This One's For the Children...

Hello Friends.

The genesis of Dan Savage's It Gets Better Project was apparently him reading another article about another gay kid committing suicide and somebody saying, “I wish I had the chance to tell this kid that it gets better.” From there, he launched a YouTube channel where people logged on, shared their stories of being bullied or oppressed lesbian/gay/bisexual/transgender kids and how they lead awesome lives now, so you can too. Then Lady Gaga made a bunch of public statements in support of her young LGBT fans. Then Anderson Cooper forgot about current events worldwide and became fixated on the issues surrounding youth bullying. Then no gay kid committed suicide ever again. Or, wait...

Look, the last thing I want to do is be insensitive or offensive on this subject. On the whole, I'd love for my silly blog to be widely read, but in cases like these, I'm happy it's not. I know, dear few readers, that you realize I'm not trying to minimize the tragic circumstances that lead some young people to take their lives, but I wonder if we're not sending kids the absolute wrong message on subjects like these. There are few sacred cows around here, but I take this subject seriously enough to know a lot of the rhetoric being bandied about in support of bullied teens, gay or otherwise, is fucking dangerous. Time to get a new message out.

Dream: Send a message to the gay teens.

Goal: Achievable. I'm nothing if not hip and easy to relate to, so it's time give these dudes and dudettes the 411.

Plan: Be blunt and concise with what I know as a former gay teen and current gay “success story” (I bought new sheets so yeah, livin' pretty well these days).

First of all, if the It Gets Better videos speak to you, that's great, don't let me stop you, just be aware of the premise you are accepting here. If you believe that it gets better, you believe that your current situation is somehow worse. Yes, gay teenagers have it hard, but you know who else has it hard? Teenagers. Fat ones, skinny ones, ones with bad skin, ones with weird hair, cracked voices, flat chests, clothes from Walmart, divorced parents, diverse cultural backgrounds, different skin colours, busty chests and braces. Everyone wants to be like everyone else when they're sixteen, but unfortunately for sixteen year-olds, everyone is in some way unique. What will get better is your tolerance for an acceptance of that which makes us diverse, and naturally we should celebrate such diversity but, like pimples, braces, and tits, we shouldn't let a trait as benign and ultimately unimportant as sexuality define who we are.

I get what you're doing, Lady Gaga. Even for someone as cynical as me, I can appreciate your obvious love for your LGBT teenage fans. But the whole thing smacks of catering to a demographic to me. Of course we should strive to make gay kids feel as loved and accepted as anyone else, but do we have to just see them as Gay Kids? Yes, you were Born This Way, but left-handed people were Born That Way also, as were tall people and people who can roll their tongue in a loop, but that's not something they hang onto as an identity, how boring. Being gay is a part of who you are, but it does not a person make. We all know those people, gay and straight, who use their sexuality to define their personality, and while it's fun to go to a dance bar with these folks, they come across vain and shallow after awhile. If you're a teen, try cultivating an image for yourself based on your abilities, not your attributes. Be the poet, or the girl who makes her own soap and candles, or the basketballer, who happens to be gay, but what of it? I suppose it's easy for me to say all this now, especially since I spent my high school years comfortably in the closet, but I certainly never had a boyfriend or even any prospects that would make my sexuality any kind of issue. I know a lot of gay high schoolers are probably upset that they don't have a boyfriend or girlfriend and can't get laid, but you know who else is upset they don't have a boyfriend or girlfriend and can't get laid? Every other teenager. Suck it up.

I hate to tell you, teens of all stripes, but bullying is here to say. Like prostitution or Ashton Kutcher, just because we don't like certain things doesn't mean we can ever really get rid of them. But it takes two to tango, or cheat on your long time partner, Demi Moore, and likewise it takes a Victim to be Bullied. Part of what disturbs me about the media frenzy surrounding the bullying “epidemic” is that it suggests it is the worst thing that could ever happen to a person. Yes, it sucks being called a name or shoved into a locker, but whatever happened to “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me?” What happened to “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent?” I'm not saying we ought to teach kids to passively accept bullying, just the opposite. Stand up to the asshole kid who picks on you, ignore taunts and insults or, better yet, see them for what they are: pathetic attempts by an individual to assert power over another person to make up for their own perceived weakness. Don't put that victim hat on, if you are teased or picked on, for God's sake, don't sit at home stewing about it! And please, refuse to accept the link force-fed to us by countless well-intentioned but completely misguided news stories that suggest bullying leads to desperation which leads to suicide.

Suicide is the tragic, irrevocable act of someone suffering with issues of mental and emotional health. I want to be very careful when talking about this, because I really can't imagine ever even contemplating going down this road, but I do know that it is a state of mind which leads people to this decision, not just a set of circumstances. When Lady Gaga dedicates a song to a person that has taken their life, or Anderson Cooper uses a dead teenager's Facebook page to launch into another episode of 360, I wonder if we risk treating suicide like it's a trend. As if it's a thing some people do because of x, y, and z, when it has to be far more complicated than that. I'm not sure we're honouring these kids by lumping them together in newspaper articles and suggesting their death is part of some cause, like it's not senseless, like it's not completely unacceptable. I don't think I'm being clear. All I know for sure is that we should treat events like this not as headline news gossip where people go, “Ohh geez, bullying...” Instead we should be confused and horrified every single time, and wonder what the fuck is happening, not just to gay teenagers, not just to victims of bullying, but to every kid who sees this is a viable option, some kind of “way out.”

There's a lot more information out there, by people smarter than me, but there's lots of hysterical reportage out there too, by people dumber than me. And I worry that, like shark attacks and the golden-voiced homeless man, teenage bullying will become just another news topic that will grow stale and be tossed aside. If that's the case, I hope teenagers will be as smart as nobody gives them credit for and realize they're pretty strong and pretty exceptional, just like everybody else. That things won't just “get better” because enough time has passed, things can “get better” tomorrow if you start to look at things a little differently. We're all in this together and we should strive to accept and love each other and ourselves because that's in our nature, as humans. That's the way we were born.

You Have to Understand...

Hello Friends.

Remember that old song, “What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love and Understanding”? I don't. Well, I know it vaguely enough to cite it here, and I think Elvis Costello sings it, so even a cursory knowledge of it makes me pretty hip. Anyway, I'm all for peace and love, but I place a really high premium on understanding. Not even understanding as it is used in the song, I could care less about understanding other cultures or ideas, but understanding as in... y'know, getting stuff. Like, I understand why ambulances have ECNALUBMA written on them, so when you look in your rear view mirror, you see AMBULANCE and you know it's not just a white van with sirens, you'd best get out of the way. I understand many erudite references on The Simpsons. Like when they go to a party celebrating Reader's Digest, the banner out front reads, “Brevity is... wit.” That refers to Polonius in Hamlet saying, “Brevity is the soul of wit.” They make a reference to the brevity of wit even briefer in an attempt to be wittier! I know nothing is less funny than explaining a joke, but ain't that a laff and a half?Apart from being insufferable to others, understanding things like these fills me with pride, so it really dills my pickle when I just don't understand a simple thing.

Dream: Understand the following things: a wine ad, a thermos, a Hallowe'en costume, a steakhouse.

Goal: Achievable. By sharing these conundrums (conundra?) with you, maybe you will “get” what I'm not “getting”, share with me why these things are they way they are, and I in turn will “get” them, and become even more irritating than before. It's the circle of life.

Plan: Examine these things in detail in order to understand them.

So there's this advertisement for wine a few blocks from my home. I see it every time I go to the grocery store or the liquor store, so at least twice daily, and I just don't get it. This would work even better if I could find the stupid ad online to link you to it, but when I type the text of the ad to search for it, even Google goes, “What the hell does that mean?” It's for a company called something like K Wineries, or K Vineyards or K Estates. Someplace that makes wine called K. The image on the ad is a bottle of K Wine and a glass beside it of chilled white. Got it, makes sense so far. But the text reads, “Ohhh... K. You've upgraped.” What? I can kind of see what they mean by “upgraped.” It's a take on the term “upgraded” but because wine is made from grapes, and presumably this wine from better grapes, they're using “upgraped.” But “Ohhh...K”? Is that like “Okay”? I get that the company is K, but why not just “O.K?” And even then, the expression “Okay, you've upgraped” is nonsensical. Like the advertisers are passive-aggressively doubting the wine. “Okay, so you're a better wine, fuck your mother.” And the “Ohhh...k” for “Okay” is even weirder! You use that “ohhh...” when you're really taken aback, not when something's just okay. As in, “Ohhh wow. Three assault charges? Cross him off the Christmas card list.” Or when you're lying to someone. “Ohhh look at you! That new haircut really is just... wow!” And the slow “okay” is the worst “okay” you can get! As in, “Henry's going to drive us to the concert and soon as he finishes a small mound of cocaine!” “Ohhhkaaay.” So what the hell is this ad trying to say? Maybe it's such bad copy that everyone reads it and thinks, “Now what does that mean?” But I'm worried that “Ohhh...K. You've upgraped” makes perfect sense to everyone but me. Thoughts?

So I bought a thermos recently. I guess it's more of a travel mug, I got it from Tim Horton's and I know it wouldn't survive a mountain climb or anything, but I just like the word thermos. Anyway, I've only had it for about two weeks now, I just use it to take coffee with me to work in the morning. I wash it both after I finish my coffee at work and again at home at the end of the day, but it smells like a mouse took a shit in there and died. What? What is wrong with thermoses?? Why do they all smell so effing gross? I am super diligent about the cleaning and upkeep of this one. I wash it twice and even store it upside down like a cast-iron pot, thinking that any residue I didn't get while washing it would just drip out. Nope! It's like a wizard creeps in to my kitchen at night, mixes tuna with an old egg in there and lets it sit under a heat lamp. All my thermoses (thermi?) have been like that. My last one was a great silver one that the Saturday Night Live logo on it that a friend had sent me from New York. I used the same level of care with that one, but would alternate between putting coffee in it, and soup. So I could kind of understand the escalating grossery there. But this one is just coffee! What is going on here?

So there's this place that sells Hallowe'en costumes that I pass on my walk to work. They don't just sell Hallowe'en costumes, Honest Ed's is one of those catch-all, buy a dog bed and tampons and radishes in one stop kind of stores, but they have big old-timey display windows, and one of them is filled with their Hallowe'en costumes. One such costume is a guy in a suit with an Obama mask for a head. The mask is super-offensive, though, with giant buck teeth and big lips and gums, but then below the mask, popping out of the suit jacket is another, understated Obama mask. The second mask is a more realistic, not-exaggerated version of his face. So the full effect of the costume is President Barack Obama peeking out of a suit which is too tall for him, because he has an offensive mask of his face above his real face, that's actually also a mask. What? I really, really don't get it. Would somebody wear this costume, and to what effect? Would people see it and go, “That's a really offensive image—oh wait, his real face is down here and it's lovely! Ha ha ha! I get it!” The tricky part for me is the fact that the top mask is even being sold there, much less on display. But then I wonder, am I offended because the exaggerated features of the top Obama mask insult Obama? Or am I reading into it the stereotypical features of black people and therefore projecting my own racial sensitivity? I wouldn't get this upset over a badly coiffed Trump-mask, or a gap-toothed David Lettermask, but this Obama mask really gets me antsy. I would love to discuss this with my friend Jared who is an Obama supporter and a black man but we are already on very thin ice. He's more of an acquaintance, really, because of a series of weird encounters that keep us from being close. Once, in a group, we were discussing the show True Blood and how hot all the people on that show were and I said, “I like the brother!” I meant that I liked Jason Stackhouse, the lead character's brother who always walks around with his shirt off, but Jared said, “You like the brother?” He thought I meant I liked the black guy on the show, that I liked “the brother.” So of course I floundered wildly, “Oh no no no! I meant Sookie's brother! Oh my god! No! I mean, not that I don't like Lafayette, the African American gentleman! I do! He's the best! I change my answer, can I change my answer? I didn't even notice that he was black, I don't see people like that, I just... I love him! I love him!” Then another time, we were both at the same movie, though not together, called Another Year, which is an understated British drama about an ageing couple. In a climactic scene, Jerri confronts Mary, a single woman friend of the couple who shows up unannounced to their dinner party. “I do wish you would have called, Mary. It's simply discourteous!” And Mary cries softly. Well the movie thrilled me, but not Jared, who said simply, “That was boring as shit.” I'm not suggesting the difference of opinion was a race thing, but it was the whitest movie ever made. Incidentally, True Blood is another phenomenon I don't understand. I started watching for the aforementioned shirtless man, but gave up when the woman who looks like Shania Twain started vibrating in a forest and the bartender turned into a dog. Yes, people who don't watch True Blood, this is the shit that happens on that show.

So I live near a steakhouse that is called Mr. Onions. I wish I could record this vocally so you could hear my intonation and disbelief here. Why would you have a steakhouse, a place which specializes in serving delicious cuts of prime meat and call it Mr.... Onions? Can the onions possibly be the best part of the restaurant? If so, you're doing it wrong!

Today's entry works well as a companion piece to last week's about my obsessive need to be constantly right. That coupled with my slight, barely noticeable tendency to overthink things might make me a bad party guest, but surely means that I'm a meticulous and thorough blogger. So I hope you can think about these things and get back to me, lest I remain an ignorant and perpetually confused person. What's so funny 'bout that?

The Right Stuff...

Hello Friends.

Have you seen the video by the Occupy Wall Street people? Occupy Wall Street is this grassroots group that are literally occupying Wall Street by showing up in throngs and marching through the financial districts of major American cities to protest the unfair practices of stock traders and the SEC. A member of the organization was being interviewed by a guy from Fox News and thoughtfully, articulately, totally put the Fox guy in his place. You can see the video here. 

I first saw this video through my friend Lewis commenting on his friend Quinn's link on Facebook. I mention this only to explain that I don't know Quinn, or only know him tangentially through Lewis, and while I certainly had no business on his Facebook page, something about this video didn't hit me right and I had to comment.

"This is good but I'm betting completely fake!" I said. I went on to complain about the shaky camera, no way a news crew, even Fox, would record something of such poor quality. Somebody else replied that this was a Fox interview, but it was filmed by a third party camera. Fox would never air it, naturally, and this third party managed to capture the footage. "If that's the case then the audio is too perfect!" I whined. "How can this 'other camera' pick up the sound from the Fox microphone?" Nobody replied.

Instead of feeling strong in my argument and magnanimous in my victory, I felt nothing. In fact, after yet another view of the clip, I realized the audio was as shaky as the video and could have quite possibly come from a bystander's camera, as the previous commenter had suggested, and still felt nothing. I should have realized at this point that the message of the video (which I've completely forgotten at this point) is far more important than whether or not it was rehearsed or set-up. Not only, then, did I have no dog in this fight, but by arguing an insignificant point with a group of strangers, I'm sure I didn't make any new friends. I should have asked myself before getting into this pointless argument what was more important: doubting the means by which something was presented, or listening to the impassioned argument of an activist whose stance I supported? In essence, did I want to be right, or did I want things to be right? But I didn't ask myself those things at the time. Instead, a new Dream was born.

Dream: Be right all the time.

Goal: Achievable. On the surface, it would appear impossible to be right all of the time. I don't and could never know everything there is to know about a given topic, so actually being right would be difficult. But I don't have to be technically right, I just have to believe it to be true. If I think it is so, if I believe it is so, then isn't it so? Let me explain further.

Plan: Adopt the traits and characteristics of the people I know who believe themselves to be right "all the time." For instance:

Fervor. Say what you will about folks like Bill O'Reilly, Nancy Grace, Glenn Beck et al., these guys think they are always right and they whip themselves up into a frenzy over it! Professional talking heads, these three and others like them don't let things like facts or statistics cloud their arguments, they go all in with their ridiculous stances on things and respond to pesky criticism by GETTING LOUDER! "I GUESS WE SHOULD ALL JUST LET AMERICA GET MURDERED BY OBAMA AND TOT MOM! IS THAT WHAT YOU'RE SAYING? SHOULD WE MURDER AMERICA? YOU'RE AN AMERIMURDERER!!" These terribly wrongheaded opinions occasionally worry me, and I wonder about how society is crumbling around us, but then I remember these aren't the prevailing opinions, just THE LOUDEST ONES! Sometimes I wish Matt Taibbi would leave his comfy spot at Rolling Stone, or Arianna Huffington would appear someplace other than her blog and Bill Maher's show, and Janeane Garofalo would stop couching her politics in slouchy, slackery, "I don't really care but this is what I think" bravado and they would all yell as loud as these dudes on the other side. But that would be stooping to their level, of course, and nobody would change their opinion on anything anyway, because in addition to their fervor, these blowhards (and people who are always right) share another important trait in common.

Incuriosity. The most important thing to remember in order to be always right is never to consider information that proves you wrong. There are several clips on YouTube of people like O'Reilly and Nancy Grace being corrected by guests on their show, being proven completely wrong, "owned", as the kids say, and they will have none of it. They have no desire to learn anything new as it may contradict their flawed, but deeply held beliefs. Politics and media aside, we all have those people in our every day lives who have an answer for everything, who can't wait for a chance to prove their expertise, who seek every opportunity to impress you with the least impressive information. For instance, you might say to such a person, "Cold out today, isn't it? I almost froze to death waiting for the bus." And they respond, "Yeah, it's cold, but I've been in colder weather. One time I walked to work in minus 60 degrees. Yeah. I slept in a freezer for a week once, I don't even care." They, too, share this tendency to be incurious. They will share all they know about a particular topic, but not so as to discuss it with you, just to show off all the information they have. If you have one of these friends telling you about Spain, for example, and you say, "Actually, I spent a year in Barcelona and I found that..." they will not listen to you. You can actually see their eyes crust over while they mentally scroll through a list of topics over which they can lord their superior intellect. That's the main thing.

Bravado. I remember once doing this exercise in an acting class, or a terrible improv workshop, or some pretentious drama group, called something like "Ask the Expert." The idea was that you would play a character who was an expert on a given topic, copper piping, we'll say, and the rest of the class would ask you questions about copper piping, and you had to answer every question. The point was not to know everything there was to know about copper piping, but rather to act as if you did. If you said, "The best copper piping comes from Iceland because Bjork's mother is a slut", it wouldn't make any sense, but if you said it like you believed it to be true, you'd be doing well at this particular exercise.

As I review this list I realize that of course I don't want to be one of those guys who thinks he's right all the time, these are not attractive qualities to have. But I'm afraid I might actually be that guy, in spite of myself. As a child, I could never lose an argument. I lost plenty, naturally, but wouldn't take it like a champ. Quick to foot-stomping and tears, I was one of those terrible "I'm taking my ball and going home" children. As much as I'd like to think I've matured beyond that, I catch myself too often putting my two cents in when its unfounded or unnecessary, arguing something inconsequential as if its extremely important, and participating in discussions not to prove any point, but just to show people I know something about the topic. For instance, the other day two coworkers were discussing that show "Gene Simmons: Family Jewels", a show I've never seen, but I knew that Gene Simmons had recently married Shannon Tweed, so I said, "Shannon Tweed came into a store where I was working once. I didn't see her, but apparently she was buying medication for her mom." My coworkers looked at me like, "So fucking what?" and they were right. Is it ego or insecurity or a combination thereof that keeps us talking when we have nothing to say? I don't know, but I think a Simpsons reference might be useful here, as Simpsons references often are. Check out this closer:

Lisa: It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than open your mouth and remove all doubt.
Homer's brain: What does that mean? Better say something or they'll think you're stupid.
Homer: Takes one to know one.
Homer's brain: Swish!

School's Out Forever...

Hello Friends.

This past weekend my high school had it's ten year reunion. I didn't go home for it. Prohibitive costs of the flight aside, I feel like I still see my friends from those years, and for those I don't see, Facebook is sufficient. I'm friends (both for real and Facebook-stylez) with a bunch of folks from my graduating class, and I love how if you're not Facebook friends with someone, you can still access their photos. This seems like a glaring oversight on Facebook's part but is, in fact, its best feature. There's a small number of people from those days I don't wish to communicate with, but I do like to see if they've gotten fat or married a wildebeest. Best is when they're two for two.

Anyway, it doesn't seem like ten years since high school, particularly since I still wear the same clothes and listen to the same music from that time and they remain as hip and relevant as ever. But what I do experience a strange nostalgia for is elementary school.

Dream: Return to elementary school as a student.

Goal: Not achievable. Barring time travel or an Adam Sandler-esque film premise, I will not return to elementary school for further education. Nor would I really want to, of course, but my Dream exists because I miss the feelings and experiences that seem unique to that time in my life.

Plan: Seek environments and situations evocative of that time in an attempt to recreate those feelings. I'm not explaining myself well. This is what I miss from those days, over twenty years ago:

Structure. My friend Bradley and I recently lamented the loss of First Days. Save for new jobs or new homes, grown-ups don't get many First Days of anything anymore. But that First Day of School was something. As I remember it, the First Day began in the gym where each student's name was called to stand in a particular line, after which your teacher for the year would stand at the head of the line and lead you and thirty other nervous, sweaty bweens to their home for the next ten months. The good teachers made you feel relaxed and happy about the months ahead; the bad ones made you anxious and crampy, but either way, you could more or less picture the next year of your life on September 1^st (or whatever day it was, I don't fucking remember). In what environment as an adult are you given that kind of rigid, unchangeable structure? I suppose a workplace is like that, to a degree, but a very small percentage of us can be confident we'll be at the same job in a year in this economy. Also, you are essentially left to your own devices at work, the assumption being that you were hired to do a job so go ahead and do it, be sure to punch out when you go home. At school, you are taught, directed, and coached to constantly absorb new information and improve. You are rarely left to your own devices unless it's like June 17^th and you're just cutting shapes out of paper to coast until 3:30. But that brings me to the next thing I lack now, that I should probably seek.

Authority. As a student, you are frequently given information from teachers that you just accept without question. Critical thinking is neither understood nor expected from a ten year old, they just need information because you have to know shit sometimes. And I was good at that part of learning. Read me a story about a girl who loses her mittens while out walking her dog and I could tell you the name of the girl, the colour of the mittens and the breed of the dog. I'd absorb information, take the quiz, and be right when I was right and wrong when I was wrong. Now, though, I can't be taught anything by another human being. If someone is trying to explain something to me that I don't immediately grasp, I'm done. For instance, “To get there, you just turn left at College Street.” Got it. Don't need to hear it again. If someone reminds me, I go “Yeah, left on College, I know!” But if someone tries to educate me, they're immediately pretentious assholes. So if I'm at an audition doing a Chekhov piece and the director says, “You know what's interesting about Chekhov is...” I immediately think, “Who the hell do you think you are? What am I, a child? Start paying me and maybe I'll listen to you.” I don't know where we lose are pliable, open-mindedness but we lose it. Another thing we lose...

Friendship. Can you imagine sitting with thirty peers in the same room eight hours a day for ten months? I can't either! But we all did it for years, and consequently became friends with one another. My best friend Ryan sat behind me in grade six because of some teacher's arbitrary seating chart. We didn't start talking because of common interests, shared backgrounds, or similar goals, we started talking because we sat near each other. I wonder why now we place such a high premium on common ground when it comes to making friends. You can be stuck beside someone on the subway for an hour every morning and never look at them, much less talk to them, because it would be weird. You can't just start talking to the person next to you at the bar without thinking, “Does this person think I want to have sex with them?” I wish, incidentally, that we could have Friend Bars, where nobody dresses up or flirts, and everyone goes with the sole intention of making friends. Wouldn't that be great? And when somebody says, “I'm a mechanic from Winnipeg”, you wouldn't sniff and say, “Well then we have very little to talk about!” You'd go, “Cool! I like your pencil case! Wanna trade lunches?”

I hope this isn't too rose-coloured glasses of me. After all, I disliked a fair bit of my elementary school experience. I hated gym, and recess, and teachers who would yell all the time. I didn't care for walking single-file, or asking to go to the bathroom, or Head's Up 7 Up (what a stupid fucking time-waster!). But I do miss reading the next paragraph aloud, buying a new thing of markers, and pushing my desk next to my neighbour. Maybe there was nothing about the elementary school experience that was particularly affecting at the time, but enough years have passed that I've become sentimental about it. I'm sure I'll think the same thing about high school in a few years time, and I'll eventually look back on my life today as simpler, easier, I'll remember it as better than it is. But if you think about it, that's the awesome gift that experience teaches us. Nothing then was as good as you remember it, nothing now is as bad as it seems. We're all just a group of sweaty, nervous kids, waiting for our names to be called and to take our place in line before the bell rings.

The Late Shift...

Hello Friends.

I've had a few episodes of heartburn recently, which I always get in the middle of the night. Heartburn, while unpleasant, is not uncommon to those of us who eat late in the evening. Late night eating is a terrible habit I'm making a concerted effort to stop. Because I often work an evening shift, it's so easy to skip eating on a fifteen minute break and instead gorge myself when I get back home, on nonsense food like Oreos and hummus or five slices of wheat bread and a Skor bar. Because these “meals” are not only ridiculous, but will surely contribute to the spectacular weight gain I have in development with my bathroom scale and 20^th Century Fox, I've made far more sensible food choices lately and not had any heartburn.

This is all well and good and hardly worthy of mention unless you consider the possibility of mindburn. Mindburn is like heartburn in that it attacks in the middle of the night, but is unlike heartburn since it is not a real syndrome. I consider mindburn to be one of the side effects of living alone, since one is less likely to be afflicted with it if they have a partner they can bother in the middle of the night. I'm talking about that phenomenon where ideas, concepts and fears strike in the middle of the night that make perfect sense when they occur to you, but if were you review them again in the light of day, you'd take a step back and go, “What the fuck?”

Dream: Do nothing under the influence of mindburn.

Goal: Achievable. Like eating peanut butter out of the jar or doing shots of Drambuie, I know I shouldn't email, Facebook message, or blog after one am. It's just unwise.

Plan: Re-read this blog when mindburn strikes and conclude that I'm probably an idiot.

I worry that I'm not explaining myself very well, or that perhaps you all are so intelligent and rational that mindburn never strikes you. In that spirit, let me share some of what's popped into my head while I've been under an attack of mindburn and see if it resonates with you. I keep a notebook beside my bed because I keep thinking some wondrous inspiration will strike me just as I'm about to fall asleep and I owe it to myself to at least try to write it down. Instead, I crank out nuggets like these:

• I think I hear a raccoon whimpering outside. I want to help, as maybe a garbage can fell on top of him, or he fell off the roof or something, but if he's crying due to emotional pain, I have nothing to offer and will have gotten out of bed for no reason.
• I should write a musical comedy about how much I hate Glee.
• I want to slide down one of those poles at a firehouse, but I don't want anyone to watch me because then I'd get nervous and chicken out. How to arrange this?
• Do the mice in the walls hear me outside their walls? Maybe what I'm hearing is their tiny brooms banging away. Adorable!
• At those resorts where you can swim up to the bar, I'd get a raft of nachos.
• I want a pedometer that tells me how many steps I take on my walks, and also alerts me to nearby pedophiles.
• I don't want to die alone, but I bet it would be worse to die in a group.
• I'll bet guys who have abs keep their abs strong because they're always bending at the waist to check out their abs.
• I know I remember to turn the stove off. I know I did. But maybe somebody broke in and turned it on. Maybe that raccoon turned it on. That's why he's crying!

So there you have it. These are silly examples, to be sure, but sometimes a real fear seeps in there. “What if I can never find a real job?” I wonder. Or, “What if I've seen my best days already and I'm too stupid to realize it?”And, “Is there something I'm not doing that I should be doing? What am I doing?” Just that awful, scary, late-night sense of dread, the same thing Leno's bandleader must feel when Jay goes up to do the monologue and he knows he's expected to laugh, but it's not going to be funny, so what if he can't and yadda yadda yadda. These are all important, big life questions that perhaps we ought to ask ourselves more often during the day so we're not stuck, awake and fearful at two am, with worries like these racing through our minds, and burning in our hearts.

Lights Up...

Hello Friends.

A few weeks ago, I had my annual review at work. These are not like reviews in The Globe and Mail or Vanity Fair, with phrases like, “James is transcendent!” or “You'll recognize this face next awards season!” Rather, my review contained such praise as, “You're good at counting your till every night!” and “Thanks for stocking the milk on a semi-regular basis.” The congenial tone changed, however, when my boss addressed a customer complaint levied against me months ago. Some lady wanted toothpaste for a dollar when it was clearly not a dollar. I explained to her that she was mistaken; that a competing brand of toothpaste was on sale for a dollar, however that was not the brand she was attempting to buy.

“What's the difference?” she complained. “Toothpaste is toothpaste! Just give it to me for a dollar!” We get arguments like this all the time, but for some reason, this one really set me off. “Toothpaste is not toothpaste!” I said. “If they were all the same price, why would we have competing brands at all?” Then, because I couldn't stop myself, I walked over to the shelf and said, “This item is priced at $2.99, this one is a dollar. Do you see how they are different?” And she said, “You're being very rude sir!” at which point I threw my hands up and walked away. Somebody else rang her through after which she demanded to speak to a manager and proceeded to complain about me for several minutes.

“This woman was speaking nonsensically” my Italian boss admitted (she has that great English-as-a-Second-Language habit of speaking simply, but throwing in strange adverbs to “dress it up”). “But you must always be smiling beatifically, James, even if inside you are thinking, 'This customer is unkind.'” I nodded, half-listening, but she got my attention with her next point: “You must mask your true feelings sometimes, James. You are like... an actor, substantially! Yes, an actor! Imagine you are an actor!” Ahhh, salting the wound, boss at a drugstore, you're just salting the wound.

I have training to be an actor, you see. I've taken a lot of classes, workshops, seminars, etc. with such a goal in mind. I have a degree from a university in the field, but that hasn't translated to great deal of work. That's all I'm going to do by way of complaining that finding acting work is difficult. In this economy, finding any work is difficult, even more so when your qualifications include: Standard British, some mask work, no dance experience.

Lately, it seems like I've had more success professionally with stuff that I'm writing, which for me has been immensely satisfying, even more satisfying than landing a spear-carrier part in a play. But I often wonder what would change if I landed some big, meaty role in a terrific play. The “brass balls” guy in Glengarry Glenn Ross, let's say, or Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, or Gums in that Dental Hygiene Revue they do in elementary schools.

Professional actors, ones who don't make their living selling milk, would surely tell me the key to landing one of these sought after parts is nailing the audition, and the key to nailing the audition is a great monologue. Monologue comes from the Latin “mono”, meaning one, and “logue”, meaning pretentious piece of acting. I know this because often after I perform a monologue, the director will say, “That's one pretentious piece of acting.” When I first starting auditioning for things out of school, I had about five monologues at the ready. One contemporary funny piece, one contemporary sad piece, two Shakespeare, and a Shaw. I still use those pieces now, though I've forgotten the Shaw and the spare room in my brain that it used to occupy now holds the lyrics and tune for “Moves Like Jagger.” I've grown weary of the pieces, though, and I suspect that weariness must shine through on the rare occasion I do audition for something, because I haven't been given a part for some time. Time to begin anew and in earnest!

Dream: Find the perfect monologue to nail the next audition.

Goal: Achievable. My friend Jonelle observed recently that on every audition she goes to, the men use monologues where they weep, and the women use monologues where they rage. Though she auditions a lot more than I do, I know Jonelle's statement to be empirically true. If I am waiting to be seen at an audition, and I listen through the door at the guy going in before me, I hear muffled, “ahhmm hmm hmm AUGH! AUGH AUGHHUHUHU! NOOOO!!! AUGH!!! Hmmm mmm.” And through the women's doors I hear, “Oh you're so fucking SNUH! SNUHHH! RAAAHH!!” I always feel terrible for the casting people. I'm sure the actors think they must show off a wide range of extreme emotions, but directors must not like being screamed at all day. But the idea that the right monologue can show off ones emotional range is a solid one, and something I must consider when finding a new piece.

Plan: Just write it myself. You know when you're about to lie to someone, how you rehearse what you're going to say? Like, “I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to your party but this guy at work, he called in sick and I was like, 'Not today, of all days when I was going to go to Linda's awesome theme party!' But they just couldn't find anyone to replace him, so I said...” You practice that whole bit several times in your mind before you open your mouth! And acting is nothing if not telling big lies with conviction, so it stands to reason that I could do my best acting if I wrote my own parts. I'll just tell any directors that I chose a really obscure piece from a really obscure play. If I give the fake playwright one of those names that aren't really names, and the fake play a really pretentious title, they'll pretend to have heard of it because directors have to make you think they know everything. Also, should any actor friends of mine want to use these (and you will), I have kept the character names gender-neutral, so the following pieces could be performed by a man, woman, or precocious child:

From Autumn's Passing by Leers Kettering.

PAT sits beside a hospital bed, head in his/her hands.

The heart monitor beeps steadily, but unobtrusively, as PAT rises and crosses to centre stage.

PAT

I just keep thinking about that night. Graduation. “Party time!” we said, and, “Let's go to Makeout Point      with our sweethearts!” We thought the fun would never end... never end. I knew I probably shouldn't have driven. After all, those college boys kept pouring us alcohol cocktails, and I don't have to tell you, Autumn, my head was spinning.

PAT runs his/her fingers through their hair and paces. PAT stops and speaks louder than before, as if conveying emotion.

We drove so fast, and so far! We felt like we were invincible, like we owned the world! (Smirking) But didn't we?

That's when it happened. In my impaired judgement, and yes, I admit that now, I drove over a pebble which punctured our tire, slowing us down significantly. I pulled over and got the spare out of the trunk, and that's when a deer came out of the woods and bit you on the face.

Dammit, Autumn, don't you see? We were just being stupid kids. If I could take it back, I would! (Louder) IF I COULD TAKE IT BACK I WOULD! AUGH! AUGH! I tell people I was there when it happened and they say, “But no deer bit you on the face. You got off easy.” Easy! Easy? You think this is easy for me? Nothing's ever easy for me now. Nothing ever again.

Blackout.

From Knee-High to a Grasshopper by Fisher Cuntles

JESSE, an adorable six year old, is skipping rope.

S/he stops skipping upon noticing the audience.

JESSE

Oh hi! I'm Jesse! What's your name? (Pause for response) Wow, that's a lotta names! Golly! I'm six years old! How old are you? (Shorter pause) Nevermind! I don't wanna know! (Hold for laughs)

I have a best friend, you know! A bestest friend in the whole wide world! His name is Tumbles and he's my cat. I love Tumbles. His favourite things are sleeping, eating, and scratching! We got him a scratching-post but he never uses it! Cats! Ha ha! He always scratches my Dad instead, and that makes my Dad awful sore! He yells, “Tum-bles!” in a loud voice whenever it happens.

One time we were all watching tv and Tumbles scratched my Dad on his leg and he yelled “Tum-bles!” and then, “You quit it!” and Tumbles stopped. But then, later that night, he did it again, and Dad yelled, “Tum-bles!”and then, “If you don't quit it, no more cat treats for you!” and Tumbles stopped. But then, even later than night, Tumbles scratched my Dad again and Dad yelled, “Tum-bles!” and then, “If you don't quit it, I'm sending you to Afghanistan!” and Tumbles stopped. But then, really late that night, he did it again!

On April 14, 2009, Tumbles was deployed to the Afghan province of Kunar. He didn't wanna go on a plane, and he kept trying to get his helmet off with his paws, but it was no use. Dad says fighting in a warzone might teach Tumbles not to scratch his goddamned leg so much. I think Tumbles is writing me letters but I don't understand what they say because I can't read yet. I miss my best friend... I miss him so much. I wish he was here to chase butterflies with me, or give me cuddles at nighttime, but Dad says it's much more important that he is over there, fighting for my freedom. Fighting for my life.

Blackout.

From Late Harvest by Hinch Cavoss.

A FARMER is stacking bales of hay in a barn.

After surveying the work, the FARMER sits on a milking stool and lights a corncob pipe.

FARMER

Oh hey there stranger! Didn't see you settin' there! These days, my eyes ain't what they used to be! Then again, I suppose nothin's like it used to be. The name's Nancy Margeret Magee, but most folks call me Old Gus.

I've seen a lot of things out here on the farm. Things that'd curl your hair and hitch up your overalls. I don't s'pose you'd be willing to set here a spell and hear the story of an old farmer, now would you?

Aw, I reckon you wouldn't. I'll be along now.

FARMER exits. Blackout.

Funnily enough, in the time between starting this blog entry on Thursday afternoon, and finishing it late Thursday evening, I lost my cashiering job. I didn't lose it, exactly, but was told on my shift today that starting in November, another employee would be returning from maternity leave, putting our supervising staff at three singles mothers, and me. Hours would be cut, I was told, and unfortunately, my shifts were no longer a priority. “I completely understand.” I said, and here I was speaking the truth.

I've been lucky to have been behind a till for a lot of years. It's easy work that will be hard to miss. I'm daunted by the idea of dropping off resumes again, but buoyed by the fact that this might be my chance for a real job. Maybe someone will pay me to write, or act, or just carry a spear. One thing is for sure, though. If I can get that call in, if someone invites into their office or onto their stage, and asks me to tell them a little bit about myself, I'll have a hell of a lot to say.

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News, I've Got a... weird rash on my neck...

Hello Friends.

I don't know if I've mentioned this enough times, but my boyfriend, Dr. Jon, is a doctor. Alright, so he's a PhD, Doctor of History, which isn't going to help anyone going into labour on an airplane, but still, a doctor! He is not nearly as proud of this as I am. I take credit for his title even though I had nothing to do with it. I'll tell you, if I had gone to school (not just bullshit school but university school) for ten years, I'd be a dick about letting people know it. All the time. Constantly. For instance, if I were in line at McDonald's and the guy behind the counter said, “What can I get for you, man?” I'd say, “Well I am a Doctor so I guess I'll have a cheeseburger.” And get this: Jon is so humble, so utterly disinterested in his own status that, when filling out forms for things like insurance or change of address, he checks the Mister box, not the Doctor box! Are you fucking kidding me? By comparison, if I'm walking downtown and sneak into a U of T building to use the bathroom, I tell people later that I did some post-graduate work.

Dr. Jon has checked the Mister box a lot lately, both changing his insurance and address thanks to a new job three provinces over that necessitated a move last month. Our time apart has been hard, but we've barely had time to miss each other because I went to visit him over the Labour Day long weekend. He's doing so great. His apartment is fancy, his proximity to the university and cool shopping and restaurants enviable, AND he's allowed pets in his building so we might have to get a fucking cat (more on that another day). As the common-law spouse of this Doctor Professor, I am entitled to reap the benefits of his benefits, as was the case with his last job, too. Only his last job had us both in the same province, but this year we are apart. This means, until we live together again (sometime next fall), I am not covered. Because my odd jobs keep me on part time hours, I have no bennies there either (sometimes I call benefits “bennies” because it's a cute way to take the sting out of the fact that I have no compensation should I become injured or sick). Thus leading to my new Dream.

Dream: Survive without medical care for a year.

Goal: Achievable, with neuroses. I'm embarrassed to say that I never go to a doctor or dentist and take the fact that I wake up every morning as evidence that I am in tip-top physical condition. So what's another year of blissful ignorance?

Plan: Rely on Gravol, Nyquil, and occasional vegetables to maintain health and avoid interaction with doctors (medical ones, the for real kind).

It's not that I'm afraid of doctors, I just don't need to sit in a room with sick people for two hours so some guy can cup my balls. I can do that at home! I don't have a GP here in Ontario and I didn't have one in the years after I moved out of my parents' house and across Saskatchewan. I always had one as a child and a teen, but he was such an odd duck. A Duckter, if you will. His last name was something Eastern European and apparently too hard to pronounce, so he made all of his patients, children and adults alike, call him Dr. then his first name. Dr. Steve, we'll say. That always seemed a touch “first thought” to me; something a sexual deviant might come up with to lure you into his dungeon. “It's alright, you can disrobe in front of me, I'm Dr.... Steve.” Plus, Dr. Steve always breathed audibly, which shouldn't have mattered, but it was like being diagnosed by a bored teenage girl. “So, anyway, (siiiigh), it looks like strep throat (siiiiigh).”

Plus, I was lucky as a young person not to have any significant maladies. So when I started living on my own, I'd do what I think a lot of people my age do, which is to wait until something is impossible to ignore, medically, then go to the free clinic. And I know free clinics aren't wholly free, they require some kind of subsidy to stay afloat, but doesn't it seem like free clinics staff unpaid doctors? These people just don't give a shit, do they? I once went in with a swollen eye that I assumed (correctly, as it turns out) was a stye, but I wasn't sure, so when I asked the doctor what she thought I might have she said, “Well it's your eye!” I wish I was kidding, but that's what she actually said. She prescribed stye medication with the same pissed-off apathy, like she always wanted to be a doctor on Broadway, but here she was, unappreciated and devalued, swabbing eyeballs in Saskatoon.

When my grandfather died, a review of his medical history suggested he may have suffered from some syndrome, some hereditary condition which may have contributed to his deteriorating health. My father was advised to get tested for it, as was my brother, as was I. Testing for this syndrome required a return visit to Dr. Steve, who was horrified when I told him about my half-assed approach to healthfulness: rare visits to free clinics. “A terrible substitute for medical care (siiiigh)!! You need to find a proper doctor immediately!”

Well, tests showed my father, brother and me did not and would not get this obscure ailment, and not to worry about it. And worry I haven't. Aside from a weird neck rash that required a fifteen minute pop in to another free clinic, I haven't been to a doctor here in the Big City. And I doubt I will go now, when the outcome might require a prescription for which I am not covered. Besides, I'm a generally healthy guy who eats his greens (sometimes), drinks lots of water, and sleeps nearly twenty hours a day. Plus, it's only a year, I continually rationalize, until I am surrounded by Doctors, both PhD and real, to shower me with so much love it'll make me sick.