And Now For Something Completely Different...

Hello Friends.

So Fallon's in for Leno, no one's in for Fallon yet, Kimmel's moving timeslots to compete. But you know what would really shake up late night tv? If they brought back sketches.

I love sketch comedy because it's so hard to do well, but when it is, there's nothing better. Consider that everyone in the world has a Saturday Night Live sketch that they love, by which they judge every other sketch on Saturday Night Live ("Well, it's no cowbell/Matt Foley/Bear City"). And apparently sketches used to be all over Johnny Carson's Tonight Show, where Johnny would play a variety of characters in little bits following a monologue but preceding the guests. Letterman has some absurd elements that border on sketch, but he never plays a character himself. For instance, Dave used to have "Man on Fire" who was an actual man on fire that would run out mid-monologue and yell stuff. Eventually, the gag was that sponsors could pay for a Man on Fire segment so Dave would be addressing the audience, then Man on Fire would run out and yell, "Subway! Eat fresh!" and then be extinguished. Maybe it's kind of stupid, but I loved it. Tonight Show heir apparent Jimmy Fallon comes from sketch, but barely does any on his show, and whenever he does, they are pre-taped pieces, which kinda ruins the spontaneity of it all.

Late night television is rarefied air, and the idea that someone new will take the reigns shortly in Jimmy Fallon's old spot is exciting. I don't think I could ever host a late night show because I think pretending to be interested in a bunch of Hollywood jerks every night is boring and stupid. However, I could help bring sketch back in a big way.

Dream: Write sketches for Late Night with Whomever the Fuck.

Goal: Achievable. Look, maybe I don't have any television experience. Maybe I don't have the comedy chops. Maybe I'm the last guy to be writing for a mass audience. But maybe blah blah blah (reasoning goes here).

Plan: Pitch sketch ideas here and now that are so awesome that it'll just be a matter of time before I'm stuck in an office with a bunch of Harvard comedy nerds, UCB superstars, and more of the whitest people you'll ever see in your life. Also, this may just be for ha-ha-ha's, but these sketch ideas are really mine and if any of you nerds steal them, at least have the courtesy to remove me from the Facebook Event listing for your shitty, awful revue. My ideas:

1) Schoolgirl Roleplay. In an attempt to spice up their sex life, a couple engages in some sexy schoolgirl roleplay that is quickly derailed when the man realizes the woman may have never actually received an education.

MAN: You've been very naughty today. Please stay after class for some...private tutoring.

WOMAN: Ooh, I hope I have enough apples for the teacher so I can apple teacher recess.

MAN: Um... what?
WOMAN: I filled my desk with pennies because no child left behind Pizza Day.

MAN: Honey, what do you think school is?

2) Dentist Do-Over. Nobody likes the monstrous dental hygienist who is never, ever satisfied with your brushing. Finally, a clever patient decides to visit the hygienist right after seeing another dentist across town and receiving a thorough cleaning. Even though the patient's teeth are gleaming, the hygienist remains dissatisfied with the patient's brushing technique and the patient flies into a rage and sets the building afire.

3) Charity Run. Helpful Steve has a post on the sidelines of the route in a charity run where he hands out paper cups of water to the runners. Steve wants to offer more than just water, and is pleased when his cups of Gatorade go over well with the passing athletes. He runs into trouble, then, when he hands out cups of hot tea, Bloody Marys, confectioner's sugar (for energy!), a bee ("WHY WOULD YOU GIVE A CUP WITH A BEE IN IT?" "That's for you to take home. That's your bee to keep"), and other miscellaneous non-water items that eventually ruin the race.

4) Dyson Commercial. That German Dyson guy introduces the Dyson Pubic Hair removal system. It eradicates hair from hard-to-reach places because of suction and, unlike other pubic hair removal systems, this one pivots on your balls.

5) Prank Problems. A Snake Husband pulls an April Fool's Day prank on his Snake Wife. He hands her what she thinks is a jar of peanut brittle, but when she opens it, it's actually some spring-loaded snakes! The surprised laughter quickly turns to rage, however, when the Snake Husband and Snake Wife realize the spring-loaded snakes in the jar are their three adult children.

SNAKE HUSBAND: What are you doing? You all left home years ago! Now you're doing this for a living?
SNAKE SON: Come on, Dad, relax! It's easy money.

SNAKE HUSBAND: Easy money! I sent you to Vasser! We scrimped and saved! You wanted to be a doctor! Now you're crouching in a can? Like WHORES?!
SNAKE WIFE: Look what you've done to your father!

SNAKE DAUGHTER: Mom, chill out! It's not like when you were a younger snake. It's hard to get a job now.
SNAKE WIFE: Where did we go wrong with you kids? I don't even feel like some peanut brittle anymore.
SNAKE DAUGHTER 2: There never was any peanut brittle, Mom. Obviously!

SNAKE HUSBAND: DON'T YOU SASS YOUR MOTHER! AFTER WHAT SHE'S BEEN THROUGH!

6) Brick Breakers. Jon and Laura Brickman are headed to a costume party, dressed as bricks. Jon becomes startled by something in the road (maybe a bee in a cup or one of the snakes from a previous sketch), stumbles, and crashes through the picture window of David and Lemar, an interracial, interfaith gay couple with an autistic dog and a child with a syndrome where he has no bones. Jon and Laura become pariahs after this honest mistake of a brick costume through a window looks like a terrible hate crime. A recurring bit in this sketch could be the no bones child squeezed into hard to reach places like folded piously in Lemar's man purse because he's pliable like that because he has no bones.

7) My Robot Buddy. Brother and sister Billy and Amy hate their dumb chores and all their stupid homework! So they build their very own pots and pans robot named Robotron! WOW! AWESOME! And guess what? He cleans their room! And does their homework! AMAZING! COOOOL! Billy and Amy's mom comes to check their progress so they quickly hide Robotron under a sheet, and Mom is very impressed to see that the bedroom clean and homework done! The only problem is that now Robotron wants to have sex with Mom and will not be stopped, even if it means killing Dad. WHUH-OH!

Okay, so all these turds need a little polishing, but there's good stuff here, am I right? Also, wouldn't it be great if a funny lady performed in these sketches? Late night is such a boys club, let's get a woman in there to shake things up a bit. She can play a Mom snake, or even a sex robot!

There's nothing like seeing the funniest thing you've seen all day at the very end of your day. I hope some day, as I tucked in to Man on Fire, people will able to fall asleep to something I've written. That's bound to ensure a good night, and pleasant tomorrow.

The Sounds of Silence...

Hello Friends.

This article appears in the April issue of Saskatoon Well Being Magazine. Pick up a copy yourself, or read it here.

Is it me or is it really loud in here? I mean, I don’t know where you are as you read this, but chances are, something is making noise. You’ve got your iPod going, or the TV’s on, or your significant other is trying to explain to you that putting a fresh roll of toilet paper on top of the toilet tank is not the same as actually changing the roll and you’re like, “I’m trying to read this thing here.” Wherever you are, click off your devices (unless you’re reading this online, then by God, please continue), shut out whatever noise you can and sit with me a while, won’t you?

When you’re a child, silence is a kind of punishment. Teachers demand a silent classroom, parents “don’t want to hear another word” around the dinner table and after a certain point in the day, kids are permitted an activity “only if it’s quiet.” It seems like we rebel against this restriction when we grow up by filling our adulthood with as much noise as possible. We get in a good conversation while watching bad TV. We listen to the radio in the car while we drive to the concert. We play our Sounds of the Ocean CD to help us fall asleep (which works for me up until track five when the oil tanker rolls into the Pacific).

I work in a retail store that plays upbeat, if a little repetitive, house music that surely subliminally encourages people to buy things (“Untz. Untz. Untz. You need another sweater. Untz. Untz. Untz.”) Our speaker system recently broke down, meaning that dead time in the store was eerily quiet. Funnily enough, my fellow employees and I complain about the banal music pumping through our store all the time, but we were far more upset in its absence. I wondered why having no background noise was so significant to me and just what our environment of constant noise is keeping us from hearing.

Dream: Experience true silence.

Goal: Unachievable. Silence, as it is literally defined, is the complete absence of sound. If you live in a major city in 2013, good luck finding that.

When I went in search of silence, it was impossible to find. I turned off the TV, shut down my computer, unplugged the stereo and hid the cell phone. Then I started hearing the hum of the refrigerator, the traffic outside and my next-door neighbours arguing with each other. I live in an apartment, so noise is virtually inescapable. I wear earplugs to bed every night, but they only succeed in muffling sounds like the downstairs neighbours’ dogs barking, the elevators wheezing and clanking and the helicopters. I live in a high rise near a hospital and sometimes hear and see a helicopter landing on the roof. It’s hard to be mad about that because it means that most likely, someone from a nearby rural community is so badly ill or injured that their only option is to be airlifted to hospital. I can’t really watch them be loaded off on a gurney and think, “Aw geez, I’m trying to read my Garfields in peace, here!”

Plan: Find my version of silence.

Unless you live out on a farm somehow (and have only mute livestock/chickens), chances are that achieving true silence, without any aural interruption, is impossible. You can approximate it with earplugs and white noise and attempting to deafen yourself, but why waste the time? I think the secret of experiencing quiet comes in finding your version of peace.

For me, one of the occasions when I experience silence is when I swim. No matter how busy the pool is, no matter how short my sojourn in the shallow end, there are always a few blessed moments when I plunge deep into the water and my awareness seems to heighten and disappear, all at once. I feel my body anew, as it moves through space, achieving a kind of watery weightlessness as my arms and legs propel me forward. As long as I know I have a clear path to the other end of the pool, what I hear and even what I see barely registers. Coming up for an extended period after swimming a few lengths is always a bit of a shock to the system. I suddenly hear how much splashing goes on and how the lifeguard’s nasal voice just carries across the pool. I see how pale and vulnerable and lumpy most of our bodies are. The fact that we’re so self-conscious about these sacks of bony flesh that move us through life is a bit ridiculous when you consider how most of us look in bathing suits. But anyway, it may not be technically a calm oasis of quiet contemplation, but give me a public pool and my blue trunks and I’ll give you some quiet time.

I also think one can experience a kind of silence in the loudest of places. When the sound around you reaches a kind of indistinguishable cacophony, there’s a moment when you realize that you’re completely, comfortably in your own head. Don’t believe me? Go for a walk, alone, on a busy Saturday through downtown Saskatoon. Maybe bands are playing down by the river. Maybe Second Avenue has one of their sidewalk sales going on. Maybe that transit hub where all the buses gather is blasting classical music to discourage loitering. In any case, there is sound all around you, but it is not directed at you specifically. I love that state because I find it absorbs me into my own thoughts. “What shall I have for dinner?” I wonder, or, “Would it be cooler to be able to fly or be invisible?” (I’m inclined to pick invisibility because wouldn’t it be so interesting to sneak into your friends’ homes and see how they live when they’re by themselves? I’m convinced more people just eat Pop Tarts in the tub for dinner than will admit it to me).

The last and best kind of silence I can think of is the shared kind. That scenario where you lapse into a prolonged silence when you’re with someone you love, be it a friend or a mate. Instead of being weird or tense, this silence is one of deep contentment and connection. Where you realize that sometimes all it takes to enjoy someone’s company is to simply be with them. The next time that happens, try not to hear the noise. It’s so tempting to fill those voids with chatter, with nervous laughter, with activity. But if you can live in that companionable silence, strain to listen to your heart. Moments like these are special and they needn’t be scored with any soundtrack. Sometimes our silence can speak volumes.

Watered Down...

Hello Friends.

Last weekend was particularly lovely, as far as long weekends go. I enjoyed an unprecedented three days off in a row thanks to kindly coworkers taking shifts they wouldn't normally work, just so I could visit with my Mom, who came to visit me from home. Mom and I had a great time catching up and seeing the city, and Doc and I enjoyed a Sunday and Monday together after seeing her off. We both had to work Tuesday morning and so tucked ourselves in fairly early on Monday night.

The nights before days I have to get up early leave me fraught with anxiety so I was still awake worrying about everyone I had ever met in my life when Jon woke up about 1.30 to get a drink of water. The tap in our kitchen had been dripping sporadically all weekend, but the apartment offices were closed due to the holiday and so we hadn't been able to put in a maintenance request. So when I heard Jon cussin' and fussin', I figured the dripping was worse and got out of bed to join him in the kitchen. The dripping was worse. What was once intermittent droplets was now almost a continuous dribble. Turning the tap this way and that didn't help much and Jon threw up his hands and let me in to give the tap a final firm twist. I figured a fast, clean jerk would somehow stun the tap into submission. Like it would think, "Oh shit, what was that? These guys are serious. I had better cut it out." So I gave the tap a mighty turn and the knob came off in my hand.

I was stunned into momentary silence that quickly turned to girlish shrieks as water started coming out of the vacant spot where the knob used to be at full blast. A water pressure heretofore only used in firehoses came out of our sink fixture and water started pooling everywhere. It was 1:30 in the morning, I was frantically trying to stem the blast with my fingers while Jon was grabbing his wet phone and the building's emergency contact list off of the fridge as we both stood, desperate, in an inch of water with a continually rising tide. Jon had to scream into the phone, both to be heard over the blast, but also as an appropriate conveyance of his frustration. Somehow, in the wee hours of the morning after a statutory holiday, we had a maintenance man removing the appropriate fixtures with the appropriate tools and turning off the water from beneath our kitchen sink in less than four minutes.

Dream: Live in an apartment forever.

Goal: Achievable. It is white middle-class privilege that saw me picturing myself in a house of my own one day. But, like having children or developing a taste for wine, the idea that I could just opt out of that supposed rite of passage looks more attractive every day.

Plan: List all the pros I can think of in apartment living versus all the cons of house ownership, so the next time I sit on a friend's back deck or have drunken sex on a basement pool table, I won't look around and think, "I might really like to live in a house like this someday."

Apartments are cheap and houses are expensive. I realize rents are ridiculously high and one doesn't build up any equity the way one does with home ownership, but buying a house and getting a mortgage seems to basically imprison people, from a financial standpoint. I know a couple who each have full time jobs, and trade off the night shift of a third job, all to pay for their home. Every second week, either he or she works all night stocking shelves, then goes to their day job, sleeps for a few hours, then heads back out. I'm sure from a fiscal perspective, this is responsible. I'm sure they will get their home paid off faster, but what's the point of owning a home you're not around to enjoy? How could the stress of that lifestyle possibly be worth it?

Apartments are small, houses are big. Unless you have children or a collection of antique bean bag chairs from the Civil War, space is not the virtue it's cracked up to be. Every Sunday, Jon and I split a chore list down the middle and clean the apartment. If we're both on our game, it takes about half an hour, after which we reward ourselves by making it messy again. I'd much rather clean our cozy space from top to bottom on a lazy Sunday than spend hours Swiffering the rumpus room only to have Brayedon and Tracedence spill their organic juice boxes the second I'm done. I'm not saying that we wouldn't love a second bedroom. Too bad they don't make apartments with two bedrooms OH WAIT! We could totally get one of those!

My Mom stayed in a hotel nearby during her visit, as my parents have always done when visiting, which makes me feel guilty, but only for a moment. But my folks certainly don't visit often and I'm sure a lot of the appeal for them is staying in a hotel and not with us. We bought Mom some wine in anticipation of her arrival and, after picking her up from the airport, dropped her off at her hotel, with her luggage, magazines from the airport, and bottle of white in tow. While she checked in, Jon and I went home to get changed and pick her back up again for dinner. I called to tell her we'd be leaving soon and heard the Food Network on in the background. "Well don't hurry," she said. Similarly, and maybe this is complete immaturity, but when Jon is away, I love having a friend come sleep over, and share my bed. Sure, if I had a big house, I could put them in the guest bedroom in the east wing, but how else could we literally talk until we fall asleep? I remember once, years ago, hosting my friend Shelene when she was in town for a workshop. Shelene gets me particularly giggly, but one night we both had early wake-up times the next day and were determined just to fall asleep with no chatter. In the darkness I could hear this weird sound like maybe she was grinding her teeth but she couldn't have been so deeply asleep so fast. I whispered, "Shelene, what are you doing?" and she whispered back, "I'm eating some granola bars." I don't know what was funnier: the fact that she was lulling herself to sleep eating in total darkness, or that she was eating "some" granola bars, like she'd brought a selection into bed with her. We both laughed so hard, I'm confident we slept better.

Apartment buildings are full of people, houses might just house you. I know, on the face of it, this looks like a point to houses, and I'm sure that it probably is. I've had several neighbour issues over the years, from the girl next door who plays her music well into the night, to the arguing couple downstairs who ought to just get a divorce already, but there's an upswing to this I'm sure most people don't realize until they are sleeping solo in big houses for the first time: in an apartment building, you're never really alone. Right now, as I'm writing this by myself in the apartment, I'm also no more than ten feet from another human. I can smell whatever the Lebanese couple is cooking for dinner across the hall (I think it's tires?) and the Chinese girl next door is playing "I knew you were trouble when you walked in (trouble, trouble, trouble)" on repeat. These are annoyances, sure, but also oddly comforting. I don't know any of my neighbours very well in this building, but I have to believe our casual nodding in the elevator means that we're not strangers and that if anything happened to one of us, the others would be right there to help.

I once lived in a walk up full of grumpy adults. This wasn't the nicest building and was really only built for single people, and nobody had a thing to say to each other. One of the units belonged to an old couple who occasionally got visits from their two young granddaughters. There was no space for them to play inside and so they ran around outside, yelling and screaming, and more than one tenant would roll her eyes at me if we met in the lobby, picking up our mail. "They're back!" we would say, conspiratorially, mad that our peaceful grumpiness was being interrupted. But one day as I could hear the girls playing from outside my window, the screaming suddenly stopped. I heard a kind of thud, and then a low, guttural cry from one of the girls. I ran downstairs and out the door to find her. Turns out she had tripped and just gotten the wind knocked right out of her. Grandpa was soothing her through her tears and she was none the worse for wear. What almost made me teary though, was seeing nearly all of us grumpy tenants crowded on the front stoop, or leaning out of our windows, checking on the welfare of this little girl. Don't tell me there's no community as a result of proximity. We weren't friends, but we certainly came together that day, and you might not get that kind of instant support in your own backyard.

Apartments you rent don't belong to you. Your house stands alone in your name. Sure it's a pain in the ass not being able to paint my walls or install a skylight, but I'm surely glad the rising water levels in my apartment weren't my responsibility. After the emergency maintenance man shut the water off, he mopped up our kitchen and living room, and brought in the industrial wet/dry vacuum to keep the water from leaking downstairs or from warping our floor. All we had to replace really was a toaster on the counter and most of our towels. He replaced our tap that night. Before he left, we madly scrounged for change and gave him the pathetic five dollars we could muster. If the exact same scenario played out in a home that we owned, if we had to contact one of those 24 plumbing agencies to send a guy over in the middle of the night, driving in from God-knows-where, how much more would we have lost due to damage, and how much money would it have cost? A few hundred dollars? A few thousand dollars? I shudder to think.

I was about ten years old when we moved to a house where my brother and I had our own bedrooms. I was fiercely protective of my private space and dreamed that becoming a grown-up meant that you could have everything in your own space all the time: your meals, your own television, all your friends. Now, I ostensibly have exactly that. My home is not a financial burden or even a solid anchor. If, for instance, we decide we really must have that second bedroom, or more closet space, or a balcony, we can simply up and move to a bigger castle in the sky. I wake up every morning in a place that is just exactly how I want it, noisy neighbours, random fire alarms, and exploding faucets notwithstanding, and there's no monthly rent that can approximate just how rich that makes me feel.

What I Don't Know For Sure...

Hello Friends.

A few years ago, I worked at a retail chain that was descending into bankruptcy. Refusing to acknowledge that is was the business model itself that was flawed, upper management blamed us lowly employees and spent what remained of its cash on an expensive set of videos about customer service training. Every week, we would have to watch a new "lesson" on one of these videos and fill out a worksheet. The host of these videos was a weak-chinned, hair-gelled motivational-speaker type named Kevin. Kevin would wax and wane about simple service ideology like he'd just thought of it himself and couldn't wait to share it ("Find out what your customer is looking for and give them that product or service"--holy shit, really? Back up, Kevin).

The indignity of being condescended to for half an hour every shift was compounded by the fact that we couldn't practically apply a great number of the "tips" in this particular workplace because we lacked the resources to do it. One of the main points Kevin kept returning to was, "Don't BS your customers. If you don't know something, don't be vague, find out the answer and tell them." Kevin always used the euphemistic BS when he meant bullshit, but it wouldn't have mattered what phrase he applied because our corporate model was built on bullshit and every answer we gave had to be purposefully vague. For instance, we sold coupon books that had vouchers you could apply throughout the year (2 for 1 this in January, a free that in February, and so on). We had to keep selling these coupon books to hit corporate quota even though our neighbouring stores were closing all around us, and we were likely to be shut down next, and so most of these coupons could never be used. Customers would ask, "So you guys are staying open, right? If I buy this I'll be able to come here and use these coupons?" And we would go, "Yeeeahhhh...?" when in fact we had no idea if we were staying open another month. We were even encouraged to pre-sell items to customers without knowing whether or not we'd be able to give it to them. A customer would pay a deposit for an item we might never get in stock, but we were just supposed to cheerfully take their money.

This preamble is all to say that bullshit is a pretty standard form of communication in business and in life. I think of my friends, some of whom are starting out in professional fields, some of whom are parents, some of whom are both. That's just awash in bullshit, isn't it? If you're a corporate underling, you "fake it till you make it." If your three year-old asks you where the water goes when it drains out of the bathtub, you say, "The sewer somehow? I guess there are pipes?" And then pretend to slip and fall so they laugh and don't ask follow-up questions.

Last week, I wrote about things I feel pretty confident I know. It was a short entry. But now I'd like to share some things I definitely don't know. Unlike work or around nosy, awful children, this is a safe space where I can freely admit I don't know a whole lot of stuff.

Dream: Determine what it is I definitely don't know for sure.

Goal: Achievable. The philosophical idea that goes something like "The only thing I know for sure is that I know nothing" is attributed to Socrates, but maybe it was Mr. Bean. In any case, you get the point. We're all just faking it. But I'm interested to see just how ignorant I am, compared to everybody else.

Plan: Write down a few things I don't know anything about so I have a public record of topics about which I am clueless. For instance:

• If microwaves make things hot in just seconds, why don't we just replace ovens with big microwaves? Why can't a microwave roast a chicken or bake a ham?
• Why is the studio audience always fully lit on Ellen? Aren't they all just baking under tv lighting for an hour? I don't want to see them.
• Why is it called Planned Parenthood when it bills itself as a resource centre for unexpected pregnancy? Call it Unplanned Parenthood!
• Why does it take longer to get somewhere than it does to come back from somewhere?
• Where did Mr. Rogers Neighborhood take place? Was that his house? Because he always put on his coat and shoes and left at the end of each episode. Where was he going?
• Why are there such extensive security precautions to get on a cross-country flight, but you can board a Greyhound bus headed across the country practically carrying a lit bomb and a hockey bag full of guns?
• Why don't we have sweet-flavoured Doritos like cinnamon? I'd eat the shit out of a cinnamon Dorito.
• Has there ever been a store in history where if something doesn't have a price-tag on it, it's free? I hear that at least once a week from a smart-ass customer and I want to stare at them, and say, "Of course it's not free! What kind of system of commerce do you think we're running here, you unbelievable moron!"
• Why does the 24-hour news channel tell me to visit their website for more information? I'm watching you, the news, right now. You give me the information! That's what I'm here for!
• Why do we behave like we used to have control over the weather and now we don't anymore? "You know it's supposed to snow tomorrow." "IT BETTER NOT!" Or what, tough guy? What are you gonna do?

What a sad list. I'm sure there's more. Could it be I don't know how much I don't know?

I just took another corporate training session at work, but this is at another job where orientation is provided by the company itself (not outsourced to Kevin and his 3rd party nonsense) and there is far less bullshit. It's the sort of job and the sort of business model where if I don't know something, I can legitimately find it out pretty easily. But Kevin's condescending tone will stick with me for a long time. Funnily enough, I don't think we got to finish the program before the company completely dissolved and laid us all off, our former customers clutching their coupons angrily. I wonder when forget that so often the guy behind the counter has a boss and a customer both giving him shit. I don't know why we tolerate that, but we probably shouldn't. Sometimes what we don't know will hurt us.

What I Know for Sure...

Hello Friends.

While it is not the actual definition of the term, it's conventional wisdom that defines insanity as repeating the same action over and over again expecting a different result. I understand how that applies, but I wonder if it makes us all a little mad, sometimes.

For instance, in terrible bouts of vanity, I will occasionally get that little area between my eyebrows waxed by a hairdresser, as I did last weekend. It is not especially painful, and any stinging I experience I attribute to the fact that this method works far better than tweezing the affected area or swiping at it with a razor. The problem is that I'm so satisfied with with the soft and smooth patch of skin that I can't stop poking at it and fingering it, which I'm sure looks super-attractive and also, it gives me pink eye. This has happened before and it's happening again. I had to buy pink eye medicine at the pharmacy today, like the mother of a filthy four-year-old. It's like I'm being punished for my narcissism. Once, the day before a first date, I decided to go tanning, thinking the results were instantaneous. I emerged from my infrared coffin looking as pale as ever, dissatisfied with the experience. The next day, I went on a date with a pleasant enough fellow who looked at me over our third cup of coffee and said, "Sorry, but is your skin getting darker?" The point is, I pay for my vanity, and I always forget.

Dream: Stop forgetting simple truths I always forget.

Goal: Achievable. I know this is an asinine premise, but it bears repeating. I'm trying, as I get older, not to have such hard opinions on things. See more shades of grey, be more open to new ideas. Having said that, there are a few things I know for sure. Or at least I think I do.

Plan: Write down a few truisms so I have a public record of things I know to be true now, if not forever:

• Having not consumed much of either, I'm still pretty sure marijuana does far less harm than energy drinks
• You can tell a great deal about a person based on the way they treat a waitress
• Fat people know that they are fat
• Bars with a lot of people in them are loud and there is often nowhere to sit
• Winter is longer and colder than you think it will be. Christmas is not the end of winter, nor even really the midpoint
• Someone you know really well is going through hard times you know nothing about
• Stress is healthy and essential, but it will kill most of us
• Shop for clothes with a well-built friend and prepare for an afternoon of hating yourself
• It is more awe-inspiring and humbling to consider the world we live in resulting from random permutations of science than the intentional acts of a God
• Nothing is funnier than a person in a place falling off of thing
• The popcorn and the coke combined will cost more than movie ticket
• Some people are legitimately hard done by, but some other people are assholes
• A house without books in it is not a home

That might be it. If you asked me at 19 what I might know at 29, I think I'd guess at a longer list than this, but there you have it. Maybe this is one of those things where the more you learn, the less you know. I raise what's left of my eyebrows at that notion, for it seems insane to me.

Take My Word For It...

Hello Friends.

I am at a crossroads, but it's a boring crossroads of a professional nature. Basically, I'm conflicted about how to proceed, career-wise. Part of me thinks I need to wise up and head back to the schoolhouse for education of a more practical sort. I could teach, maybe, or learn how to build boats. I'm probably too old to be folding sweaters for the bulk of my income and hustling for the occasional super-fun side writing gig with no job security and health bennies. But another part of me thinks a great opportunity could be just around the corner and I should keep doing what I'm doing (whatever that is). It could be as simple as one agent returning an email, one publisher accepting a script, one production company reading a pitch, and something fantastic could develop that is challenging and rewarding and exciting. It's probably not that simple, but what if it is? You know?

But this is one of those hypothetical situations that a lot of creative-types face, and nobody's advice is particularly helpful because everyone's outcome is different. I know a guy from a little town, for instance, who is a really good actor, dancer, and singer. After high school, he opted not to go to university, moved to a big city, went on a handful of auditions and landed a tv series within months of his arrival, and is now touring with a Broadway show. I know another guy with a fantastic, preternatural aptitude for fiction writing. He won scholarships to several universities, got his Masters in New York, got his PhD in London, now he freelance edits for a publishing company and works in a bar. It's all a crapshoot, I understand that. But it doesn't keep me from feeling insecure and questioning my decisions. And I find the best way to conquer insecurity and avoid making any life decisions of your own is to piously give advice to others. I don't have to look at my own problems if I can mull over yours. It's like how hairdressers who give fabulous cuts and styles to other people have awful hair themselves. Ignore my crap hair, and let me advise you, won't you?
 
Dream: Have an advice column.

Goal: Unachievable. I could never really have an advice column because I don't have random people asking for my advice, and nothing is more off-putting than asking friends to tell you their problems so you can solve them on the internet.

Case in point: Several years ago, when I was a Smaller City James, I knew I guy that I'll call Hot Dave. Hot Dave was really hot, and an excellent fair-weather friend. The type of guy who has the innate ability to make you feel engaging, even if you're not, and he can pretend to care, even when he doesn't. We met at a party, went out for exactly one coffee one time, and though we ran into each other several dozen times at Smaller City's one gay bar, never became more than acquaintances. But Hot Dave had a way of accruing acolytes, and I was one of them. Anyway, Hot Dave had a blog and I, along with a few dozen Smaller City gays, read it every week. Hot Dave decided he was going to have an advice segment and asked for submissions. People lobbed him softball questions like, "Should I still be texting my ex-boyfriend?" or "What should I bring to a gathering when I know the hosts don't drink alcohol?" (My answers, by the way, are No and Cake). 
 
But ONE guy, a hopeless Hot Dave fan, whom I'll call Fair-to-Middling Earl, took the advice thing to the extreme by asking something like, "How do I tell my adoptive parents that I've found and befriended my biological mother?" How the fuck is Hot Dave supposed to respond to that? Presumably, FtM Earl hoped to ingratiate himself further by placing waaaay too much stock in Hot Dave's opinion, but... come on, man. Uncomfortable.

Plan: Find questions that people have asked of legit advice-givers and offer my unsolicited opinion.

This question was asked to sex and relationship expert Dan Savage in his weekly column SavageLove  but I will pretend it was meant for me.

Dear James,

I'm an 18-year-old male about to head off to college in the fall. I'm not the best-looking guy—skinny, pale, some acne—and I'm afraid that I'm going to be one of those college freshmen who aren't getting laid. What can I do to help make my potential college sex life better? I'm a smooth-talking guy in some ways, but it doesn't work a majority of the time and I don't understand why.

College-Bound Boy

Dear College-Bound Boy,

The reason smooth-talking doesn't work is that the recipients aren't as stupid or horny as the person trying (and failing) to be smooth. Despite what pop culture might depict, there is no real currency in swagger, so drop the act. Also, change your objective. If you're just looking to get laid, you won't. If you want to find a girlfriend, you might. Finally, don't hold ladies to a higher standard than you've set for yourself in the looks department. If you're pale and acne'd, don't expect a Megan Fox or Kate Upton or... I don't know, Helen Hunt, to give you the time of day. Find your tribe. It'll work out.

This was a quandary put to Dear Abby.

Dear James,

The adage, "If you don't have anything nice to say ..." is easier said than done. When I am tired or stressed, I have a tendency to be less tolerant of others' quirks, and sometimes I voice my annoyance. While my opinions do have a basis, I sometimes feel guilty about insulting or hurting the person's feelings. I envy those who are strong enough to not allow the stress of certain situations to affect them.

I have never been a believer in "killing them with kindness" because that seems to enable their behavior. My intolerance is probably due to unhappiness about my own life. So how do I allow these annoyances to roll off my back and bite my tongue?

-- CAN'T TOLERATE FOOLS IN DES MOINES



Dear Can't Tolerate...

Well listen to you! First of all, I'm sick of the whole, "I call them like I see them" and "Sometimes I shoot my mouth off and some people can't handle it but that's just how I am" thing. That's not a personality trait, it's a weakness of character. I appreciate that you're trying to be more tolerant, but what you're asking isn't really a question. How do you bite your tongue and be nicer? You bite your tongue and be nicer! It doesn't take much to mind your P's and Q's and keep opinions to yourself. And if you really can't help yourself from judging someone's behavior, at least have the decency to wait until they leave the room, and then talk shit about them to other people. It's only polite.



This was written to Oprah's Experts of Entertaining in a 2009 Christmas issue of O: The Oprah Magazine that I don't have a hyperlink for because I "commandeered" a copy from the lobby of my apartment building

Dear J: The Jprah Jagazine,

I'm planning a holiday party next month and we'd like to serve a variety of cocktails, so we need a lot of ice. My question is: is the bagged ice you buy at the store safe to put in your drinks?

-Happy Hostess

Dear HH,

I don't even know where to start with you! First of all, yeah it probably is. People have been using bags of ice at parties for a hundred fucking years, no one's gonna get mercury poisoning at your holiday soiree. Secondly, do you know who edits this magazine? Oprah does. Oprah is one of the most famous, powerful people in the world, and this is how you're going to use your chance to communicate with her? Finally, this party is happening so far in advance that you have time to pen a letter, send it to Oprah, wait for it to be published, go to the store, buy it, and find out? Hey how about, in the interim, you buy some trays, fill the with water, and make some fucking ice!

By the way, in case you're wondering, Oprah's Entertaining Experts also concluded that bagged ice was perfectly safe. Jesus Christ.

This last one is from a YouTube series called Ask Amy where teenage girls write to Amy Poehler and she gives really heartfelt advice.

Dear James,

I really like this guy. We have a lot in common but I don't think he knows about my feelings. I'm sort of shy but I want to be with him. What should I do?

-Anonymous

Anonymous,

I know people are going to tell you to just tell the guy that you like him. That's what Poehler said, and I believe everything she says because she's awesome. And you probably should do that, if you're strong enough. But if you're like me, the thought of verbalizing feelings of this nature to a crush is terrifying, so here's what I suggest: pine. Think about him, talk about him to your girlfriends, make collages, plan fake dates. Enjoy the fantasy of him for awhile. Yes, there's a chance that this fantasy might become a reality, but if it doesn't, what a terrible bummer. Crushes pass the time. They make bumping into each other in the school hallway a momentous occasion you can journal about for weeks. If the pining is painful, if it crushes your soul not to be with this guy, then by all means, be a mature adult and tell him and let the chips fall where they may. But, if you're anything like I was when I was a teenager, you'll find the fantasizing a welcome distraction, and the possibility more charming than the reality.

It's weird, I don't feel all that better after telling people how to live their lives. I thought advising people would make me feel superior, but now I'm just questioning everything. Who am I to behave like a Hot Dave when I'm at best a Fair-to-Middling Earl? I guess the future will unfold as it will unfold and my choices will create realities with more insecurities and more questions, and that's just what life is about. For something so complicated, it's really that simple.

The Adult Introvert...

Hello Friends.

This article first appeared in the March 2013 issue of Saskatoon Well Being Magazine. If you're in Toon, pick it up today! If you're not, read it here: http://www.saskatoonwellbeing.com/

Has this ever happened to you? You meet the young child of a friend of yours who walks up to you on the playground and says, “Hi! I’m Leslie and I like basketball and horses! I live in a blue house and I’m in grade two and I’m good at drawing and I’m happy!” Don’t you just want to hug a child like that?

Then, you meet the new boyfriend or girlfriend of a friend of yours who walks up to you at a party and says, “Hi! I’m Pat and I’m into yoga and the Riders! I’m in a condo downtown and I work in marketing and I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, so I’m just trying to, like, find myself.” Don’t you just want to punch a person like that?

Isn’t it interesting that some of the advice we heap on children is the same we don’t heed as adults? Clean your plate, for instance. When’s the last time someone congratulated you for being “a good eater”? We demand naps of children that we never take ourselves lest we miss a tweet or a Facebook photo of a friend’s homemade dinner or fingernails. And we encourage a kind of forced extroversion in children that, while cute and precocious in a six-year-old, is creepy and off-putting in a 26-year-old.

In the above hypothetical scenarios, I adore the happy, bubbly child and despise the overzealous party guest because they are extroverts and I am not. I was a kid with a fantastic childhood and I wish, in retrospect, that I was more relaxed and carefree about it. But rather than engaging in conversation with my parents’ friends, I was busy practising Stop, Drop and Roll, and preparing my response for when I was inevitably offered drugs (“That’s not my scene, fella! Now scram before I get an adult!”). Now, too, I enjoy a fantastic adulthood, but am far too plagued by insecurities to engage in conversation with a stranger at a party. I’m busy practising holding my stomach in and preparing my strategy should a guest accidentally overdose on drugs (“Hey, let’s cool it with the drink and smoke! If I get a bowl of regular-strength Acetaminophen for the table, will everybody have some? Come on, let’s splurge!”).

But there are times I wish I could ignore my introverted tendencies and let my extroverted impulses rule the day. It is my new Dream.

Dream: Become an extrovert when it counts.

Goal: Achievable.

Remember the viral video that launched Susan Boyle? Of course you do, it was inescapable. A mousy, frumpy woman took the stage of a reality competition show, awkwardly answered a few questions and then blew the judges and audience away with a stirring, show-stopping performance of “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Misérables. The mass appeal of the video wasn’t just her voice, which was surely strong, but the idea that a meek housefrau yielded this kind of power, just by taking a heretofore-private talent to an extremely public arena. I think even the most private of introverts fantasizes about a Susan Boyle-moment where a sudden burst of extroversion changes the world. If she can do it, the reasoning goes, so too may I.

Plan: Determine the best situations to let my extroverted self shine. Situations like:

The First Date. Luckily, through trickery and dark forces, I’ve conned my partner into sticking around for a while, but before my main squeeze came along, I suffered through a bevy of awkward dates, all thanks to my top-notch mumbled shyness. Once, in a noisy bar, I worked up the courage to introduce myself to a real looker who misheard “James” as “Shane.” I wasn’t brave enough to correct something so gorgeous and so merely scrawled my number on a napkin with the message, “Text me! xo, Shane.” Never got that text, but might have had a better shot with the bar star had I said, “Oh, it’s James, actually! And I’m thrilled to meet you, but I have to confess, bars are loud and sweaty and I don’t care about this band and I hope you have a job with health/dental benefits and please don’t smoke pot or write poetry and can we agree that The Bachelor is a stupid show and I don’t ‘split’ desserts, I get my own. Are we down to clown?”

The Job Interview. Wouldn’t it be great to be charming and personable in a job interview as opposed to evasive and armpit-stained? I get so thrown by having to talk about myself that I either downplay my accomplishments and abilities, or lie about them completely. And I always wonder what the right answers are when they ask you to name your three worst qualities. I’ve heard variations on, “I just push myself too hard! I’m never satisfied unless I’m giving a hundred percent!” Honesty can’t be the best policy here, can it? “Well, I’m super-lazy. I hold my stomach in at parties. I steal things from work.”

The Injustice. I really want to work on this one, because I see petty injustice all the time. I’ll be in line at the grocery store and watch somebody yell at a defenseless cashier over the price of eggs. I’ll see someone cut in line for a movie, take up two seats on a crowded bus, refuse to hold the door open for the person behind them. It’s just obnoxious behaviour that deserves to be called out, but for the amount of times I see injustice and don’t speak up, it seems I’d rather drown than rock the boat. And this isn’t as bad as that worst moment…

The Heart-stopper. Have you ever experienced something where your heart stops and your guts churn and everything in your body, mind and heart is telling you to do something, say something, but you’re frustratingly, completely paralyzed?

I once saw a man run out of a store, pushing a stroller in front of him as he ran. I thought at first it was for the child’s benefit, a speedy ride to make up for a dull shopping trip. Then I thought maybe he had stolen something from the store and was trying to make a hasty getaway. Then I saw that he was running towards someone, his wife, presumably, the mother of this child, and when he caught up to her, he cuffed her in the back of the head. I froze. I saw a man strike a woman and was so shocked that I couldn’t move. Man and woman argued loudly, in front of the child, but moved farther away from me. Finally, I grabbed my phone and stared at it, dumbly. Was this a 911 call? Or was this not technically an emergency? What if I didn’t see what I think I saw? If a man had cuffed another man in the back of the head, or a woman to a woman, I wouldn’t have thought much of it. But this was domestic abuse. Wasn’t it? The worst part is that the most probable reason for why I never made any call was that I was afraid of being noticed myself, afraid that this violent man would overhear me on the phone and turn his anger on me. Finally, I grabbed a mall security guard who was walking outside and said, “That man just cuffed that woman in the back of the head!” and literally ran out of there. I’m haunted by my cowardice here. I can make up excuses about being an introvert, but this doesn’t speak to a personality trait, this speaks to a character flaw.

We try to teach children that they are special and deserve to be listened to. We want to instil in them a sense of self- confidence that transcends any circumstances, because we want them to be the generation that we were not. Maybe, as adults, we let too much slide in favour of not speaking up, not calling attention to ourselves, not making a fuss. So let’s not simply speak when we are spoken to; let’s speak up for the good of ourselves and each other. No excuses. I don’t care that you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. Clean your plate.