumpisode are sure to be “uuuuuge!”,
but your audience could triple in minutes if you pulled a stunt like that.
Think of what you’d be taking a stand for. Think of the spike in viewership
next week, the week after that, and the weeks leading up to the 2016 election.
Think of the thinkpieces! The press reaction to the on-air removal of a host
would dominate headlines for weeks, and would follow Trump for the rest of his
campaign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Look, what do I know?
I don’t run a show. I certainly watch <i>this</i>
one, and have been a viewer for as long as I can remember. But I’m not tuning in
this week, and I hope other people follow suit. Serious politician or
publicity-hungry mogul, Trump is foremost a bigot and misogynist. That doesn’t
deserve a platform, guys. Your cast members do. Margaret Cho does. Sia does.
Not Trump. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Lorne Michael’s famous
quote is, “The show doesn’t go on because it’s ready; it goes on because it’s
11.30.” No one’s asking you not to put a show on, Lorne. But consider putting
this one on instead.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-55589811068343742672015-09-25T16:07:00.000-07:002015-09-25T16:07:01.890-07:00Another Dateline Time...<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hi Friends,<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It’s been awhile since
I’ve written, but with good reason: nothing happened. I mean, I bought some
orthopedic shoes and finally got around to Breaking Bad (comforting and
discomforting, respectively), but that was it. And every time I sat down to
blog anew, I repeated myself. I wrote a piece about how everyone’s offended all
the time, and realized I’ve made the exact same point several times over, and
so scrapped it. I wrote about how a friend has a crush on a slightly younger
colleague and keeps referring to her as his “prototype”, when I think he means
his “protégé” (he’s training her at work, he didn’t build her in a lab). But
that’s kind of a thin premise. So I thought I wouldn’t write anything until
something cool happened.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Then something cool
happened.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">About a month ago, I
got an invitation emailed to me, though not addressed to me specifically. It
was an invitation to a Season Premiere Party for my favourite show, Dateline
NBC. It looked a bit spammy and again, was generic and not addressed to me.
Plus it was in New York. I nearly deleted it, but then wondered how Dateline
had gotten my email address in the first place. I remembered applying for an
internship about a year ago, but was neither an American nor a journalism
student, thereby surely disqualified (but nothing ventured, nothing gained,
right?). I never did hear back about the job, but that is perhaps how my email
address ended up in their database. Maybe, I thought, they were simply casting
a wide net, sending a generic invitation to everyone their address book for a
big, Today Show-style block party with a free concert by Keith Morrison. So I
sent back a rather starchy reply. Something like, “Sounds fun, but I’m not in
New York and it’s a really expensive trip. Did you mean to send this to me?” And
then I didn’t hear anything.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A week or so later, an
email addressed just to me pinged in my inbox from a producer at Dateline. She
said the invitation was not spam, but meant specifically for me, James Ostime
of Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, and would I please join them in New York for the
party? The show would fly me up there on their dime, she said. I did that thing
dogs do where you stand up and turn in a circle and sit down again because you
can’t believe what’s going on. I could barely focus as I read on. “You came to
be invited,” she continued, “because of this.” And this was a picture of <a href="http://bigcityjames.blogspot.ca/2013/06/dateline-time.html">this blog
entry</a>, framed in a glass case, and held by a woman in an office, captioned:
“<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;">Executive Producer Liz Cole this past
Friday holding your ode to Dateline that normally is on her wall but she took
down this one time as a proof-of-life commitment to you.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Now, my Friends,
come on. Come ON! Whose life is this? If you notice, that particular blog entry
was written <i>two years ago</i>. I’m no
less of a fan today, of course, but I couldn’t believe that this silly missive
from June of 2013 has been hanging on the wall of the Executive Producer of, I
hasten to remind you, my favourite program.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />The next few
weeks were a blur of arrangement-making and pretending to care about anything
else in my life. Luckily, Dr. Jon wasn’t teaching on the days we were to be
away, and we arranged for him to come too. With our flights completely taken
care of by Rachel and Chandler, or whomever finances NBC these days, Jon and I
found a good deal on a hotel and took our first trip ever to New York City.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />The City itself
deserves its own blog entry, but briefly, I don’t know what kind of nerve I had
calling this blog Big City James when the Big City I was originally writing from
was Toronto. Toronto is a big city, but New York is a BIG CITY. It’s as if FOMO
was its own town (FOMO is Fear Of Missing Out—the idea that something awesome
is always going on without you, which is basically New York City). Anyway, the
non-Dateline aspects of our visit were also lovely. A very quick three day
excursion allowed us to eat well, see some sights, and try out Jon’s completely
healed legs on US soil once again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Now, the party.
Remember when I theorized it was to be a huge “block party” style gathering? It
wasn’t that. Nor was it a red carpet-style affair where we all packed a theatre
to watch the season premiere of Dateline. Instead, it was like the fanciest
prom or office Christmas party you’ve ever been to. There were maybe 150 people
there, and most of them were staff of the show! Jon and I arrived so early that
we went down the block to a park to watch kids play for an hour, sitting on a
bench in our full suits, like two Diane Keatons in a Woody Allen movie. So we
were plenty amped up when we arrived at the small gallery space. There was a
bar, and high standing tables, and a photo booth area, and screens silently
playing Dateline promos interspersed with tweets about the show (including my
own!). Doc and I clutched out Alibi’s nervously (all the cocktails had
Dateline-themed names). Keith Morrison showed up and found a cluster of
colleagues, as did Dennis Murphy, Andrea Canning, and Josh Mankiewicz. It was
extremely cool to see these TV people in the flesh, but again, this was a staff
party that we had (inexplicably) been invited to. I didn’t want to horn in a
crew of work friends, even if they were famous. Maybe they were making fun of
Marlene in Payroll, how do I know?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Then a woman
approached us and introduced herself as a producer from the show. She asked who
we were and I mumbled something about being a blogger and a huge fan and her
eyes went wide and she said, “Are you Big City James??!” I nodded dumbly like a
puppet or a bigmouth bass and she said, “Oh it’s a pleasure! You know our show
so well!” Dazed, I found my voice and told her how much I liked the show. I
asked her how they found their stories, what working on them was like, how long
did it take to make an episode, etc. She opened up completely, describing a
great deal of process, then pulled Keith Morrison into our huddle and said, “Keith!
This is Big City James!” And, just like in my dreams, he said, “So YOU’RE
James!” He knew who I was! And he, too, joined the conversation and was equally
as forthcoming and chatty. I mentioned that Jon and I were Canadian and so is
he, and we had that thing I assume all Canadians experience in foreign
countries when they meet each other where one says, “So you’re Canadian too!”
And the other one says, “Yep.” But that’s kind of it? I don’t know what we
could have expanded upon, although maybe he knows what Dini Petty is up to
these days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Dennis Murphy and
Andrea Canning drifted over next, in this fever dream come to life. I mentioned
how affecting a recent episode was where Andrea had been the correspondent, a
story about a long separated then reunited father and daughter and she said, “Oh
yes, I worked on that with (Producer whose name I forget). That turned out
nice.” Like she had nothing to do with it! Like the people just interview
themselves. It was incredibly humble and just one example that Jon and I both
noticed throughout the evening. Dennis Murphy provided maybe the most profound
insight when he said, “These stories aren’t about the murder; they’re about the
marriage.” I mean, RIGHT? How often have you watched a Dateline where you’ve
thought, “Really? These people couldn’t just get divorced? They had to poison
each other and frame the coworker?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Then I overheard
someone say, “Big City James is HERE?!” and Josh Mankiewicz literally bounded
over. At this point, my departing flight could have crashed into the mountains—I
mean, how do you top that? And Josh, too, patiently answered a barrage of
questions on my own version of The Chris Farley Show. “Remember… when that guy
Larry… when he, when he murdered his wife… he said it was a homeless guy named
Barry?” That was a real episode, by the way, where the husband Larry panicked
after he was fingered for killing his wife and said, “It wasn’t me, it was a
homeless guy!” And they said, “What was the homeless guy’s name?” And Larry
said, “Uh… Barry!” Rich Larry accused Homeless “Barry.” I watched this episode
with my friend Steph, who commented, “Why didn’t he just say his name was
Bomeless?” Anyway, Josh answered all my Farley questions and provided even
further insights and, like the other correspondents I had spoken to, was quick
to credit his producers and staff, as if he wasn’t travelling hither and yon
across the country, keeping crazy hours, to give probing, insightful interviews
with people on the worst day of their lives that somehow never feel
exploitative nor too soft. I marvel at that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Jon and I met
countless other producers and staff from the show. Social media staff who had
helped coordinate the particulars of the visit were warm and friendly, a snazzy
production coordinator gave us the ins and outs of his crazy schedule, and told
us what bars we had to check out before we left. Everyone, across the board,
was incredibly gracious and kind, and all of them deflected praise, or at least
insisted upon shared credit for their work. This was the truly unexpected
takeaway from the entire surreal experience. Like most people, I separate TV
folks from the rest of us and assume that behind the scenes lie incredible
displays of ego, power-hungry backstabbing, and bowls of all blue M&Ms or
else Lester Holt just LOSES it! But instead, all I met were incredibly passionate
people. This team truly seems to be working towards the common goal of compelling
and empathetic storytelling, and everything else is just gravy. Shouldn’t we
all be like that?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Dream: Do
everything with more passion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Goal: Achievable.
I sort of inwardly chafe at the concept of “Do what you love”, or “Find out
where you passion lies and get paid for it!” because these are First World
conceits and someone has to flip burgers and clean toilets (hopefully not the
same guy). It’s unfair to link passion with income, but that’s not what I mean
here. I mean, paid or not, I have to stop waiting around for something to be
passionate about, and instead cultivate that side of myself that is passionate
and bring it out. Because what else are we doing here? Y’know?<br />
<br />
Plan: Work harder. I got the sense that these Dateline people don’t spend a lot
of time sitting around, waiting for pies to cool on windowsills. These are all
successful, presumably rich (at least by layperson standards) men and women,
and even at a party celebrating their continued success, there was nary a
rested-upon laurel. So who am I to fritter away time on the couch (except for
when Dateline is on)?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-CA" style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />I don’t know
everything that triggers passion within me (except Dateline and maybe jeans
that flatter my back porch), but I gotta start searching. Incredibly cool
things like this past weekend don’t just happen, except when they do. The rest
of the time, I guess it’s up to me.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-3168538475505148582015-08-06T11:33:00.000-07:002015-08-06T12:23:56.551-07:00Hello Friends...<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello Friends.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to change my
salutation. “Hello Friends” has opened this intermittently blog pretty
consistently, and I also wore the phrase on t-shirts for a time (I had them
specially made), but now I shouldn’t do either anymore because of Cosby. Excuse
me, I meant to Dr. William H. Cosby Jr. (remember when he used that credit on
his show? Relax, Dr. Jr.). Apparently, Bill started putting the phrase on his
t-shirts 20 years ago, when his son died. I don’t mean to detract from that tragedy,
but my “Hello Friend” impulse didn’t come from that, it’s just something I say
to greet amigos. And I certainly don’t think I started putting it on t-shirts
because of the Cos, but maybe that’s where I got the idea. Now that Cosby has
been identified as a serial rapist, and because every recent photo of Cosby
features both his disgusting milky eye and a Hello Friend shirt, it’s time to
retire the phrase.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Dream: Come up with a
new salutation.<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goal: Achievable. One
of the fun, but challenging things I get to do at work sometimes is brand
something. When we acquire a new company or product, it falls to our team to
come up with a new logo, name, tagline, etc. I start every initial pitch
meeting with RazzMaTazz3000, but eventually we come to something more closely
aligned with our corporate vision, whatever that means. So who better than me
to come up with a new thing that I will say and maybe put on shirts?<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plan: Consider the
following alternatives:<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How Are You Doing,
Buddies?<br />
Helios Friendos <br />
Good morning, Elizabeth (this would only work with friends named Elizabeth who
I saw in the morning)<br />
Hi Pals (frontrunner)<br />
Ring A Ding Ding, Champs<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know, I’m just
so mad at Bill Cosby. And I’m mad at society at large for ignoring the 42 and
counting women raped or assaulted by Bill Cosby. I’m mad that we’re still
hedging language around this whole thing, like “alleged assault” or “sexual misconduct.”
Rape is rape. Why are we using euphemisms and doublespeak around crimes that
deserve no such courtesy? And fine, innocent until proven guilty, but what<a href="https://qzprod.files.wordpress.com/2015/07/rs_634x850-150724131710-634-new-york-magazine-cosby-women1.jpg?quality=80&strip=all&w=640" target="_blank"> more evidence</a> do we require here?<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s hard to believe
with all the rotten people running around that we’re not all living in
individualized pods in space, sealed off from any and all interaction. But how
would we ever get through the rotten stuff without the good people we keep
around?<br />
<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blog has been
dormant most of the summer in part because I’m bazy (busy/lazy, copyright
BigCityJames Industries, 2015), and in part because I’ve spent the last few
weekends with friends and family in BC, Alberta, and Saskatchewan. I didn’t
take time off work, just left on a Friday night and returned on a Sunday, all
with the goal of reconnecting with the people that make the Monday to Friday
drudgery feel worth it. And it didn’t matter how we said hello to each other,
anyhow. If someone’s a true friend, you don’t have to greet them in any way at
all.<o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-66750740965055715772015-07-05T16:33:00.001-07:002015-07-05T16:33:11.088-07:00Travelogue... Hello Friends.<br />
<br />
It seems like everyone I know is going places. A dear friend just returned from years of work in South America. Another has pulled up stakes in Scotland (or is it put down stakes? I’m too lazy to look it up). Another friend left just recently for Iceland, and she plans to backpack across Europe afterwards, until she gets bored or her money runs out, I suppose. I envy this wanderlust in other people. What must it take to board a plane that will take you away from everything you’ve ever known, because that’s precisely the point? I wish I could be like that.<br />
<br />
Dream: Travel.<br />
<br />
Goal: Achievable. I say travel is achievable but really, I don’t know how people do it. My finances are pretty well tied up in three streams: Essentials, Non-essentials, Bird Art. I can’t imagine depleting the coffers in any of those areas to go somewhere. Yet my pal in Iceland was a co-worker, meaning she had the same financial capabilities and restrictions as I do, and yet managed to scrimp and save (even more as she was a single gal and so can’t split costs like I can), so I know it can be done, financially.<br />
<br />
Time, of course, is the other factor. Now that I have a job that could conceivably fund some travel, any kind of extensive travel would likely require leaving that job (as my colleague did). I know there are those who accrue vacation days and plan all year for two weeks in France or something, but then you put all those eggs in one basket and dump the basket over international waters. As it stands, I’ve been meting out my vacation days in fits and starts to make long weekends longer, see family over Christmas, and attend the Nokomis Bird Art Fair (see you next year, gang!).<br />
<br />
Of course, the only thing really stopping me here is fear. I’ve never really gone anywhere, save for road trips as a child to Michigan and Georgia, and little holidays to BC or Ontario. Chicago was my biggest adventure, but poor Jonny’s broken leg curtailed a lot of our planned outings. Besides which, I’m not sure a trip to Illinois is considered much travel at all. I have friends who have backpacked through mountains, explored ruins, and summered in Kamloops. I’m sure those experiences are rewarding, the people I know who travel routinely swear by it. So why do I immediately jump to a worst case scenario of cramped quarters, pickpockets, and diarrhea? Time to get over myself.<br />
<br />
Plan: Take a real trip.<br />
<br />
I’ve thought about it, and I’ve come up with a pretty bad-ass itinerary for my long journey. First, I will go to Saskatoon, where I lived for many years. I’ll reconnect with old friends and visit all my old haunts, like that spaghetti restaurant that looks like a cave and that place that I’d get “Hello Friend” written on my t-shirts. My booze tolerance would return to that of my 20 year-old self, like when I lived there, as would my waistline. I’d stay up late and sleep in later and everything would be just like it was.<br />
<br />
Then I’d pack up and make the long journey to Regina, where I grew up. I’d see old friends and classmates I haven’t spoken to in years. I’d see my parents and my brother not as my parents and brother but as people and we’d get to know each other in a whole new way. I’d be even thinner by then, but escape the plague of acne this time around. I’d stay in my old room, stare up at the ceiling, and dream of the day I’d be moving out to go to Toronto. Then I’d go to Toronto.<br />
<br />
Toronto was a great place to live, but lately it’s been an even better place to visit. I loved my time in the Big City and wouldn’t trade it, but unfortunately there was so much anxiety around getting and keeping a job, making rent, and paying bills. For such a cool place, it induced a lot of stress I’ve been happy to more or less escape in recent years. That’s not to say I wouldn’t hit up all my favourite places with all my favourite people. Moving away from there (and from Saskatoon, come to think of it) felt like cutting off so many important friendships in their prime. That’s something I’d want to ask those people that travel all the time: how do you deal with missing the people you are constantly leaving behind?<br />
<br />
I’d go to New York, a place I’ve never been before. Admittedly, I’m drawn in by the New York I’ve read about in books and seen in movies and TV. I know I won’t take a subway train with a slice of wedding cake alongside Lena Dunham, or walk the streets with Diane Keaton, or stay in the Plaza Hotel with Macaulay Culkin and that lady covered in pigeons. But I do wonder how much of the mythology is true; if the city is really its own entity that sucks people in and keeps them forever. A place of amazing opportunity unlike any other where, if you are one in a million, there are seven other people just like you. Oh and plus, I’d like to see a bunch of plays.<br />
<br />
I’d go to England and visit all the merry old English relatives I have in pockets across the pond. I’d get a really good plate of fish and chips, have tea with one of those dame actresses, and solve a murder with a bobby or a lorry or whatever the hell it is. I’d go to Paris for the art and beauty. I’d go to Greece for the ruins (but I wouldn’t deposit any cash), then go to China and maybe get a baby while I’m down there.<br />
<br />
In actual fact, I do have weekend trips coming up to Saskatchewan and Kelowna to see friends and family. Naturally, I’m flying WestJet, so who knows if the airline will even survive the summer (Google it if you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s terrifying). But I do hope to hit more exotic destinations soon. I just have to get over my inherent fears and prejudices. Not prejudices against foreign people and places, mind you, but against the idea of travel at all. For all its advantages, something about it still seems imprudent. It really costs a ton of money, folks, and I’m trying to save up for a home, or to buy a stuffed falcon. Also, I’m weirdly against men travelling for some latently sexist reason. If I find out a gal pal is spending six months abroad I think, “Good for you, Maureen!” But if a guy I know is backpacking around aimlessly for another summer I think, “Get your fucking life together, Dale.”<br />
<br />
I know I will regret not travelling now once I’m old or bedridden with super-morbid obesity or something. But I’ll stick to my little trips for now and work up to the big ones. As I write this, I’m looking ahead to several really fun weekends with friends, family, and, once his cast comes off in a few weeks, Dr. Jon. I’m lucky to have found someone with the same travel priorities in this respect. Jon likes a good trip as much as the next guy, but we both really appreciate the journey home even more.Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-2029671489505254672015-06-18T11:48:00.001-07:002015-06-18T11:48:05.530-07:00The Most Important Meal…<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello
Friends.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As
I write, it is nighttime. I am feeling sleepy and accomplished. I’ve gotten a
lot done at work this week, squeezed in visits to both the gym and the pool,
and still managed to avoid all Game of Thrones spoilers (I should point out
that this includes avoiding watching all episodes of the program, as it seems
devoted almost exclusively to dragons and child murder, and I already watch Mad
About You for that). I am also satiated from an easy chicken and veg stir fry
and, though I had a big helping, I know I’ll be hungry again in eight hours or
so and I’m kind of pissed off about that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Dream:
Find something to eat for breakfast.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Goal:
Not achievable. I’ve been eating breakfast for 32 years now, and I’ve never
felt ready to “take on the day” based solely on what I choke down upon waking.
As you will soon discover, I’ve tried everything for breakfast, and it’s not a
quality issue when it comes to the food or its preparation, it’s just that the
concept of breakfast seems flawed from the get go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Plan:
Systematically take down breakfast food choices until I’m left, tired and
hungry, with the best option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />1)
Cereal. This was the breakfast staple of my childhood and, I suspect, everyone
else’s. This remains my go-to morning sustenance, but it’s got a lot of
problems. First of all, it’s either incredibly bland or incredibly sweet.
Sugary cereals were banned from my childhood home and I resolved that I would stock
my adult shelves with Froot Loops and Lucky Charms and Chocolate Peanut Butter
Oat Discs when the time came. I did, and it was disgusting. No morning is
successfully greeted with a bowl of wet candy. But the plain cereals are just
as disappointing. A bowl of Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, or Grape Nuts (what the
fuck are those, by the way) is like eating flavourless pellets of chipped
paint. And it’s cold! And it gets soggy! There’s nothing less inviting. Except
maybe:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />2)
Oatmeal. The hot, moist cousin of cereal, oatmeal is what happens when someone
chews up unflavoured popcorn and spits it back into your mouth. Yes, you can
add brown sugar or honey, but that seems like an excuse to load up on sugar and
head for a spectacular crash mid-morning. Some people add almonds, other nuts,
or grains to their oatmeal, but that’s almost always an unpleasant textural
shift. How do I know I didn’t just swallow some sand or gravel? I don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />3)
Fruit and yogurt. I’ve been a fan of this combo for a while, but it too can fall
into the trap of being cloyingly sweet. The only way to last a morning on a
breakfast of fruit and yogurt is to have a lot of it, and nobody’s guts take
kindly to too much yogurt. Doesn’t lactose have the opposite effect on an adult
than it does on a kid? Like milk/yogurt/cheese for kids: good.
Milk/yogurt/cheese for adults: bad? My stomach feels off when I’ve had too much
dairy, and yet when I replace my fruit and yogurt with fruit and tuna, it’s
never as good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />4)
Pancakes. Pancakes are awesome, but they are dessert for breakfast. I love a
pancake, but I also love the nap that follows a pancake. My father doesn’t cook
much, but he will often make breakfast on Sundays when my brother and I are
visiting, and there will be pancakes. They are awesome, but I have to go
straight back to bed. Not a viable daily option.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />5)
Eggs. I love eggs. They solve the problem of an oversweet breakfast by being a
savory front-runner. The variety of egg preparations means you’re not repeating
the same meal every day. But then you’re one of those egg guys. If I have an
egg for breakfast too many days in a row, I’m convinced I reek of egg. And it’s
hard to have an egg without going overboard on sodium, even if it’s just a
salted and peppered egg on buttered toast—that’s your salt for a year and a
half. This is to say nothing of eggs with bacon or sausage, which brings me to…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />5)
Brunch. Brunch wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for Brunch People. Ohhh, I
loathe you, Brunch People. Every weekend, you line up out the door with your
unwashed hair and your “You know, people aren’t meant to wear deodorant” smell,
and you ruin everything for everyone. It’s because of you, Brunch People, that
I can’t get a glass of water in nearly any restaurant that is not served in a
mason jar. Plus, Brunch People operate under a tremendous double-standard. Tell
a Brunch Person that you had a hamburger or pizza for dinner and they will
scoff at your unhealthy lifestyle. “Was it at least goat cheese pizza?” they
will ask, doubtfully. “Was the burger made of grains?” But THEN, these same
people will devour massive plates of eggs benedict with piles of meat, egg, and
hollandaise (which is essentially a butter sauce with the consistency of
you-know-what). They will deride my unhealthy food choices, then order eggs
benny with a double helping of butter cum sauce and arrange their strips of
bacon in a crisscross pattern so they can Instagram their #brunch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I
guess what I’m really looking for is a kind of breakfast soylent. A nutrient
rich stew or bar that is texturally appealing, neither too sweet or salty, and
packed with enough nutrients and calories to get me to lunch. As passionate as
I am about delicious food, I’d forego the first meal of the day all together if
I could. I think about becoming one of those busy businessmen who skips
breakfast entirely. But then, because I’m so much fun at a party, I think about
the sad breakfasts prepared at Meals on Wheels, or in hospitals, or for poor
kids in schools. The cold, limp toast, the spotted banana, the overcooked egg
substitute. Then I pour my cereal, or toast my bagel, or scramble my eggs, and
shut the fuck up.<o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-81337206663135057482015-06-02T22:57:00.002-07:002015-06-02T22:57:36.146-07:00The 51st Shade…<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow night, I will be running a seminar for the organization
at which I volunteer. The organization normally facilitates one on one
tutoring, but occasionally plays host to bigger sessions where tutors lead
workshops on life skills like eating healthfully, renting an apartment, or
finding your “best side” for picture-taking. By the way, the older I get, the
more I’m convinced that all but very few of us have a good picture “side” and a
bad one. I always find my side when I look in a mirror and think, “Just
remember to pose facing this way!” And then I forget which side is my good one
and my portrait comes out looking like when crackpots see the face of a saint
on an old potato. Anyway, my workshop tomorrow is on finding a job. I’ll go
through how to write a resume and cover letter, and how to best prepare for a
job interview. Well gosh, if ever there was a topic I was unqualified to cover,
it would be this one. I spent years underemployed, and only landed my current
job because my resume was uploaded to one of those job search sites (that’s
lesson 1-10 tomorrow--find a good recruitment site and eat chips every night,
hoping someone contacts you out of the blue). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is all a roundabout way of explaining that I went
through my old job board haunts just the other day, just to see if those sites
were all the same (they are). Just for kicks, and because we’re always running
out of the coffee in our department’s Keurig machine, I wanted to see what jobs
would be pinging into my inbox were I still hunting for Writing Jobs across
Canada. That’s when I saw it. The ad read: Erotic Overnight Writer Wanted. Are
you a writer who has always wanted to explore adult themes? Do you have the
ability to think on your feet and a flair for improvisation? Then we want to
hear from you! Must be able to work from 11 PM to 8 AM, five days a week. This job
does not require you to make or receive telephone calls.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dream: Become an Erotic Overnight Writer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goal: Achievable because this is a job that apparently
exists, and I suppose I could have it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What? I mean, what? Naturally, I applied for the job
immediately. I have no plans to actually quit my current job, but if any job
ads warrants further interest, it’s this one. I mean, what the hell is an
Erotic Overnight Writer? Of the three words in that job title, it’s the Overnight
that stymies me the most. I asked Jon, and everyone at work, what they thought
it meant, and nobody had a plausible answer. The only thing I can think of,
bolstered by the “flair for improvisation” bit, is that the job is like phone
sex, but typing? Maybe there are real lonely, horny folks who are desperate
enough to reach out to a stranger for stimulation, but too embarrassed to do it
over the phone? Or maybe I’d be typing responses for one of those webcam
performers. I guess their hands get busy with other stuff, but they still need closed
captioning? The other possibility is perhaps the need for erotic literature is
so great that they need someone at a desk, banging away at a manuscript,
literally every hour of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I sent my resume along with a brief email in lieu of a
cover letter, trying to convey that I was serious about the job, yet totally in
the dark as to what it was and needed clarification immediately. I never
received that clarification, nor any follow-up from the Erotic Overnight Writer
people. When I checked on the same posting later that week, the ad had been
removed with a note saying the position had been filled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plan: Never let that happen again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, leaving my current job to sleep all day and work all
night isn’t the least bit desirable but I’m just so curious! What IS this job?
In case it ever comes around again, I’m determined to answer the ad with not
just a vague cover letter, but samples of my as-yet-unwritten erotic writings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always heard that men like to watch porn whereas women
like to read porn. Literary erotica stimulates the female brain which allows
their furtive imaginations to cultivate a sensually appealing scenario, which
in turn puts the reader into an emotional headspace where she can create a
pathway to arousal. Whereas men are like, “Are those boobs?—SPLORCH!” Of course
I’m generalizing, there are surely exceptions, but it stands to reason that
erotic literature is the province of women readers. By coincidence, Jezebel has
been running a few pieces on the romance literature industry, which is home to
varying degrees of erotic lit, and it seems that this industry runs the gamut
of topics to cater to all possible tastes. This is good news for any creative
writer, because as long as you can think of a unique sensual idea, there’s
someone out there who’s bound to be turned on. Here are some scenarios I intend
to flesh out in future Erotic Overnight Writings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>The Pilot with Long
Hair.</b> Basically, a woman gets on a plane and she’s bored and thinking, “Will
I ever find love?” The stewardess, who is a dumb bitch, leaves the cockpit door
open and the woman on the plane sees the pilot’s long hair, blowing in the wind
(I guess the plane has an open window on it). So the woman’s like, “Alright,
this is appealing to me” and then she and the pilot make love for hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>That’s My Cat!</b> A
lonely lady lives alone with only her cats for company. One day she is pouring
her cat Brock Sanderson a bowl of milk, when lightning strikes her house and
she feels a jolt of electricity pour through her body and into the milk bowl.
Then she’s like, “That’s weird” and goes to bed. Brock Sanderson drinks the milk
and turn into a sexy grown-up man. At first their relationship is tentative
because of his weird origin story, but they push that aside because the sex is
so good.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>On A Moored Houseboat
with The Trivago Guy.</b> Call me crazy, but I think The Trivago Guy has really
stepped his game up with this new round of ads. He’s got that close-cropped
silver hair and he still seems pretty laid back about all the great deals you
can get on hotels. Anyway, he owns a big houseboat that’s dry-docked for some
reason and he takes women there for nights of passion.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I Don’t Hate You
Because You Didn’t Do The Stupid Thing You Always Do.</b> A woman goes to the
bathroom and just when she sits on the toilet, she realizes her partner only
left two squares on the toilet paper roll. She’s about to yell across the
apartment at him to launch into the same argument they have every couple BMs,
when she notices there are fresh rolls of toilet paper under the sink. Rows and
rows of neatly stacked, fresh rolls. “How practical!” she thinks, her eyes
brimming with grateful tears. “Why doesn’t everyone do this for their partner?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Let’s Watch All Your
Shows, Honey</b>. A night of un-commented on Masterchef culminates in a
grateful half hour of satisfying, if perfunctory, lovemaking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s all I have so far, but that’s something, right? It
actually makes me a bit sad to think about what this mystery job might actually
entail. What depraved junk might you have to create at 2 AM on a Wednesday?
What’s the demand for that from a customer standpoint, and what would that do
for your soul? I mean, sex is great and fun and ridiculous, but the bloom is
off the rose if you have to sell it all night long for your income. Tomorrow I’m
just going to tell my session attendees to thoroughly research all the
companies they apply to. Applying for a job when you can’t picture what the job
is seems far from ideal. But I will also tell these people that, once they find
a job, to stick around if things are basically working out for them. I mean,
yes, you never know what else is out there, but in the case of the Erotic
Overnight Writer, maybe that’s a good thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-2079785454232010202015-05-07T15:04:00.001-07:002015-05-07T15:04:13.578-07:00Politico...<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
There are a lot of things I pretend to know a lot about. When someone on the
Food Network describes how they’re going to prepare a dish using this
technique, I nod knowingly, like that’s just what I thought they should do. Or
if a friend is talking about a problem with their children, I tell her how to
solve it because, as a childless man, I am an authority on such matters. It’s
fun to pretend you know something when you don’t, and it’s even more fun when
you can back up any ill-informed opinion with passion and anger. That’s why
like to pretend I know a lot about politics.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />You could fit all I
know about politics inside a bejeweled evening clutch purse and still have room
for your tampons. I know the far right are wealthy, god-fearing assholes and
the far left are degenerate, vegan homosexuals. I know money trumps ideals and everyone
can basically be bought. But I also know that the few times I’ve stuck my head
out of the proverbial sand to learn just a little about how things run around
here, enough to become engaged and vote, I’ve felt better about myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I felt really good tonight
when Alberta voted in an NDP government, the first non-Conservative government
to hold power in this province for nearly 50 years. The tally Dr. Jon and I
were watching on CBC had the PCs winning a bunch of seats as the votes were
initially tabulated, and I became deflated and discouraged, but then the
pendulum swung the other way and our TV screen started to fill with orange. Jon
was as excited as I’ve ever seen him (aside from the time a streetcar driver
told jokes over the loudspeaker and Jon laughed and clapped like an insane
person). I’m really excited too. I mean, who knows if this new crop of
youngsters will affect real change, but at least they can shake things up a
bit, can’t they?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />One thing is plain: I’m
glad I voted and I was excited to therefore be a part of something historic.
Imagine how much better I’d feel if I actually knew a thing or two.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Dream: Become
politically aware.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Goal: Achievable. I
marvel at Jon’s encyclopedic memory when it comes to political figures and
events. He uses the part of his brain that the rest of us for pop culture. For
instance, he will never recognize an actor out of context. If someone from one
TV we watch shows up on another, he doesn’t notice, or care. But he can tell
you who won which seats in 1996.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I have other friends
who, though they may have less of a “dates and times” memory, believe strongly
that history has proven x so therefore they lean y politically. So confident
are they, that any discussion is useless. I’d like to be that loud and
obnoxious too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Plan: Learn about
Canadian politics uggggggggghnnnnn no! I’m already so bored! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I think Canada’s greatest
political strength and liability simultaneously is the fact that every figure
is just so boring. I’m glad we’re not won over by smooth-talking charlatans,
but would it kill these guys to give good soundbite once in a while? Barack
Obama, for whatever he’s been able to accomplish (or not) is a smooth,
well-spoken character who (far as I can tell) deals almost exclusively in
platitudes. Yes we can, change we can believe in, etc. He’s the Oprah
president. There’s nothing wrong with having an Oprah president; it made for an
interesting campaign and election, but I still don’t know that guy’s game. If
he was as idealistic and pie-eyed as he presented himself in 2008, how is he
not crushed by the weight of constant opposition? He can’t get a bill passed,
why isn’t he raging?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />By contrast, Harper
could be gleefully rubbing his hands before tucking into a meal of endangered
species topped with taxpayer sweat and I wouldn’t notice because he’s such a
dullard. I remember watching the debates last federal election, and it seemed
like every other party leader’s plan was to knock him off kilter. They
confronted Harper on his hypocrisy and lies, getting more and more fervent in
their delivery, and old Harps was stable as a table. He just stood there like
he was waiting for a bus. I may not know what he’s thinking either, but it’s
the quiet guys you’ve gotta watch, and I think we’ve let him stay too long at
the fair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />I used to be one of
those guys that eschewed voting. “It’s a fixed system, man! Your vote doesn’t
count! Why participate in a process that’s broken?” But then I realized that
rhetoric was all coming from middle-to-upper-class white dudes, who are in no
danger of having their lives affected by any political change. No matter what
party is in power, middle-to-upper-class white dudes (like me) are gonna be
fine, so of course they (we) can say that. Show me a low-income immigrant to
this country espousing the same philosophy, and we’ll have ourselves a chat.
Until then just vote, you wanks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />When folks talk
politics at a party, I feel like the pretty girl around the blackjack table. I
become involved only ornamentally, but really my job is to keep my mouth shut
and think about having a shrimp cocktail. And it was easy to completely
disengage from politics when I moved to a province that seemed to staid and
unchanging in its own. But now that change is here, I want to be a part of it. And
I’ll always vote because you know what they say: if you don’t vote, you can’t
complain. What could be worse than that?<o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-71795277375468357142015-04-26T15:02:00.003-07:002015-04-26T15:02:28.586-07:00Icelandair and The Unfriendly Skies...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Icelandair has our money and won’t give it back. My better
half, Dr. Jon, was supposed to be flying through the air with them to Denmark
right now, and instead he’s just home from the hospital, laden with
painkillers, and we’re trying to figure out what the next few months will
bring. Let’s back up a bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was supposed to be a very sophisticated springtime for
Jonny and me. Last week, Jon travelled to Chicago to present a paper as part of
the American Educational Research Association conference in Chicago, and this
week, he was to fly to Copenhagen to present another paper at another
conference. I couldn’t get time off to attend both, and the trip to Denmark was
prohibitively expensive for two, but I managed to get six days free to go to
Chicago and I was thrilled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did that dorky thing where you get travel recommendations
from everyone you know and I planned a dream itinerary of things we might do.
Definitely the art gallery and museum, maybe the trip to Oak Park if we have
time, etc. On our first day, we managed to take in the Magnificent Mile and get
some shopping in. That night, Jon got out of bed in the middle of the night,
tripped or slipped or something, and broke his leg in three places.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’ve never heard your beloved screaming in pain at four
in the morning, limbs akimbo, I wouldn’t recommend it. I would recommend the
fabulous Sheraton Chicago Hotel and Towers who had staff at our bedside
instantly, wheeled Jon to the lobby and into a cab, saved us an incredibly
pricey ambulance ride to the hospital. I would recommend the Northwestern
University Hospital who spent the next seven hours trying to determine the
extent of his injuries. I would recommend trying to stay cool and think
logically while your partner is writhing in pain and you are asked to leave the
room.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Turns out that most people that fall out of bed don’t come
away with multiple fractures and breaks. The doctors were inclined to disbelieve
our story and we were separated for a time in hospital because they thought
this was potentially a domestic violence situation. As this dawned on me, I
felt awful of course, but also became hyper aware of my behaviour. Would a
domestic abuser be crying in the hallway? Should I be more concerned? Less
concerned? I knew becoming hysterical wouldn’t help my case, but I felt like
screaming that I was not the person they should be focussing on right now.
Anyway, after some x-rays and consultation with orthopedic surgeons, it was
determined that this break was indeed the result of a bad fall and not abuse
from me. I just wanted to go the art gallery. After many hours and $550 in
prescription costs (our hospital visit was thankfully covered by traveller’s
insurance, but we have to claim any prescriptions after the fact—fingers crossed),
we headed back to the hotel, where we parked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Needless to say, the rest of our itinerary was scrapped in
favour of days and nights in our hotel room. Jon’s injuries were to the extent
that he was basically immobile and so required help for everything. Again,
major props to the Sheraton Chicago Hotel and Towers who put us in a
disability-friendly room with a high toilet and walk in shower. Also, major
thanks to the AERA disability services shuttle who got Jon to his session,
where he (unbelievably), presented his paper while stretched out on a couple of
chairs. Our flight home wasn’t necessarily advised, but we just wanted to be
back in Canada, where further medical care was available. After a bumpy, tense,
but relatively pain-free flight, we arrived home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Jon was in a splint and not a cast, we were advised
to go to a doctor and get a cast put on once we returned home. Instead, the
doctor sent us right to Emergency, who took x-rays anew and told Jon he needed
surgery right away and admitted him then and there. Because “right away” for
surgery never means “right away”, Jon spent the next three days waiting, but
finally has had pieces of metal inserted where bone used to be, been packed
into yet another splint, and now he sits across from me on the couch in our
apartment. His pain has lessened and his swelling has reduced, but there are
still awful periods where one dose of meds wear off before another dose is due,
and we get through it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously, the visit to the second conference, the one in
Denmark, had to be scrapped. The hotel canceled Jon’s reservation instantly and
kindly wished him well in his recovery. The airline, Icelandair, has refused to
issue any refund or credit. They claim that because Jon did not purchase cancellation
insurance, nothing could be done. These were arrangements we tried to make well
in advance of the actual flight, mind you, they could have resold the seat, but
no dice. Furthermore, because Jon paid for the flight through a third party
travel agency on his debit card, there is no credit card insurance to rely on
either. The travel agency, Merit Travel, also refuses any liability and will
not refund or credit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our main concern, naturally, is Jon’s recovery. The cost of
an $850 flight down the drain is a vast expense, but we’re lucky that we are
able to afford it. We ought to just let it go, I suppose; we didn’t purchase
the stupid cancellation insurance after all. Ironically, we would have been happy
with a credit to Icelandair because we would have spent more money on top of it
so both Jon and I could go on a kind of do-over trip sometime in the future.
But we certainly can’t afford any more travel for the next little while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Icelandair, if you’ve read this far, I hope you’re satisfied
with the results of your iron-clad “no refund” policy. Instead of extending
courtesy to us as potential customers, you have alienated us and (hopefully)
anyone who reads this blog post. As corporations go, you’ve done a bad job of
convincing us you do business in the interest of your customers. Canada’s
airline industry is a tough market to crack, and you seem intent on making
inroads, but how successful will you be if you choose rigid self-interest over
compassionate consideration? My partner and I are not powerful or influential
people (though Jon does get invited to speak all over the world), but we don’t
hesitate to talk about our consumer experiences, both good and bad. So if you’re
following along at home: Sheraton Chicago Hotel & Towers: Great. Hotel Ste.
Thomas, Denmark: Great. United Airlines, who accommodated Jon in a higher class
of seat to get a desperately needed extra six inches of legroom: Great.
Northwestern University Hospital and University of Alberta Hospital: Great and
Great. Icelandair: Bad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our springtime of being grownups has turned into a stressful
few weeks where we just want our moms. We’re lucky to have the means and the
friends to help us out if we need it, and we’re especially lucky that broken
bones eventually heal and life goes back to the way it was. Really, beyond the
surgical scars and depleted savings accounts, there won’t be much to remind us
of Spring, 2015, except the people who showed us so much compassion and the
airline (Icelandair, Icelandair, and if you’re Googling a third time,
Icelandair), that did not.</div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-40546940573692044862015-03-31T14:47:00.000-07:002015-03-31T14:47:12.459-07:00Blocked...<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fair warning. We’re
about to go to Bragtown, USA. I'm sorry to self-promote, but I really can't help it. Two weeks ago, I flew back to the Big City for
the coolest weekend of my life. After corresponding for a composer for about a
year, sending him chunks of prose based on a vague idea, I got to see the text
performed as a song cycle, a 20 minute operetta of sorts, by this composer at
the piano and a fantastic baritone. I don’t want to overstate my involvement,
here. I had nothing to do with writing any of the music and wasn't part of the
rehearsal process in any way, but hearing the text that I wrote performed as a
piece of music at a concert hall in front of a paying audience was an
incredible feeling. On top of which, my parents travelled down to see it, as
did one of my best friends who I hadn't seen in years. I also reconnected with
some family and friends, saw the sights, generally had an excellent time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bring this up not
just to boast, but to explain why I haven’t been able to write anything since.
It happens every time I help create something that I’m especially proud of;
everything I attempt afterwards seems pathetic and small. But if I were to give
myself a big long holiday from any creative writing, I’d lose the ability.
Writing is funny that way, or maybe I’m funny that way. If I don’t do any
writing of any kind for more than a week, I forget how. I’ll string a bunch of
words together that, when read back, sound like an ESL textbook (“It is hot out
today. I am glad I am not wearing a jacket. What is the deal with jackets?).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now, high off the
experience of such a cool project, but fueled by the dread that I’ll never
produce something as good again, I have to think of future projects to propel
me forward, in the hope that something sticks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dream: Create a wealth
of projects to pursue. Force creativity through opportunity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Goal: Achievable. It’s
hard to be a self-starter, but if I sat around waiting for people to ask me to
write things, I’d be one of those super morbidly obese people who have to have
their walls torn down in order to leave the house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Plan: List some ideas
for things I could write.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: I write a sitcom
where a slacker poses as his optometrist twin brother to give eye tests to sexy
ladies. The optometrist brother is a big nerd and reluctantly agrees not to rat
out his brother if his brother gives him advice on how to pick up women. The
working title of the show is <i>Seeing
Double</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: I write a
passionate Huffington Post op-ed about how sweet potato fries turned me into a
homosexual. Hopefully, it would gain the same viral traction as the equally
ill-informed “vaccines will give my kid autism” movement. Sweet potato fries
didn't make me gay, but I’m really sick of seeing them at restaurants. The
other night I went for dinner and they served sweet potato fries INSTEAD OF French
fries. Unacceptable. Let’s pull those out of some kitchens.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: I write
Christmas Letters for Hire. I love getting a Christmas letters; those generic, “This
is what’s up with the (Surname)s!” communications that are both boring and
boastful (for more, see the first two paragraphs of this entry). But so many of
them are badly written because they are not honest. I will write you a brutally
truthful, meaningful holiday letter for a small fee. “Denise was fired from her
job at the hair salon and Doug’s taken a real interest in showing off his penis
on the internet, so we've got high hopes for 2016!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: Inspired by the
film Boyhood, I write and direct a film about the life of a goldfish in real
time. It is infinitely more interesting than the film Boyhood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: I write
headlines for Buzzfeed listicles. 10 Things Every South Asian With Restless Leg
Syndrome is Tired of Hearing. Which Character from Hotel Rwanda is Your BFF?
Americans Try Cat Food for the First Time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: I’ll write the interstitial
singing bits between verses of a rap song. So far I have “AY!” and “Oooh”.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: Write a terrible
science fiction book about a dystopian future. Must remember to keep things
dystopian. Turn the dystopia up to 11. Whenever I start to think, “Could I make
this more dystopian?” My answer should be, “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Idea: Write t-shirt
slogans. I’m sure t-shirts with words on them are the last word in uncoolness,
but maybe that’s just because nothing has been clever on a t-shirt since 1981.
A girl at my gym routinely wears a shirt that reads, “I hope your day is as
nice as my butt.” What the hell does that mean? She has a nice butt, I suppose,
but I never want to have a day I would compare to anyone’s butt, good or bad. I
could top that. I can’t think of any examples right now, but I could.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re only as good
as your next project, I’m clearly no good at the moment. But here’s the cool
thing: for all the wonderful, supportive friends and family that came to see
this thing a few weeks ago, there were also people in the audience I didn't
know, and they also seemed to enjoy themselves. Those people will likely never
read anything I've written, or remember my name in association with the project,
but if they thought something I had a hand in creating was funny or moving,
that proves that the project exists on its own merit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I still feel like a 5
year old at a piano recital. The reason why children’s piano recitals are not attended
by the public at large is that if you happened to overhear 5 year old playing
piano, you wouldn't think, “Oh what a lovely tune”, you’d think, “That’s
terrible, it must be a kid.” So any time something I helped make gets some
validation from total strangers, that’s pretty cool. Combine that with the support
of family and friends? Well that’s a feeling so perfect I don’t need to write another
word.<o:p></o:p></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-3120514845218947362015-03-17T18:29:00.002-07:002015-03-17T18:29:33.220-07:00We're Living In A Society...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Hello Friends.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">It’s common
to say you miss a place because of the people you left behind. In the case of
the Big City of my former residence, I mean that in both the specific and
general sense. I miss family and friends, to be sure, but I also miss all the
people. Hordes of them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">There’s an
extremely comforting sense of safety in numbers when you find yourself in a big
city. At least for me, I never felt like I was in danger if I found myself
downtown late at night, or if I lost my bearings near a major thoroughfare,
because there were just so many people around. The same is true of Vancouver,
though some sections are truly dicey, but for the most part, I feel safe when
walking down major streets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This
feeling is harder to come by in the city I live now, where they seem to roll up
the streets after 5 pm, and aimless wandering seems like a reckless invitation.
Stuck downtown one evening before an evening appointment, I ate a solitary
dinner in a completely empty food court at 5:30 pm. Vendors were still open,
but nobody visited them. I found out later that a man eating a late lunch alone
the day earlier in the same food court was stabbed by a random assailant. The
man survived the random attack, and his misfortune goes a long way to explain
the emptiness of this particular food court. Not knowing the story at the time,
I thought, “This is great! A McDonald’s with no line? I’m coming here every
week!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">This attack
and others like it, where the assailant and the assaulted have no pre-existing
relationship, the scary randomness of it all, results in letters to the editor
calling for an increase police presence. “With more officers, things like this
wouldn’t happen!” the consensus seems to be. Sometimes I wonder if more people
overall wouldn’t help solve the problem. The stabby loner has less opportunity
to strike if he has to contend with hundreds of downtown diners. The
purse-snatcher can’t risk the multiple witnesses of a crowded train platform. But
Edmonton is unlikely to get sudden barrage of citizenry like Calgary to the
south or Vancouver to the west. But what if there was a squad of people,
low-level authority figures with no real power like Mall Cops or Transit Dorks whose
job it was to police human behavior that was, if not illegal, at least highly
undesirable? I would like to be part of that squad.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Dream:
Organize a “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!!!” Society.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Goal:
Achievable. The “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!!!” Society takes its name from
Seinfeld, as “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY” is something George Costanza shouts
after a perceived affront. It’s a catch-all phrase that means, “Why are you
behaving this way when we all must coexist?” I don’t know of any governing body
that would give us the capital to hire full time staffers or build a cool
headquarters, but I know if we kept a few rules in check, society would adapt
over time thanks to our efforts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Plan:
Create rules that the “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!!!” Society would enforce at
all times. Here are some rules.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">1) Get off
the phone. Take your cell and actually turn it off when you’re speaking with
someone. And don’t do that thing where you’re texting while you’re speaking to
someone else. This is a remarkable feat of multitasking, but nothing is worse
than watching someone’s eyes slide down to their device while they’re speaking
to you. This is especially important if you’re buying something at a store. Get
off the fucking phone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">2) Take off
your hat. I went out to dinner the other night and, while this was not a fancy
eatery by any means, it was still a restaurant. From the small section where I
was sitting, I counted six men sitting at different tables wearing their stupid
ballcaps while eating. Look, you’re not a movie star or the son of an oil
baron. You don’t need to be incognito and you expect to be so blatantly impolite.
Hat goes off, sir.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">3) Let
other people get off before you get on. This applies to busses, subways, even elevators.
I can’t believe I’m having to type this, it should be so obvious. Don’t just
charge on there, idiot, wait your turn. Also, small digression, what’s your big
goddamn hurry to get on the plane? Do you think the plane will take off with
just you on it because you were clever enough to skip all boarding protocol and
run on there? I hate these idiots. The ones who, when they make the pre-boarding
only announcement for the elderly, the very young, the differently abled and
that person “who may need a little bit of extra help” that I always wonder
about, these jerks start standing and hovering, like they’re waiting for the
bathroom. “Is it time yet? Can’t I just get on?” And THEN, these same stupid
morons, stand like cattle once the plane lands. They get up and stare dumbly
ahead, waiting until the last possible moment to struggle with their stupid 50
pound bag and hold everybody up. FUCKING GO! Okay, sorry.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">4) Moms,
feel free to breastfeed in public. I don’t know why this is even an issue,
y’alls gotta feed your babies. However, Moms, be mindful of where and how your
child is discovering the world around them. By this I mean, don’t let Junior
just walk around a store unaccompanied. Don’t let Caydence run up and down the
aisle of the bus or wail at the top of her lungs at the mall. Reign your kid
in. Also, vaccinate them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">5) Adults,
kids movies are for kids. Yeah, here I go again! But COME ON! Challenge your
minds! Expose yourself to culture. Film is a wonderful medium, but just leave
children’s entertainment to children! Parents of young children, you get a
pass. Grown ass childless people? Look at yourselves!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">6) Careful
runners. Look, I have nothing against running as a sport, an exercise, or a way
to catch the ice cream man. However, on a recent outing with my friend Shannon,
who is a runner, I learned something deeply disturbing. Runners, when they run,
just puke. They just vomit while they run. They run so hard they wear out their
bodies and the food in their bellies comes up and they vomit. Just throw it all
up. WHAT? This cannot be acceptable. I don’t want to see a group of willowy
lycra-clad do-gooders take up all the space on my walking path so they can do
fast-trotting stopping only to PUKE. Nope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">7) Put
whatever you want into your body and I’ll do the same. Ironic, isn’t it? Puke
is unacceptable in my Society, but putting waste inside your body is met with
no judgement. I don’t know if I will change this stance over time but right
now, today, I feel like people can eat or choose not to eat whatever they want.
I’m sick of the vegans judging the vegetarians, the paleo’s judging the
organics, everyone judging fat people. I’m sure there are healthier choices we
could all be making, I don’t think anyone has the definitive answer. I’m also
sure that something is going to kill every single one of us sooner or later, so
why don’t we just lay off?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">8) This is
the grossest one and requires a preamble. Out for dinner (the dinner of the
hatted gentlemen from earlier), one of our dining companions told this story: </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“So I’m on
a flight and I see this guy I recognize and give him a nod hello and he sticks
his nose in the air, which I found kind of obnoxious. Anyway, we start to take
off and I hear this ‘click, click, click’ as the plane moves down the runway. I
look over and the guy is clipping his toenails.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">..</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">..</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">CLIPPING
HIS TOENAILS? ARE YOU EVEN SERIOUS? COME ON! If there’s one rule I have, it’s
that I live by several rules, number ONE of which is DO NOT CLIP YOUR TOENAILS
IN A PUBLIC PLACE. WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">In reality,
there’s no force that can police less-than-desirable behavior that is not
illegal. But it shouldn’t be too hard to take inventory of the people around us
and call out the rude nonsense. No matter where we’re from, or whether we’re
navigating busy streets or empty food courts, most of us are just trying to get
by. We’re all on the same team here. Let’s act like it. </span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-27969695730939182892015-03-04T11:51:00.004-08:002015-03-04T11:51:46.870-08:00The Third Man...<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />Did you know that most
new TVs come with something called an HDMI cord that connects your TV to your
cable box, and that you can use that same cord to disconnect your cable box and
plug your TV to your laptop and what’s playing on your laptop will play on your
TV screen? After having all of this technology at our disposal for years, Jon
and I recently figured out how to do this and spent a quiet evening at home
watching old <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Justice</i> from
YouTube on our tube. </span><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">American Justice</span></i><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> is an old documentary series about horrific
crimes hosted by a crusty old man named Bill Curtis who records voiceover for
the show and also introduces segments standing outside in a trench coat. He’s
sometimes on the steps of a courthouse or in a dark alley, but my favourite location
is when he steps beyond police tape and around investigators to deliver his
intros. We, the viewers, are supposed to believe he’s disrupting an ACTUAL
CRIME SCENE to tell us about the show we’re going to watch. It’s ludicrous, but
he has such phony newsman gravitas that I sometimes believe police and
investigators were like, “Don’t mind us, Bill! You do your segments wherever
you like, we’ll move the bloody corpse.” This was a long digression that has
nothing to do with what I’m talking about, so if you reread this blog entry,
feel free to skip the preceding paragraph.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, this episode
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">American Justice</i> was about this
married couple, both lawyers, who were accused of criminal negligence causing
death. Compounding suspicions heaped upon the couple was the fact that they
were presently in the process of adopting a violent prisoner in the hopes that
he would be remanded into their custody if paroled. When questioned why this
couple would want to “adopt” a full grown violent man, they admitted that it was
the only way they could legally take part in a kind of three way couplehood.
Both the husband and wife loved this scary prisoner and wanted to take him to
their marriage bed. We never did find out what happened to them because our
wireless connection was suddenly lost and we rung our hands, cursed our
internet provider, and sulked until it was bedtime.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Invite a third
person into our relationship.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable.
Before you all start worrying or picturing a disgusting bedroom closet filled
with candle wax and feather boas, rest assured that this would not be a sex or
love thing. We’re fine. The reason we need a third person in our relationship
is that we need a guy or gal who knows how to fix the wireless, hook the
computer up to the TV, tell the neighbors to shut up after 11 pm, and make a
goddamn palatable curry. I know there are people out there who can do these
things because every time I whine, “I wish I could watch the internet on my
TV…” or, “I wish I could drain my tub faster…”, people seem to have a million
suggestions on how these thing get accomplished! So I just need to encourage
them to basically be on call for me and the Doc in exchange for… what exactly?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Hire a Work
Experience Husband.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I worked in a
restaurant and in various retail jobs, my various employers would occasionally
hire on Work Experience students. As I understood it, Work Experience was a
course one could take in high school that put a student into a job for a few
hours a week to get a feel for the work environment. The student got course
credit, the employer got cheap labour and someone to take care of the menial
tasks. It was really win-win.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We need such a thing
for our relationship for those times when we both, unfortunately, are
incompetent to the same degree in the same arena. Thankfully, that doesn’t
happen often. I can unclog a drain and Jon can file an insurance claim, for
instance. But nothing feels worse than that those moments when both of us throw
our hands up and admit that we don’t know what to do. It is in those scenarios
that I feel like there will be a knock at the door and members of some council
will strip me of my status as a grown-up. “You obviously aren’t prepared for adulthood,”
they will say. “We’ll get you on a bus to your parents’ house immediately.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That hopeless feeling
is particularly crushing when we idly contemplate the Someday Kid (the kid we
might have someday). How will we care for a child when we can’t darn a sock,
use the broiler, hang a picture?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our Work Experience Husband
would be able to do all that and more, but disappear when we needed him to,
allowing us to preserve the idea that we’ve got it all figured out. Maybe we
should all be each other’s Interim Spouse, from time to time. Jon could file
legal and government paperwork for that couple that instinctively throws all
legal-looking letters in the fireplace. I could tie neckties and pan fry steaks
for the couple hosting work colleagues for dinner. Another friend of mine can
rig up electronics, another could reorganize kitchens and closets for maximum
efficiency. I guess the key is not expanding your team, necessarily, but being
available to pinch-hit when required and hope that others return the favour.
That’s a form of justice I completely understand.</span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-1087651946411334952015-02-27T12:36:00.001-08:002015-02-27T12:36:37.432-08:00Teeth
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will spend my lunch
hour at work in various ways. Sometimes I bring leftovers from home and join
coworkers, sometimes I walk to the grocery store or fast food places nearby.
But every lunch hour, after I’ve eaten and returned to my office, I brush my
teeth.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I keep a toothbrush
and tube of tooth paste at my desk, and I think maybe the trouble starts
because they are full-sized. Maybe if I had a travel-sized baby toothbrush and
a discreet mini-toothpaste, taking them to the washroom would be less
conspicuous, but right now people react as if I’m carrying two dildos. Their
eyes register what I have, and they sort of recoil.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I brush my teeth at the
sink, like a citizen proud of his dental hygiene, and guys coming in to use the
bathroom observe me with disgust. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? These
guys are coming in to expel waste from their personhood and I’M gross? </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Consensus from people
that I’ve spoken to about this seems to be that the practice is extreme. Chew
gum if you want fresh breath after eating, they say. But that’s a temporary
fix, like dousing a turd in CK One. I’d rather really clean my teeth before
returning to work, and take that fresh mouth feeling back to my desk (along
with, apparently, my two rubber penises).</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I open it up to the
group. Am I doing something strange or bad? Do any of you brush your teeth at
work? Let’s swirl this around our mouths a bit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-8183579017854792812015-02-25T13:39:00.002-08:002015-02-25T13:39:54.644-08:00Sedaris...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As we browsed an independent
bookstore together more than ten years ago, a handsome fella put a David
Sedaris book in my hands and said, “Have you read him? I’m buying this for you.”
I hadn’t, and he did. Things didn’t work out with the fella, but everything
worked out with David Sedaris. I read that book, which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Naked</i>, then everything he wrote before, and then since. I’ve been an
unattractive version of the handsome guy in the bookstore many times over,
foisting Sedaris’ work on unsuspecting friends and family like a talisman. “Just
read it,” I whisper, reverently. “See what happens.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What happened for me
was that everything I write is forever soaked in his blood. As with other
writers I admire, his style permeates everything “original” I think I’m doing,
and then reads back like a watered-down, substandard, poor man’s version of. But
if I were to fight that impulse and consciously try to avoid his influence, I’d
never write anything at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On Monday night, a
dear friend and I went and saw David Sedaris perform at a concert hall
downtown. It’s a trite thing to say, but it was everything I could have hoped
for plus more. He read, as far as I could tell, all new material, or at least
nothing he’d put in a book before. The seemingly off the cuff remarks he made
between readings were funny and endearing, and he ended with a Q&A where
(thankfully) no one said anything stupid. Just before the Q&A, he read from
his diary, one that he apparently writes in every night. Now, surely these were
cleaned up a bit for live readings, but still, even his diary was written so
deftly, so funny and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">simply</i>, in the
best sense of the word, that I was inspired. Inspired is a term we throw around
so often and it has this kind of squishy, overly sweet connotation that makes
me think of do-gooders and kids missing part of their faces, but what I really
mean is I was encouraged by his example. I was galvanized.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Write more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. I
write every day as part of my job, and I rationalize with a consistent whine
that I “write eight hours a day!” even though that writing is strictly technical
copy and not creative. I complain that I “look at a screen all day and the last
thing I want to do is go home and look at a screen”, which is an argument that
would only hold water if I didn’t go home to watch TV or look up garbage on the
internet.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can absolutely take
the extra time required to write creatively, if only for my own amusement,
because even if nothing comes of it, even it doesn’t earn me any money, it’s
something I’m incrementally better at now than I was before. I owe it to myself
if only so that my writer brain doesn’t collect dust in the cobwebs of my
brain, like a clarinet shoved in the back of a closet.<br /></span></span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Get back on a
schedule and hold myself to it. It’s weird, I’ve never missed checking my bank
balance on a pay day, I carve out 90 minutes a week for Saturday Night Live, I
manage to get to Dairy Queen with alarming frequency in the summer months. If I
can make time for those things, it stands to reason that I can make time to write.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />David Sedaris signed
books both before and after his performance. When we got there before the show,
the line was pretty short, but that was because he could only sign so many
books before he had to go onstage, and someone from the Line Police had
determined the end point. After the show, the line snaked around the lobby and
back into the theatre by the time we’d gotten up and out of our seats.
Apparently David stays to sign everyone’s book, though, even if it keeps him at
the venue until midnight. My friend wanted me to wait in line. “I have no
problem staying,” she said. “Who cares it takes hours, he’s your favourite!”
But I begged off.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br /><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The line was long and
we would have been there late, but truthfully I didn’t want to interact with
him, however briefly, because I knew there would be nothing I could say that
would honestly express what his writing means to me that wouldn’t make one or
both us extremely uncomfortable. Plus, I figured that people that wait in line
to meet someone who writes so perfectly about the humour of the everyday would
want to somehow be memorable. They’d say something outrageous or odd enough
that it would engage his quirky brain and maybe a story about them would end up
in the diary, or a book, or a live show. I hated those people because that’s so
nakedly needy, and also because I’m probably one of them. Maybe if I met David
Sedaris, instead of fawning all over him, I’d have told an off colour joke, or
lied about having some intricate hobby so as to make an impression. Because the
worst case scenario is also the most likely: that I wouldn’t make any
impression at all. I’d just be another fan, clutching a book, believing some
sort of special relationship existed between us, if only we could meet and then
we’d surely become fast friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Writing about writing
is like masturbating and calling it a “self-administered handjob.” It’s only
special if you think it is, and nobody but you gives a shit about it. But this
is my annual public reminder to myself to just keep plugging away. By posting
it on a blog like this, it will stand as indictment if I keep letting weeks
slip by with no contribution. Tune in next week, then the next, then the next,
until I get back in the swing of things, dammit. But in the meantime, pick up
anything by David Sedaris and see what happens.</span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-64214880116950560592015-01-30T13:40:00.000-08:002015-01-30T13:40:25.773-08:0013
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had a sick day this week, but it was one of those lucky sick days
where, though I was indeed feeling poorly from a cold, I wasn’t throwing up, or
in terrible pain, and so got to appreciate the naughtiness of a midweek day
off. I stayed in my jams and watched TV, read a book I’d been meaning to
tackle, and generally lazed about, coughing intermittently. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It reminded me of a fabled day in my 13<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> year, a story I’ve
surely told before. About ten minutes into the school day, the principal walks
in, takes the teacher aside, then speaks to us. I guess a water main had broken
in the basement and they were about to lose heat to the building and the upshot
was that every student got to go home right then. I don’t remember exactly how
I filled that day, except that it was unremarkable. I probably did just as I
did earlier this week (watched TV, dozed off, etc.). Around that same time, my
best pal Ryan skipped the elementary school track meet to go home and eat
mini-donuts. We were truly living our dreams in those days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the night of my sick day, as I drifted off in a Nyquil haze, it struck
me that I had spent a perfect bonus day, the kind I would have relished as a 13
year old, and I hoped that I fully appreciated it. Here’s hoping that advances
in technology will allow me to communicate just that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Get a message to 13 year old James.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Not achievable yet. Here’s the bummer about time travel: either it
never gets invented, because no one from the past or future has come to visit
us, or it has been invented, but we live in such a boring, shitty present day
as compared to the glorious future, that nobody thinks to return to 2015 and
let us know what’s up. That said, in case they do perfect the technology, I
want to have crib notes for when I talk to a young James.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Write a letter to my 13 year old self.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear 13 Year Old James,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It feels weird now to qualify your existence based on your age, but our
youth was all about that, wasn’t it? “Am I teenager yet? Am I cool yet? When
does growing up happen?” 13 year old James, I’m sorry to tell you, but age
matters less and less, at least to 31 year old me/you. As much as I’d like the
directive, “Do this because I’m telling you to because I’m 31!” to hold weight,
it just doesn’t. Nobody cares how old I am. The good side of this situation is
that nobody cares how old I am, and so I have friends of all ages and it’s not
weird.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, the main thrust of what I want to say to you is, it’s gonna work
out. Whatever you’re worried about, stop worrying because I can’t remember it,
this many years later, so how important could it have been? I think the
luckiest people are those of us whose worries don’t transcend their
circumstances. That is to say, you’re worried about grade 7 or 8 now because
that’s where you are. You’ll worry about this job or that relationship because that’s
where you’ll be at the time. But thankfully, you are/I am blessed enough that
the worries seldom outlast their environment, so chill out. There will be peaks
and valleys in the next 18 years, but nothing insurmountable. Enjoy the ride.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You’re not gonna get much fatter or skinnier. Okay, you’ll get a little
fatter. Not a lot, though. Relax.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know you’re SO WORRIED about being gay and having sex, but you’re gonna
be and have both and it’s FUN!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You’re spending a lot of time cultivating tastes in music, movies, books,
but that’s all going to change, as well it should. Get all you can out of those
first two Spice Girls CDs because they’re done after this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know your parents bugged you about quitting piano and how you’re going
to regret it someday, but so far you haven’t regretted it for a goddamn minute.
You know what’s better than practicing piano? Almost everything.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Learn to cook now. It will take you too long to learn too many basics and
you’ll eat too much garbage food. That’s why you’re going to get a little fatter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Try to temper your teenage feelings of self-importance and guilt. You’re neither
as good nor as bad as you think you are. You’re just a guy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Spend time with your grandparents, and try to visit more. They miss you
now, you’ll miss them later.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Keep your youthful fear of drugs. It keeps you off of them, and tempers
your early alcohol consumption, so you are thankfully, blessedly, dependent on
neither.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">People are going to tell you, or you’re going to glean from pop culture,
to savor these moments, these are the best years of your life. This is a
fallacy because you can’t nostalgically appreciate the present time. And the
good news is, there are better years to come, and better still for 31 year old
you/me, I’m confident! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Memory helps us recall the circumstances of a particular time, but not
always what we felt. Though nothing bad happens to you/me, I wouldn’t go back
to our teenage years for a million bucks. The prevailing feeling was
uncertainty. We bought into the idea of the significance of adolescence and
took ourselves SO SERIOUSLY as a result. In so many ways, it’s just a deeper
voice and more hair.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t know more about life now than I did then, except to say that the
view from here is pretty sweet. You don’t get everything you wanted, but you
have everything you need.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Love,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Old James<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">An important programming note: Regular readers will notice I’ve fallen
off regular updates terribly, and I don’t know yet what I’m going to do about
it. I don’t want to stop blogging, but I don’t want to update for no reason
either. Please be patient with me while I figure out the best way to keep Big
City James going without repeating myself. I’m not going away, but I may not
return as regularly as usual. It's all gonna work out. Stay tuned.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-75815844025322214672015-01-20T13:06:00.003-08:002015-01-20T13:06:34.778-08:00Confirmed Bachelor...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m pretty sure
genocides have happened because bored coworkers have nothing to do on a free
weekday evening. How else to explain how I recently came to view, understand,
appreciate, and become obsessed by The Bachelor?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me clarify up
front that I’ve only seen the first two episodes of this season, and those
under very particular circumstances. Much of it was fast-forwarded, and all of
it was derided and joked about with my esteemed coworkers, one of whom was
particularly insistent that we enjoy this experience together. We all had to
pick potential winners off the first episode, and roundly mock everything that
came out of everybody’s mouth (something I am very good at).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Bachelor is
somehow nothing like I thought it would be and exactly like I thought it would
be. I knew the Bachelor and the women would all be stupid, but I wasn’t
prepared for how unapologetically stupid they would be. For instance, I
expected a Miss America-type background for the competing ladies. Something
like, “Karen is a Marine Biologist who works with underprivileged kids and
plays the cello.” Instead it’s like, “Daisy is a Sports Fishing Enthusiast.” I’m
not making that up, “Sports Fishing Enthusiast” was come contestant’s byline,
where a job should have been. Secondly, they all seem to know they are
competing for each other, yet are consistently surprised by any competition.
Last week, some woman sobbed, “I can’t believe he kissed that other girl! I
feel like he’s my boyfriend.” What kind of show is that, doll? He’s been given
a buffet, but shouldn’t sample? Plus, are you aware of how many hours of
television need to be filled here? He picks you day one, what does ABC put on
Monday nights? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This brings me to the
Bachelor himself, who is a professional-grade lunkhead. He feels so privileged to
be the Bachelor on The Bachelor, and affects the appropriate “aw shucks”
demeanor when ladies throw themselves at him, but he also has trouble with long
sentences. Like speaking them. He trails off towards the end and it’s like
watching an old car sputter and die. “And that’s why I’m really excited because…
I think.. I. Will. Find. A. Wife.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Funnily enough, though
all the women are supposed to come with an interesting angle, or memorable hook
to entice the Bachelor and (presumably) keep the audience interested, Chris is
under no pressure to develop or demonstrate a personality. He smiles genially
at everything and occasionally takes a deep breath, like he’s pretending to
think. The ladies have gotten drunk, gotten angry, cried, been sexually
inappropriate, and he just grins like an idiot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The host is another
Chris, and he seems to know exactly how good he has it. He walks into a room,
says, “Ladies. It is time for the Bachelor to make his choice.” Then he goes
and smokes cigarettes for an hour or whatever. He has the perfect amount of
investment in the proceedings. He alludes vaguely to the fact that stuff is
happening, but tips no hand regarding who he himself prefers. In fact, I hear
he’s being joined by Jimmy Kimmel this season which makes sense. Regardless of
the obvious cross-promotion between a prime time and a late night show on the
same channel, Kimmel’s always struck me as a pretty solid emcee. I don’t find him
particularly funny in his own right, but he segues between jokes, guests, and
commercials like an old school broadcaster. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In many ways, I think
The Bachelor is old school as well. It’s a tarted-up Dating Game, with the
suggestion that the relationship will last beyond the time the cameras stop
rolling (but will it?) crossed with beauty contests and Queen For a Day.
Sexist, antiquated, and mindless it may be, The Bachelor is an old dog with a
new trick, unless something comes along to shake things up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Be a contestant
on The Bachelor.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. I
don’t want to be the Bachelor himself, and I don’t want to be one of the dudes
up for grabs on The Bachelorette. I want a limo to pull up on that first night,
when the Bachelor meets all the hot ladies, and then I come strutting out in my
finest cargo shorts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Bro down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It would generate an
enormous amount of publicity if it was announced that a lone male contestant
would be competing alongside the ladies to be chosen by the Bachelor. Does this
mean the Bachelor is gay, or bisexual? Not necessarily, but it would attract
the attention and speculation of both communities.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would present myself
the way I hope I come across in really life. Friendly, and gay, but not
flamboyantly so. But I would add cool touches like a skateboard and the
catchphrase, “Bro down throwdown!” Then I’d tackle the Bachelor and we’d
wrestle playfully and people would be like, “What the fuck is going on?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would represent two
special interests simultaneously. I’d be playing for the gay guys with crushes
on straight men who believe they can “change him”, and I’d represent the
bromance contingent that seems to dominate so many movies of late. The
overgrown manchild who picks “bros before hos” and would much rather hang out with
dudes than get a steady lady. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On me and the Bachelor’s
“alone time”, we would shoot the breeze and drink beer and talk shit about the
other ladies. During my time with the ladies, I would completely ingratiate
myself. Not to generalize wildly about your typical Bachelor contestant, but
these gals seem like the type for whom a gay male friend is a status symbol or cute
accessory. I met a really pretty blonde woman at a party once and when she
found out I knew the host of the party through my boyfriend, she screeched, “You’re
gay?! We should totally go shopping together!” Within seconds of meeting me,
she said this. I’m not suggesting the women competing on The Bachelor aren’t
smart enough to realize that gay guys are as diverse within that group as they
are outside of it, but actually that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I would become a
viewer favourite, and so far I’m convinced that viewer favourites are given
roses and kept around thanks to strong suggestions to the Bachelor from the show’s
producers. My coworker said, for instance, that a crazy woman will make it
very, very far because she’s interesting, and that the Bachelor will never kick
off a visible minority in the first few weeks lest he, and by extension the
show, be accused of racism (although a whiter show you’ll never come across).
Sure enough, in the two episodes I watched, he put through a crazy drunk, and a
boring African American woman, in spite of not knowing much about either.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As to my intentions, I
just want to be on television instead of watching it because fun. And for the
record, I don’t think even the most charming charmer can turn a straight guy
gay, but that stupid people or narcissists (the Bachelor fits snugly in
categories A and B) might be convinced to make out with you for a bit. I would
have to work very hard to convince poor Dr. Jon to give me a pass to openly
flirt with another man on national television, but I feel like, if I explain
the premise of my participation in the same way I’ve just explained it to you,
he will see that, by objecting, he is standing in the way of my Dreams and also
letting down the Bachelor’s loyal viewers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are troubling
issues at play with a show like The Bachelor that I can’t even begin to
contemplate. Why do we watch women (and men) degrade themselves in this way? Is
sexuality such a commodity that it can be bought or manufactured for the right
price? Do farmers really look like that? I know I’m doing a disservice to my
feminist ideals and my brain by watching every week, but my coworker’s making
spaghetti tonight for us to eat while we watch it! I don’t know how much our
society values love and marriage anymore, but I will go to war and fight and
die for my right to eat spaghetti and laugh with my friends. To put it another
way, from week to week, I will always accept this rose.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-39384753951877055272015-01-02T14:08:00.003-08:002015-01-02T14:08:38.173-08:00The Untouchable...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tend to book a
window seat in the last row when I check in for a flight. WestJet lets you
check in 24 hours before you fly, and I like to get as close to that 24 hour
mark as possible to book what I slyly figure is a spot undesirable enough that
it will keep others from selecting the seat beside me. This tactic often works,
but didn’t last Sunday when I flew back to Edmonton after a lovely weeklong
trip to see family.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a woman
sitting in the seat beside mine who had that same, “Please don’t sit here,
please don’t sit here” face I adopt when I’m watching others board. She gamely
got up to let me sit down and we studiously ignored each other for the entire
flight. She was a big person, broad and overweight, and she didn’t fit very
comfortably into her seat. At 6’1”, neither did I. Those seats are built for no
one’s body, and our bodies touched the entire flight. It’s an odd sensation,
being hip to hip to a stranger for two hours, but we were, and maybe that’s why
we couldn’t comfortably talk to each other. I couldn’t be mad at this woman,
for whom flying has to be an uncomfortable experience, but on the other hand,
maybe she flies all the time and doesn’t think anything of it. Had it been an
international flight spanning several hours, maybe our mutual discomfort would
have made us tense and irritable, but as it was, I was fine with this forced
snuggle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Jon was waiting to
board a flight earlier this year where he saw parents waiting at the gate with
two young children. The girl was being cute and dancing and twirling, and Dad
completely ignored her. At one point, she went in to give her grumpy father a hug
and kiss and he shooed her away because he was doing something on his iPad. I
know travelling with kids must be awful, but Jesus Christ, hug and kiss your
damn kid! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I bring up these two
stories of flight because they illustrate how resistant we are to touching each
other, even among loved ones. I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions (mostly
because what is this blog if not that), but if there was something I’d want to
pay more attention to in 2015, it’s this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Touch more
people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable, I
guess. I know it sounds so creepy to say that I want to be in more physical
contact with people, but it’s true. I noticed over the holidays that I’ve grown
rusty when it comes to my hugging, if such a thing is possible. I’m all chin
and shoulders somehow. Plus, I’m constantly paranoid that I smell bad, or that
the person I’m hugging doesn’t want to be hugged and I’m torturing them with my
spindly arms and pizza gut. I read this article once that said you’re not
supposed to hug and kiss children that aren’t yours without asking permission
of them, because you “rob children of agency over their own bodies.” I guess I
can see that, but if I can’t squeeze the squirmy little lovebugs of friends of
mine without getting everyone to sign a notarized document, that’s a real drag.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Touch more
people. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is one of those problems
where the answer is inherent to the question. If I want to have more physical
contact with people, I’ll just become a more touchy-feely guy. But how does one
do that?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could be in a play.
I haven’t done any acting in a while, and while I’m pleased to be on the
writing side of things for now, and I certainly don’t miss auditioning, I do
much the insane amount of physical closeness that seems part of the process of
making theatre. I went through a four year acting program and, while I didn’t
have sex with any of my classmates, I can’t believe I didn’t graduate with an
STD. Everyone’s always hugging and kissing, onstage and off. Or adjusting
eachother’s bodies to optimum posture, or feeling someone’s diaphragm to ensure
the right kind of breathing. Or you’re building human pyramids in some fruitless
exercise, or starting classes with massage chains, or pounding on someone’s
back while they sing. I didn’t even notice it while it was happening, but now
that I’ve got an office job, I probably can’t run my hand up the spine of a
coworker to check their alignment without getting a complaint sent to Human
Resources.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The most tactile and
physically demonstrative person I’ve ever met was in a play with me. I’ll call
her Jill in case she reads this and is weirded out by my description of her. I
could be misremembering, but I think Jill hugged me warmly the first time we
met, and she was like that with everybody. We played a couple in the show, and
we would kiss and hug without any initial awkwardness or jitters, but she would
also grab my hand impulsively in rehearsals, or sling an arm over whomever she
was sitting beside. Again, this wasn’t just me, she was like that with everybody.
There was something so warm and friendly about Jill, and everyone was
incredibly drawn to her, and I’m sure they continue to be. It wasn’t like she
and I were best pals that connected on every level either. We were perfectly
nice to each other and chatted backstage and whatnot, but it’s not as if we had
a deep abiding love for each other, or a mystical connection that transcended
beyond friendship. And yet I will always feel incredibly connected to her
because she was so, for lack of a better term, touchy-feely.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wish I could find it
again, but I read a really interesting article recently disparaging the fact
that men, and straight men in particular, suffer from such a lack of physical
contact, and it’s such a shame. And it’s really true! Not to engage in
stereotyping, but women and gay men tend to be physically affectionate with
each other and it’s not weird. But straight men must only ever get physical
attention from their partners in a sexual context, and that’s about it. I don’t
know how that gets fixed. I suppose I have straight male friends that I will
hug, but not nearly with the frequency as my female friends. There’s a Friends
episode I remember where two of the guys (Joey and Ross, I think?) fall asleep
on each other once and realize they have amazing naps together. Of course the
situation is played for laughs, and once they are discovered, they stop, but
why is that such a problem, culturally? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The other side of this
coin, of course, is that I’m a fella and I may not be strong, but I’m tall and
imposing. That is to say, no one’s physical presence or attention has ever been
a threat to me, ever. I’ve never been hit, or slugged in the gut, and I’ve
certainly never been into (or really understood) anything rough or painful when
it comes to sex, so touch is always a good experience. A stranger grabbed my
ass in a crowded bar once, and all I felt was flattered. I spun around in
surprise, but also gratitude, as he vanished into the throng. I wanted to find
him and ask for a rating out of ten. So maybe I’m only seeing the good side of
physical contact because that’s all I have ever experienced, and asking
everyone to be more physically demonstrative is asking too much.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That said, something’s
gotta change. I wear headphones at work, and if someone tries to get my
attention by placing a hand on my shoulder, I act as if someone’s just fired a
gun into the air. I jump three feet and spin around and can’t seem to temper
that reaction. I have to get my hug back and I can’t turn into one of those
people who genuinely doesn’t like to be touched. I mean, there are some things
I can’t abide (don’t ever pat my head, I’ll tear your fucking arms off), but
otherwise, let’s walk hand in hand when next we meet, or institute a kiss
hello. I won’t think it’s weird if you won’t. I hope to see most of you in
2015, so let’s make a change! Here’s to a Happy New Year, the fun adventures
that await us all, and staying in touch.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-23464733348213777072014-12-11T13:09:00.002-08:002014-12-11T13:09:28.163-08:00Brush Off Your Shakespeare...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On Wednesday nights, I
meet a man I’ll call George at a public library to tutor him in reading and
writing. George is a cab driver, but is taking a high school equivalency
program in order to eventually take a course in a trade, and get a better job. He
is incredibly motivated, and sees improving his reading and writing with me as
one rung of a long ladder. Consequently, the work we do relates directly to his
high school equivalency program, which means we’ve tackled a Steinbeck,
differentiated some metaphors from some similes, and run smack into
Shakespeare.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Remove
Shakespeare from the high school curriculum. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Unachievable.
There is no argument I could possibly make that would sway any school board to
remove Shakespeare from their high school classrooms. My mother is an English
teacher, and she would surely put spider eggs in my Christmas stocking if she
knew I held this opinion. My drama teachers would have expressive and
highly-physical heart attacks (ideally before an audience) if they read this
missive. A bunch of old white actors like Ian McKellen, John Lithgow, and Brian
Dennehey would wail and keen and get Tony’s for it. But I will not be swayed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here’s the thing about
Shakespeare as it relates both to young teenagers, and adults like George with
reading comprehension skills that need the occasional boost: it’s too
difficult. The language is dense, the length interminable, the story a foregone
conclusion. Everyone knows Romeo & Juliet die in the end, as much is stated
in the prologue of the play! But to me, forcing Shakespeare on readers at that
level is like making students copy pages out of the dictionary as punishment.
Useful as it may be, brilliant though Shakespeare’s work undeniably is,
students learn to loathe it. Shakespeare is exercise, vegetables, and church.
To a young reader, the only reward of Shakespeare is just getting through the
damn thing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“But you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> vegetables!” I hear you objecting,
comfortably ensconced in your adult intellect and perspective. “Shakespeare is
so important! His work is the foundation of modern literature and drama! He is
unparalleled!” I agree. He knows his stuff. No slouch, that Bill. Real class
act. But try feeding a T-bone steak to a four year old and see how impressed
she is. Suggest to a 22 year old that they ought to put half their paycheque
towards retirement. Give a homeless person a gift certificate for granite
countertops. They can’t appreciate these things, not yet! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">George and I have
taken several approaches to the Shakespeare play that will make up at least
half of his school term. We try reading summaries before going into the actual
text. We’ve watched film adaptations. We learned the choreography to West Side
Story (not really). Eventually, we parse line by line and, motivated though we
both are, we end each session frustrated and exhausted. I try to remain as
driven and upbeat as the man I’m working with, but he sees through my attempts
at cheeriness. “You are so tired,” he says to me. “You must go home, get a lot
of rest.” This from a man who drives cab all night to go to school all day in
an effort to make a better life for his family. But that’s Shakespeare, man!
That’s the utter slog through. We will get through one speech, and then
another, but by then, we will have lost our train from the first speech. An act
doesn’t hold together, even with helpful prodding like, “But remember when
Benvolio said…”, or, “Why do you think Friar Laurence agreed to…” When
something is foreshadowed, it’s just another cog in an increasingly complicated
machine. It’s like putting together a 5000 piece jigsaw puzzle, and the picture
turns out to be frustrated man putting a puzzle together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Replace
Shakespeare with other stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It’s not that I don’t
think we should revere Shakespeare, it’s quite the opposite. But I wonder if we
shouldn’t treat his works the same way many of us treat the Bible. We know it’s
there, we know it is the basis of many faiths, we also know Biblical allusions
are found throughout literature. In the same way, we know Shakespeare’s the guy
upon whom a great deal of modern work is based. Other than the Greeks, he kinda
laid out the template for how we tell stories. But people derive meaning from
the Bible in a rather piecemeal way. This verse of that Book, or Dave’s letter
to Shawn or whatever. Likewise, why don’t we tell kids that Shakespeare’s the
big cheese, and treat the cannon like it’s something to be culled from, rather
than pounded into young brains?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Can’t we throw some
more diverse literature at kids as a general rule? How many prizes does Joseph
Boyden have to win before teenagers read his fantastic work? Does he have to be
white and dead? What about Esi Edugyen? I tore through Half Blood Blues, I
couldn’t read it fast enough! For that matter, why not give teenagers Gone Girl?
Yes, it’s popular, but it’s not 50 Shades of Grey; it’s well-written and
engrossing! Why does a good, enjoyable read and an assignment in an English
class so often feel so different? In terms of plays, why start at Shakespeare
and end with Our Town? Make them read Thomson Highway or Joanne McLeod. For
that matter, get them scripts from TV shows or movies and show them what makes
a smart sitcom script or gripping drama. Can you imagine how thrilled a
classroom of teenagers would be to go through a classic Simpsons episode to try
to figure out what makes it so well-written? What techniques are employed, what
is the rhythm of the humour? Speaking of humour, what’s so damn funny about
Shakespeare’s “Comedies”? At live performances I’ve been to, some people
chuckle when the fool character gets up to his antics, and I want to throw my
bug spray into their faces. “That’s not funny!” I want to yell at the
chucklers. “You’ve just be told it’s supposed to be!” I don’t mean to be like a
drunk at a comedy club, but where’s the part where I start laughin’?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not suggesting we
ignore Billy S. entirely. I’m just saying I don’t know any adults who tuck into
a Shakespeare play when they’re looking to unwind. Shakespeare is always an
assignment, always an undertaking. And it’s not as if, by taking it out of a
few grade levels, we are depriving the world of the contribution Shakespeare
has made. Shakespeare will always be the standard, whether or not 15 year olds
scratch their heads over Hamlet for yet another year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Even as I make this
argument, I see the holes in it. We have to challenge students to get them to
learn, and what’s a bigger challenge than Shakespeare? Who can say that by
eliminating Shakespeare in high school, we won’t eventually eliminate him from
colleges and outdoor festivals? Maybe no exposure to Shakespeare as a young
person means that, when you encounter him later, you’re just as confused. I don’t
know what the answer is. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What I do know is that
reading isn’t fun for the guy I read with every week. Shakespeare is a unit to
be suffered through, a test to be passed, then tossed aside and never looked at
again. As we go back over and over the same speeches, desperate to not only
derive meaning, but retain all the information for test time, I can’t help but
think this isn’t how Shakespeare himself would have wanted his work enjoyed. I
close with the man himself:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we shadows have offended,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Think but this, and all is mended—<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">High school years are troubling times<br />
With so much heaped on fertile minds<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Take from this text what you will<br />
Sorry it’s boring<br />
Sincerely,<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Bill<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-36070631127800182122014-11-27T13:11:00.001-08:002014-11-27T13:11:09.526-08:00Used to Think...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I just saw the BEST
movie. A friend and I spent a lovely cheap Tuesday night watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Theory of Everything</i>. Friends, run,
don’t walk to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Theory of Everything</i>.
It’s a movie about Stephen Hawking’s life, which sounds like it might be too
science-y at best or boring at worst, but it’s neither. Eddie Redmayne, who
plays Stephen Hawking, is really something. As Hawking’s body degenerates over
time, Eddie has less and less to work with in terms of physicality and speech,
but the character is so well-rendered, you know exactly what he’s thinking and
feeling. Anyway, I’m overhyping it surely, but just go watch it because you’ll
like it and because what else are you gonna see? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beer Farts</i>? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rage Girl</i>? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dying Tears</i>? Actually, I hear Katherine
Heigl gives an amazing performance as Jonah Hill’s mother in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beer Farts</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A lot of things will
stick with me about the Hawking movie, but one thing in particular about Hawking’s
life and work has burrowed in my brain. Apparently, Hawking spent much of his
early work as a Physicist promoting a particular theory about black holes. That
theory was the basis of his thesis and his early published work. Later on,
however, he determined that his black hole theory was probably wrong and set
about disproving it. Think about that. Arguably the most intelligent man of our
time looks at his own work and says, “Oh, that’s probably wrong. I was wrong. I
should try to fix that.” Amazing! I wish more important people looked back on
their actions and said, “I was wrong, let’s fix it.” What if Prime Ministers
and Presidents did that? What if the Pope did that? Maybe we’ll never get Bush
to admit the invasion of Iraq was a mistake, maybe Cosby will continue to
insist that dozens of women are just making stuff up, but I can change my mind
about some stuff. Let’s do it now.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Dream: Admit that some
of my past beliefs, ideologies, opinions were wrong, and revise accordingly.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Goal: Achievable. I’m just
a guy. Who cares if I used to think one thing and now I think another? But I do
think it’s important to question one’s values every so often. I feel so young
in so many ways. I can’t possibly know exactly what I believe about the world
when I have had (comparatively) so little life experience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Plan: Think of things
I used to think, and think about whether I think that thing anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to think night
was better than day. I was a night owl for many years. At jobs, I would always
take the afternoon/evening shift, so I could sleep in, and the night was mine
to do whatever I wanted. Turns out all I wanted to do was eat bad food and
otherwise defile myself. It would be a different story were I out on the town
every night, trying new bars, going to concerts, socializing and cultivating
night-based friendships. But I was on the internet in my jam-jams. Now that I
work during the day, guess what I use my nights for? Hours of glorious sleep. I
indulge in a different kind of gratification by turning in at 9.30 to wake up
at ten after seven. If you’re keeping track at home, that’s more than nine and
a half hours of bedtime. I can read for as long as I want. If I fall asleep
right away and wake up in the middle of the night, I don’t panic like I used
to. If I have a lousy night of sleep, I have the next night to do it over. I do
this for all those friends with kids, or spouses that work opposite hours, or
have such a full life that this amount of time dedicated to sleep is a
ridiculous pipe dream they will never realize. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to think cream
rises to the top. In creative fields, I had faith that the truly talented would
prevail eventually, and everything else would fall away. Then I revised that
opinion and believe more strongly that it isn’t about what you know, it’s who
you know. Now I think it’s a little of both, or a lot of neither. It’s
arbitrary. It’s a crap shoot. I know so many talented performers and writers
who might not “break out” in any meaningful way, in spite of being incredibly
talented. I also know many people who are so good at the game of networking, or
making connections. For a long time, I watched the glad-handers, the
ass-kissers, and the people who show up to everything, desperate to sell
themselves. But I think that desperation comes across. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew a guy who was
(and I think still is) the Artistic Director of a prominent theatre company.
That is to say, I knew him personally more than professionally, and so didn’t
consider myself among the networkers and hangers-on, of which there were
dozens. People are overly-friendly with him, and slyly working in references to
their own ability and wide open schedules. They might say, “So great to see
you!” when they mean, “Give me a job, already!” He sees right through it and,
while he is gracious, seems pretty immune to the empty compliments. I think
honing your talent is just as important as making the right connections, but I
also think some people “make it” and some people don’t thanks solely to dumb
luck. And lest you think this is a self-pitying diatribe, I make a living
writing copy, which is not creative, but I still consider myself among the dumb
lucky ones.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to think
whether or not you were gay was nobody’s business. Now, with important caveats,
I think keeping yourself closeted for the sake of “privacy” is a dumb cop out.
Obviously, there are exceptions here. If you are young, still figuring life
out, and you stand to get the shit kicked out of you, stay in that closet until
you can safely get out of there. If you are dependent upon parents who are
assholes and will disown you, cut you off financially, etc., then of course don’t
come out. If you live in a part of the world where identifying as gay puts you
in legitimate danger, stay in the closet with my deepest sympathies and open
invitation to Canada. If, however, you are an adult, if you support yourself,
and especially if you have some poor secret same sex lover, lurking in the
shadows, available for trysts, but not invited to the work Christmas party,
then come the fuck out. The water’s fine. I regret waiting as long as I did to
come out, as I experienced no fallout, but I also wanted to get out of high
school first. I went to a great high school with great friends, and probably
would have been fine there, too, but it can be a rough road for any teenager. I
knew, on the cusp of adulthood, that I had no reason to hide, and no excuse.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">There are still people
who will say, “But it’s nobody’s business who I sleep with!” I completely
agree. But there’s a big difference between saying, “I have a boyfriend named
Greg and this is his home address and we have sex on Tuesdays and Fridays” and
telling someone that you identify as gay. Consider, for instance, a person of
ambiguous ethnic origin who is learning English as a second language. Maybe
they are Japanese or maybe they are Korean, but it’s hard to tell. Another
person might ask them, “Are you from Korea?” Maybe that’s a little forward, but
it’s not an invasion of their privacy. The person would likely respond, “Yes I
am” or “No I’m not”, and that would be that. It would be rude to say to that
person, “What are your parents’ names? What do they do? Where do they live?”
</span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe I’m getting too activist-y, but I don’t think telling someone you’re gay
is personal; I think it’s political. It helps out. The more straight people
know gay people who are cabinet ministers, construction workers, Moms, Dads,
colleagues, best pals, and douchebags, the more we’re just part of the world.
That’s why I always wake up mad at Kevin Spacey, who plays the “Nobody’s
business” game. Or Queen Latifah who “won’t discuss it.” Why not? You’re rich
and famous, but made terribly insecure by this part of you that’s supposedly “nobody’s
business”? The famous person who made me the angriest was Sean Hayes, who
played the flamboyant Jack on Will & Grace. That was the most progressive
show on television at the time, he was obviously gay, if not as stereotypical
as the character he portrayed and he “refused to discuss it” until finally
coming out for The Advocate several years after the show had been off the air.
What does that do to the gay kids watching your show, buddy? Man up. And actually,
the reason I’m mad at Queen Latifah was that her show was playing in the dentist’s
office the other day, and she was taking a picture of her audience with her
phone to put on Twitter. She said, “That’s not a selfie! That’s a
somebody-elsie! We invented something new, y’all! A somebody-elsie!” The
audience laughed and clapped while I seethed. YOU DIDN’T INVENT ANYTHING! A
SOMEBODY-ELSIE?! YOU JUST TOOK A FUCKING PICTURE! YOU’RE SO STUPID!<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I used to think the
world was a magical, wonderful place. I don’t mean that it’s not from a poor
me, doom and gloom perspective, because I have been a lucky person for whom the
world has been a magical, wonderful place. Everything has been sunshine and
lollipops for me because, as a white male, I was born on the sunny side of a
lollipop field. Loathe as we are to admit it, much in our lives are dictated by
privilege and circumstances, not our positive attitudes. I’m not explain myself
well. David Rakoff said, and I’m paraphrasing, that you can believe in all the
positive thinking that you want. You can have the sunniest attitude, and a “relationship
with the universe”, and the belief that, by putting positive vibes out into the
universe, positive vibes will be returned to you. But, Rakoff continued, if you’re
a labourer in Bangladesh making 10 cents an hour at a fucking sneaker factory,
you can think all the sunny thoughts you like, you’re still going to wake up
tomorrow and have to work at the fucking sneaker factory. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m finding it hard to
transition out of the “magical, wonderful place” model, especially because, as
I say, my streets are paved with gold. I’ve got a job and a nice fella and have
never been followed around a store, let’s say, or turned down for a job based
on anything other than my qualifications. As a white dude, I’ve never felt
vulnerable walking alone at night, or standing alone at a bar. I’ve never
turned on the tv and not seen myself reflected back a hundred different ways. I
haven’t seen hundreds of young white people go missing or be murdered, and if
that happened enough times that it was noticeable as a larger trend, it would
be on the front page of every newspaper every goddamn day. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It makes me heartsick
when well-intentioned people like me say, “I just prefer to see the good in
people.” Someone on my Facebook feed, in response to a Ferguson post said, “This
whole situation is so negative! There are so many good things happening in the
world, why not focus on that?” When someone says something so inane, what they’re
really saying is, “It doesn’t affect me.” War in Iraq? “Doesn’t affect me.”
Missing and murdered Aboriginal women? “Doesn’t affect me.” Unarmed black
teenager shot dead by a police officer? “Doesn’t affect me.” It should affect
you, it does affect you. To pretend otherwise is to be at best, a shitty
person, and at worst, culpable in the injustices being committed.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s so tempting to
deal in absolutes. I always do this, I never do that. I believe in this, but
not that. I’m not a religious person, and I used to think that was a trait of
religious people—the world is black and white, good and evil, etc. But now I
think that’s true of only pious people, and the truly faithful struggle as much
as the rest of us do. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the course of proving and disproving his
theories, Stephen Hawking became known as the most brilliant mind of our time.
David Rakoff, in spite of his pessimistic nature, wrote some the funniest and
most elegant prose I’ve ever read. I still can’t read his last book, published
shortly before his death from cancer at 47, because the idea that such a writer
has nothing left to be read makes me incredibly sad. The point is, neither man
was content to say one thing and leave it there, they were furious and curious.
Furious and curious aren’t bad things to be these days. At least that’s what I
think.</span> </span>Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-24935343835019382142014-11-13T11:47:00.000-08:002014-11-13T11:49:43.461-08:00Break the Internet, Volume OneHello Friends. <br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Poor Kim Kardashian’s butt. Can you imagine being such a
butt? A butt with so much attention? It must be so weird. I’m sure my butt has
only received attention for something negative. I almost never look back there
and say, “Good job, butt.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">By now you’ve seen or read about Kim Kardashian’s bare-assed
cover of Paper Mag with the headline, “Break the Internet.” The suggesting
being, I suppose, that this photo will be downloaded and viewed by so many
people as to somehow exhaust the very medium that transmits it. We’ll wake up
tomorrow internet-less thanks to this malevolent butt. Would that be so bad?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Dream: Break the internet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Goal: Unachievable. There’s no way to shut down the non-stop
garbage parade on the information superhighway (remember when we called it
that?). But maybe if we thought a little more critically about what we are
constantly consuming, we wouldn’t have to break the internet in order to get it
fixed. This topic is a big one, so I suggest we approach the tear down and
rebuild of the internet in stages, and this is my first idea.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Plan: Let’s start by revising the definition of pornography,
shall we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Is this naked photoshoot of Kim Kardashian labelled “Break the
Internet” meant to evoke the nude photo hacking that occurred a few weeks ago?
Classy move, magazine. Is it a commentary on the event, or just capitalizing on
the trend of naked ladies? So much ink has been spilled about this, I know I’m
just adding to the noise but beyond the fact that making someone’s private
photos readily accessible to a public audience is a violation and a sex crime,
I still think it positions a woman’s body as currency in a really gross way. The
idea that women with their clothes off will somehow create chaos and corrupt us
absolutely is just wrong. Again, I haven’t seen a lot of the photos, but these
aren’t women having sex, these are women who are nude. Why does Vanity Fair, in
their recent cover story concerning Jennifer Lawrence, print her statement in
full about her feelings of violation at the release of those photos, with an
accompanying pictorial of her naked in a swimming pool (albeit strategically
positioned to cover her nipples)? In other words, Vanity Fair prints that
accessing naked pictures of Jennifer Lawrence is a violation (which it is),
while splashing sexy pics inside their magazine to sell more copies (which they
did).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Famously, a member of the United States Supreme Court, when
ruling on whether or not a particular film qualified as obscene, couldn’t
explain exactly what made something pornography or not said, “When it comes to [porn],
I know it when I see it.” Is that true? Do we really know it when we see it
anymore? A woman breastfeeding her child is not pornographic, but what if the
child hasn’t latched on to the breast, and someone takes a picture of a
bare-breasted woman about to but not in the act of feeding her child? Such
distinctions are ridiculous, at least to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">There’s a guy in this town that I fucking hate and I don’t
even know his name. This guy, who goes by a ridiculous pseudonym and Twitter
handle, is a bigot who couches his vitriol in the guise of right wing ideology.
The only reason I know he exists is because his stupid blog is widely read
(much more so than this one, I can assure you) and, in his review of a Fringe
show called a particular performer, “A flaming Fringe faggot” (referring to the
fact that this performer has been in several Fringe shows that are queer-positive,
some are drag cabarets, etc.) Somebody got ahold of it, told local media, they ran
with the story, there was requisite outrage, blah blah blah. I don’t know why,
after reading some article about it, I was compelled to look further (the cyber
equivalent of picking a scab), but I went to the writer’s blog and Twitter
page. The rest of his Fringe Festival coverage was other play reviews, and then
each “day” of the festival featured several pictures of women who were
attending. Their heads were cut off in the pictures, so it was just the
(fully-clothed) bodies of women walking around the Fringe grounds! This guy takes pictures of women clearly unaware they are being
photographed covertly on his phone, then uploads them as “scenery.” As in, “There
were many other great sights to see at the Fringe this year, heh heh heh!”
followed by pictures of these women! From the “I know it when I see it” file,
that’s ABSOLUTELY obscene to me. This disgusting man who doesn’t put
his real name on anything is the type of person </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">who the internet
ought to break down on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I guess we’re no closer to breaking the internet. Women’s
bodies, the male gaze, and what constitutes pornography can’t be solved in a
thinkpiece (even one as scattershot as this one). All I can control is what I
watch which, for the moment, won’t be the famous butt that seems to be
everywhere. I guess we can’t break something that’s already broken.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-21017386731445442522014-11-07T10:21:00.000-08:002014-11-07T10:21:00.634-08:00Old Yeller...
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Jon teaches a class on Thursday nights, so I usually use
those nights to cook the dinners only I like and watch the shows Jon has no
interest in. I’m embarrassed to report that those shows include a program I
will call by its Spanish name, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escandalo!</i>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escandalo!</i> is a
soapy, melodramatic program that centres around Kerry Washington and her
impossible cheekbones, and together they fix what’s wrong in Washington (the
place), and the presidency. Kerry is having an affair with the President (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escandalo!</i>), but has also uncovered a
secret government organization that exists beyond the powers of the White House
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escandalo!</i>) and she’s having another
affair with the interim leader of that organization (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escandalo!</i>) who holds the position previously held by Kerry
Washington’s father (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Muey Escandalo!</i>).
While the show purports to be about corruption and intrigue in the highest
office in the land, it’s basically <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">House
of Cards</i> for stupid people. In spite of myself, I am hooked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One thing the show likes to do (with the subtlety of a
freight train, btw) is examine the effects of power. Who has it, who wants it,
what will they do to get it and keep it, etc. Kerry Washington is especially
good at playing this dynamic as every subtle shift reads on her stunningly
beautiful face. She’s a great actress, but lately her job has been to simply
react to horrifying things, and you couldn’t find a better canvas. But I
digress. Because it’s all about power, and because the show is a little
ham-fisted in delivering emotional punches, everyone on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Escandalo!</i> is always yelling at each other. As much as I enjoy the
escapism of a night time soap, I couldn’t last in that world for two seconds
because I can’t handle being yelled at.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Handle being yelled at.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. When I say, “Being yelled at”, I’m defining
things very loosely. I don’t mean someone screaming obscenities in my face, which
nobody should put up with, I mean when someone belittles me, or chastises me
like a child for some perceived transgression. I don’t understand this practice
at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I was a child, I stupidly thought that kids yell at
each other, sometimes grown-ups yelled at kids, but grown-ups don’t yell at
each other (and yes, that naiveté is the incredible privilege of growing up in
the stable, happy home that 1/10 of 1 percent of all kids get, my brother and
me among them). Consequently, as an adult, I don’t know how to respond when
someone starts yelling. My stomach churns, my heart drops, and I am immediately
cowed and subservient, even when I know that I’m not in the wrong and have
nothing to be chastened for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Shake it off. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How does Taylor Swift do it? With all the haters, and the
fakers, and the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sometimes I wonder if I have one of those easy-to-yell-at
faces. Like a droopy, “duh-duh” face. During one job I held, I caught my
reflection in a window once after I was yelled at from a supervisor who had
actually gathered other coworkers around for some kind of public shaming. My
posture was defensive, my hands were shaking, and I had the stupidest look my
face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a director I have worked with who is notorious for
his verbal tear-downs. Years of doing it had given him a lot of practice and he
could, without warning, really decimate someone he was displeased with. People
will always work with him, though, and I’m certain his tenure as a great
director will continue because he gets great results. Loathe as I am to admit
it, he knows that intimidation works. After a particularly blistering rebuke of
someone on a rehearsal day, he sputtered, “I care about putting on a good show.
I don’t care about everyone having a good time” or something to that effect.
What bothers me is that both things are possible.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can think of bosses, supervisors, directors, teachers, and
other people of authority who get stuff done willingly by a happy crew. I have stayed
in lousy jobs and worked really hard to please people like that. I might put
forth extra effort into something if I don’t want to get yelled at, but I’m
going to give my truly greatest effort when I’m helping someone that I respect.
If you want to find stressed out people, go to a retail store or a restaurant.
If you want to find calm people deftly handling stressful situations, go to the
some of the stores where I have worked. I’ve seen managers on the floor all day
getting shit from customers, then get a call from some head office and get shit
from corporate when the day is done, and those managers then take their shit
out on nobody. People don’t get yelled at, people get treated with respect, and
the work gets done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are always going to be people that behave badly, who
believe that threats of catastrophe is greater motivation than positive
feedback. There’s no point in trying to change people who exhibit that behavior
because often it gets results from chumps like me. But chumps like me can
change how we respond to bad behavior, even if it means faking the shake off until
we can successfully make the shake off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dr. Jon never yells at me, nor do my work colleagues, nor
friends, nor family, and I don’t yell at anyone myself (at least I don’t think
I do). Still, I think it’s important to remind myself that yelling itself is inevitable,
but valueless. The more import I give to this lousy method of communication,
the more likely I am to internalize it the next time someone yells at me. If
yelling at James gets results, James better stop producing results to reinforce
the behavior. It is then that I am the worst version of myself and likely to
treat someone badly in turn, and that would be truly scandalous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-71001140789236165142014-10-30T09:13:00.001-07:002014-10-30T09:13:03.186-07:00Sexy Man Costume...<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br />Halloween falls on a Friday night this year, it’s not
uncomfortably cold, I don’t have any children, and I’m not deathly ill. For all
of those reasons, I really should go out and have fun. I’ve complained in the
past about adults celebrating Halloween is juvenile and just a chance to get
skanky, but really, who am I to deprive my contemporaries of the privilege?
Plus, I am told that Halloween is truly the gay man’s holiday. It’s an event
where outlandish behavior and dress is not only tolerated, but encouraged.
Actually, considering the ceremony and pageantry associated with Christmas,
Easter, Thanksgiving, I’m fairly certain that any holiday is the gay man’s
holiday, but anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This ghoultide season (ha HA!), I’m stymied as to what to
dress up as, particularly since the practice is encouraged around the office.
My only idea (and therefore the strongest contender) is Business Cat. This costume
will involve wearing my normal work clothes, plus maybe some cat ears, and
going about my day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we do go out on Friday night, I’m not convinced Business
Cat will play well at the bar. As much as a truly original costume like
Business Cat is appreciated, funny’s no money when it comes winning the prizes
offered at the night spot we might visit. There will be some women dressed in
sexy lady gear and, because it’s a gay bar, there will also be men dressed in
sexy lady gear. Since the only lady I’m comfortable dressing as is Diane
Keaton, I need to find a Sexy Man’s Costume.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Design or discover a Sexy Man Halloween costume.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. My feeling is those sad Halloween stores
really miss the mark when it comes to costumes for men. One I saw recently was
lumberjack. I don’t know any actual lumberjacks, but I think if I met one, I
wouldn’t be turned on by virtue of his profession:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">ME: What’s your job?<br />
LUMBERJACK: Lumberjack.<br />
ME: Oh! So you… chop down trees?<br />
LUMBERJACK: Basically.<br />
ME: Huh! Don’t they have machines that do that now?<br />
LUMBERJACK: Do they?<br />
ME: I think so.<br />
LUMBERJACK: I’ll be along now. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exuent
LUMBERJACK<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Design prototypes for Sexy Man Costumes based on the
following ideas:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sexy Single Dad. This one is for you, ladies. I’m not sure
why, but many straight ladies I know turns all jello-kneed at the sight of a
handsome single father. This costume is simple, fellas. Dress somewhat
conservatively and walk around the party calling out modern names. “Makenna?
Zaden?” People will be like, “Awww, those must be his kids!” Although I suppose
they would think you were calling for your kids because they were missing at a
large party, I don’t know how you dig yourself out of that hole. Okay, wear a
t-shirt obviously made by children. So it has paint handprints on it and says “WE
LOVE YOU DADDY” in crude font and then something like, “PS OUR MOMMY IS DEAD”
so that everyone knows you’re a single parent, down to clown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sexy Vet (like veterinarian, not war veteran, let’s not make
fun of that). One of the loveliest thing about Dr. Jon is how much he cares for
animals. There’s something so appealing about that quality in a fella. So a
Sexy Vet could wear a stethoscope, but have scrubs with puppies on them. Or he
could carry around a bandaged bunny rabbit. No, that’s weird, that’s weird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brendan Fraser. Just dress like Brendan Fraser. Where is
that guy? I miss that guy. Or rather, I miss him from 20 years ago. I remember
seeing Encino Man when I was 11 or 12, where this dude finds a prehistoric
naked and vulnerable Brendan Fraser and thinking to myself, “This shall be my
life’s work.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sexy Apologizing Bastard. You know how there’s that person
in your life, from work, or high school, or college who was/is a bastard? And
there’s something about him that could potentially be attractive if he wasn’t a
bastard? This costume is that guy, but he spends the whole night apologizing
for being a bastard. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sexy “What About You?” Guy. This one will be an even bigger
hit than the Apologizer. This guy’s costume could be a mirror, or a t shirt
with a big question mark on it. All he does is ask about your life and seem
genuinely interested. Yeah, that would get annoying and suspicious after a
while, but it could be sexy over the course of a party.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sexy “Strong Without Effort” Guy. I don’t mean muscle-y
juiceheads, or the guys at the gym lifting insane amounts and screaming with
each movement like they’re making Sophie’s choice. I can’t explain it, but to
me there’s something incredibly attractive about a man (a woman too, come to
think of it), doing something taxing without obvious strain. Again, I don’t
know why, but when a guy competently helps to move a couch or does pushups
because he’s bored, that’s insanely hot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Guy in a suit. Gentleman, just buy a basic suit that is
TAILORED TO YOUR BODY and wear it around. This is so easy, especially because
the resourceful guy can wear many combinations of one suit and a well-made suit
lasts forever. Just wear a suit. Just wear a suit!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It says a lot about our culture that a sexy lady costume requires
wearing some variation of a skimpy garment and who cares about the context, and
a sexy man costume just asks that guys not be dicks for a night. I’m not the
one to solve this quandary, but in general, I do think the sexiest thing anyone
can be is an open, honest version of themselves. Or a Business Cat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-84259204041946421702014-10-17T10:53:00.001-07:002014-10-17T10:53:11.608-07:00Do Not Not Disturb
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I had to give up my little office last week to make room for
a new guy. Now I work in a more communal area alongside my colleagues. Not
really a cube farm, just a corner of a much larger room with three other people
and a bit of foot traffic. Higher-ups broke this news to me as gently as
possible, as if I might burst into tears, or cling possessively to the
inspirational picture mounted to my wall. “No! I need my solitary space! How
else will I LIVE?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The answer is, quite comfortably. Though it was cool, when I
got this job, to have my own office, it quickly became weirdly isolating. I
found myself wandering over to the common area that now includes my desk to ask
innocuous questions about a task, find out if I could help anyone out, or just
chat. Turns out, unless I’m deep in the throes of a complicated assignment, I’d
rather have some activity around me than none at all. Though I still would
consider working from home the gold standard, but only because I imagine it the
way Homer does, where Jon brings me a lemonade and a beer and we dance while I
wear my fat guy muumuu. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There have been times in my life when I’ve really wanted to
be alone. When I was a kid, I wanted my own room and when I finally got one, I
guarded it fiercely (although it wasn’t as if anyone was desperate to gain
access to the inner sanctum of a disgusting teenaged me). When I moved out on
my own, I dismissed the idea of roommates entirely. At the time, my rent was so
low I could easily afford a one bedroom apartment while working a crap job
(something all but impossible now). Even after I met Jon, we kept separate
residences for four years, and then have lived apart for long stretches since
due to his work and mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The thing that surprised me about getting the solitude I
thought that I wanted was that I became the worst version of myself. I’m not a
depressive, but I am incredibly neurotic, and left unchecked by the presence of
others, I become a literal and figurative mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Live in less privacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. I know that doesn’t make sense on the face
of it. Who wants less privacy? Especially when one considers, beyond the
tinfoil hat sort of way, that we lack so much privacy as citizens. Surely our
emails are monitored, our money tracked, and suspicious movements subject to surveillance,
and we’re not even important people. I wouldn’t mind if that scrutiny was
lessened a bit; it creeps me out to think that none of us has any autonomy as a
citizen of the world, I’m just saying I want people around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Find ways to make myself more accessible and less
imprisoned by my impulse to isolate. Such as:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Secrets. I don’t mean that I’m going to spill anyone’s
secrets, anything I’ve put in the vault stays in the vault. I mean that I’m
going to try to keep less secrets about myself, not that I have many anyway, but
you get the picture. Anything I’ve held inside, for whatever reason, eventually
festers and feels gross. Whether it’s times I’ve been bad with money, bailed on
a commitment, treated somebody like shit, I have to own that stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Relationship criteria. In my case, I’m not talking about
criteria for a romantic relationship, as I’ve already got a good one of those;
I’m talking about developing more connections and friendships with people. To
generalize with wild abandon, I feel like straight women and gay men feel this
need to have an inner circle, or maybe one or two confidantes, or one bff, and
nobody else gets in. I look at the Facebook walls of my straight women/gay men
friends and they’re filled with self-centered platitudes like, “I’m officially
done with apologizing to people!” Or, “This is me, deal with it!” Or my
personal favourite, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me
at my best!” Did you ever notice that people who say that actually have no best
and are always the worst? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not saying don’t be who you are, but never apologizing?
Really? Isn’t life full of the mistakes we make and how we choose to correct
them? Shouldn’t we be pliable as people, willing to accept different points of
view, especially if it means changing our own? Isn’t that growth? If you’re
going to summarily dismiss the people in your life who occasionally rankle or
upset you, be prepared for the loneliest life! Ironically, these are the same
people whose social media platforms are filled with Oprah quotes about “Living
in the moment” and “Practicing gratitude”, but they can’t seem to do much of
either.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Every body (even mine, even yours) is fine. The older I get
and the more my body changes, the less I understand our collective insistence
on privately (or publicly) tormenting ourselves about how we look. I don’t mean
to be all free love and creepy, but they’re just bodies, man. Who gives a shit?
It was awful and a huge breach of privacy when some person (or persons) hacked
into the phones/computers of a bunch of female celebrities and posted their
nude photos. A terrible violation, to be sure. But as I understand it, these
aren’t pictures of people engaged in sex acts; they’re just naked selfies. The
more we clutch our pearls and ready our fainting couches over nude photos that don’t
depict anything sexual, the more we send the message that there’s something
inherently wrong with our bodies. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know taking this view is a little gross, it sounds like I’m
defending the people that stole and leaked these photos, of course I’m not, but
I read this article about teenagers and sexting recently that gave me a lot to
think about. Because teens are perpetually horny and disgusting, and the
dangers of sexual activity are hammered into them at every opportunity, a titillating
but physically safe option seems to be sending each other naked pictures. I was
surprised to learn that, at least among the teenagers surveyed for the article,
there is rarely, if ever, a fallout as a result. It is only when parents find
out and involve schools who in turn involve law enforcement, that it gets truly
awful. Senders and sendees are interviewed, monitored, and in some cases,
charged and arrested. The subjects of questionable photos have scarlet A’s
permanently affixed to themselves as they walk the halls. Remember that this is
not the result of explicit imagery of people engaging in sex with each other
(though those do exist among teens and ought to be handled quite differently),
these are kids standing there with their clothes off. Granted, if a naked
picture of me was circulated among my classmates when I was a teen, I would be
horrified and embarrassed. If cops showed up to interview me about it alongside
my parents, I’d actually want to die. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Again, I’m speaking only for myself here. And I think
perhaps I’m confusing privacy with secrecy, or being alone with loneliness.
There are private parts of my life that I keep close to the vest, and I wouldn’t
want that to be violated, but I also know that I want people around that really
know me, warts and all. I like how nobody has to awkwardly knock on an open
door to get my attention at work now. Nobody needs to be invited into my space;
you’re already here.</span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-62992046468584042712014-10-10T12:14:00.003-07:002014-10-10T12:14:40.684-07:00Katy Perry's Superbowl of Love
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For an event I’ve never watched all the way through in my
life, I have some pretty distinct Superbowl memories, and all of them involve
performers. The Superbowl was where Whitney Houston sang that iconic version of
The Star Spangled Banner. By the way, isn’t it sort of weird that the American
national anthem is called The Star Spangled Banner? A star spangled banner
sounds like a festooned sash at a children’s beauty pageant or the décor at a
homosexual-hosted house party. The Superbowl is where Justin Timberlake grabbed
the breastplate off Janet Jackson’s breast, momentarily exposing it to a
pearl-clutching nation. I’ll never stop being mad about the fallout, by the way.
He ripped her top off. Regardless of whether this was pre-planned, it’s an act
of sexual violence to rip someone’s top off, why didn’t we get mad at him? A
wall of shit really fell on Janet from which I’m not sure her career ever
recovered, but Timberlake got off scot-free. Micheal Jackson did a half time
show one year where everyone in the audience had to hold up placards to form a
shitty picture of children holding hands, which is arguably the greater crime
against humanity. The Superbowl was where Madonna and Beyonce led the half-time
shows of 2013 and 2014, respectively, in a blatant attempt to bring women and
gays to the tv for ten minutes and it worked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This year, it has just been announced, will feature a half
time performance by Katy Perry. Madonna was good, Beyonce was fine, but Katy
Perry? It’s like okay, universe, I get it: this is the most important Superbowl
of all time in history, and I want to be a part of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Katy Perry performs a song about me in The Superbowl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. Listen, stranger things have happened. Nobodies
have star making turns all the time. Have you seen that “Apparently” kid? He
hosts Ellen now. With viral memes, videos, and blog posts (right??) dictating popularity,
it’s only a matter of time before something I produced gets beamed around the
world into millions of homes, and I think Katy Perry is the perfect conduit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Write to Katy so she has adequate time to rehearse
James Is My Friend, Look At Him Go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dear Katy,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hi! I’m such a fan of some of your music. I think you can
craft a hit like no one else. Teenage Dream? Roar? Birthday? Forget it. Those
will be pleasantly stuck in my head until the end of time. I even have an hour
long workout mix of your tunes that I listen to while I sit around eating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not sure why you’re not given the credit of a Lady Gaga
or Beyonce. To me, your songs are more instantly memorable, and you’re far
better looking. I bought the issue of </span><a href="http://www.popsugar.com/Katy-Perry-Interview-Vogue-July-2013-30831434"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: Calibri;">Vogue</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
with you on it because look at you! You’re a goddamn painting! Wow! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Anyway, I know everyone is looking forward to a medley of
your hits (but leave off Dark Horse, that one never really burrowed into my
brain like the others), but what I’d like to do is really shake up your
forthcoming performance with a brand new hit called James is My Friend, Look At
Him Go. I’m not super good with music, but it should be upbeat and poppy.
Lyrics below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<u><span style="font-family: Calibri;">James Is My Friend, Look At Him Go<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who is the boy who has all the moves?<br />
Who is the friend that’s closest to you?<br />
Who is the man you want right by your side?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He is the guy who’s healthy and strong<br />
He works in the day and sleeps all night long<br />
He can’t drive a car so I’m taking him for a ride *Katy, good place for a sexy
move here*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">CHORUS:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">James is my friend, look at him go<br />
He is a friend I think you should know<br />
Patient and kind<br />
He’s not your friend he’s mine<br />
Go Big City James Go!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There comes a time when you’re all alone<br />
No Likes on your status no texts on your phone<br />
There’s only one boy who can make you feel alright<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So give him a call and there he will be<br />
He’s not just your friend, he’s friends with me<br />
I’m Katy Perry and our friendship lasts all night<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">CHORUS<br />
<br />
BRIDGE<br />
<br />
</b>James is his name, and that’s all I know, Go Big City James Go (Go go GO!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">CHORUS x2<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And that’s basically it. Easy, right? I don’t have any
suggestions for dance moves, but maybe point in random directions in the
audience like you’re pointing at specific people, in a “You! You! You!” sort of
way.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alright Katy, realtalk, </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QX-xToQI34I"><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: Calibri;">that time you sang with that
girl at an autism benefit</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> makes me cry buckets when I watch it. If you want
to do something as poignant and meaningful in your half time show in lieu of
singing to me, I can’t stop you (though I have some musically inclined friends
who just might decide to record this track if you take a pass). I’m just a fan
and a nice person and it’s been such a long time since someone publicly performed
in my honour, so…. Come on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Love your friend,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">James<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1905534233355131709.post-76570609354665843242014-09-26T12:44:00.001-07:002014-09-26T12:44:14.179-07:00Under the Knife…
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hello Friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Starting off on a bad foot because this is already late, but
I also have to warn you not to expect a blog next Thursday either because next
Thursday I am getting some work done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Cobra Superstar Oral and Facial Surgical Centre (not its
real name) is just a few blocks from my house and offers everything from nose
jobs to Botox injections. After an initial consultation and getting the right
forms signed by a doctor, Jonny is driving me to and from Cobra Superstar for a
brief procedure on October 3rd.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I could continue with this misdirection awhile because it’s
fun, but truthfully I’m just getting some dumb operation done on my jaw because
apparently (this is gross) there’s a tooth imbedded in there. I was hoping the
tooth would be attached to one of those fetus twins but no joy. My dentist
tells me that, while this imbedded tooth gives me no discomfort now, it will
eventually hit nerves and the pain will be horrendous. The op is totally covered
by my insurance combined with the Doc’s, so there’s really no reason why I
shouldn’t get this troublemaker yanked outta me. If there are no complications
and recover quickly, this procedure could open up a whole new world to me, and
it might be fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dream: Get extensive cosmetic surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goal: Achievable. Recently, I asked a friend, “If plastic
surgery wasn’t at all stigmatized, would you do it?” She said, “Yes, totally.
Wait, what did you say?” and I said, “If plastic surgery…” and she goes, “Ohh!
I thought you said prostitution. But yeah. Yes to both” (she’s one of my best
pals). And she’s right (about plastic surgery, anyway). If there was absolutely
no stigmatization (and procedures were affordable and safe), wouldn’t many of
us fix up our faces and bodies the way we get our hair cut or go to the gym? I know
I would.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Plan: Make a list of potential procedures to undergo,
assuming my rogue tooth is extracted from my jaw without causing me undue
duress. Here’s what I’d fix if I could.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ab implants. Would that be cool? I’m so tired of obscuring
my pizza gut with big sweaters, Chinese dressing screens, and obvious props
like a pregnant tv actress. I want to know what it would feel like to rub my
hand on my belly and feel taut ridges rather than a hairy sack of gluten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Face shortener. I have a longer face than a cartoon basset
hound. I’m scared of ever getting a caricature done of me because I know it
will just be a long bean riding a skateboard or something. What else?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Eyebag de-puffing<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ballbag de-wrinkling<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wit sharpening<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nipple sharpening. Just open cans of tomato juice instantly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nasal cavity widening. This will be a tricky one. I don’t
want bigger nostrils, but apparently I have an irritating nose whistle. I saw
apparently because I can’t hear it, but everyone around me can. In fact, I’m
probably sending out a merry tune as I write, but I’m none the wiser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Preemptive jowl filler. I know I should smile more to
eliminate the future perma-creases on either side of my mouth rendering me a
living Ben Wicks illustration. Actually, this has nothing to do with anything,
but I read an article positing that facial fillers are a boon to AIDS patients.
A small amount applied to either side of the face eliminates the gaunt, hollow-cheeked
look common among sufferers. That’s a major downer, but the kind of thing one
is tempted to trot out in defense of plastic surgery. Sorry for the AIDS
digression.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Permanent hair. My hair has done me a solid over the years,
can I get surgery to keep it on my head for the rest of my life? If that doesn’t
exist, it should.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, to steal a joke from Maria Bamford, what I’d really
like to surgically alter is that part of my brain that cares what other people
think. I’m not really considering any plastic surgery for myself right now, but
I’m not one those people who casts aspersions on people who nip and tuck. A
beautiful friend of mine confided that she had had a nose job in her teenage
years and I stupidly thought, “But that’s impossible, your nose is so pretty!”
But of course I’ve only known her with her current, pert and beautiful nose on
her pert and beautiful face. Being (forgive me) nosy in turn, I asked if she
had any other procedures done and she laughed and said, “No, I just had a big
nose growing up. Now I don’t.” Simple as that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course anything can be overdone and ghastly, and the
effects of plastic surgery are permanent, but so are tattoos and we’ve become
perhaps too permissible where those are concerned. All I would hope is that if
I do ever seriously contemplate getting something done, it’s for my own peace
of mind and nothing else. I hope I don’t age into Botox where a 60 year old
James looks like a permanently surprised 70 year old James, or buy myself a new
schlong for Christmas, but it’s my own damn business if I do. If there’s
something different about me one day that you can’t quite put your finger on,
don’t ask me to explain myself because I’ll probably just do what is advised
for my recovery after next Thursday: keep my mouth shut.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06112060127105521994noreply@blogger.com0