We're Living In A Society...

Hello Friends.

It’s common to say you miss a place because of the people you left behind. In the case of the Big City of my former residence, I mean that in both the specific and general sense. I miss family and friends, to be sure, but I also miss all the people. Hordes of them.

There’s an extremely comforting sense of safety in numbers when you find yourself in a big city. At least for me, I never felt like I was in danger if I found myself downtown late at night, or if I lost my bearings near a major thoroughfare, because there were just so many people around. The same is true of Vancouver, though some sections are truly dicey, but for the most part, I feel safe when walking down major streets.

This feeling is harder to come by in the city I live now, where they seem to roll up the streets after 5 pm, and aimless wandering seems like a reckless invitation. Stuck downtown one evening before an evening appointment, I ate a solitary dinner in a completely empty food court at 5:30 pm. Vendors were still open, but nobody visited them. I found out later that a man eating a late lunch alone the day earlier in the same food court was stabbed by a random assailant. The man survived the random attack, and his misfortune goes a long way to explain the emptiness of this particular food court. Not knowing the story at the time, I thought, “This is great! A McDonald’s with no line? I’m coming here every week!”

This attack and others like it, where the assailant and the assaulted have no pre-existing relationship, the scary randomness of it all, results in letters to the editor calling for an increase police presence. “With more officers, things like this wouldn’t happen!” the consensus seems to be. Sometimes I wonder if more people overall wouldn’t help solve the problem. The stabby loner has less opportunity to strike if he has to contend with hundreds of downtown diners. The purse-snatcher can’t risk the multiple witnesses of a crowded train platform. But Edmonton is unlikely to get sudden barrage of citizenry like Calgary to the south or Vancouver to the west. But what if there was a squad of people, low-level authority figures with no real power like Mall Cops or Transit Dorks whose job it was to police human behavior that was, if not illegal, at least highly undesirable? I would like to be part of that squad.

Dream: Organize a “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!!!” Society.

Goal: Achievable. The “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!!!” Society takes its name from Seinfeld, as “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY” is something George Costanza shouts after a perceived affront. It’s a catch-all phrase that means, “Why are you behaving this way when we all must coexist?” I don’t know of any governing body that would give us the capital to hire full time staffers or build a cool headquarters, but I know if we kept a few rules in check, society would adapt over time thanks to our efforts.

Plan: Create rules that the “WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!!!” Society would enforce at all times. Here are some rules.

1) Get off the phone. Take your cell and actually turn it off when you’re speaking with someone. And don’t do that thing where you’re texting while you’re speaking to someone else. This is a remarkable feat of multitasking, but nothing is worse than watching someone’s eyes slide down to their device while they’re speaking to you. This is especially important if you’re buying something at a store. Get off the fucking phone.

2) Take off your hat. I went out to dinner the other night and, while this was not a fancy eatery by any means, it was still a restaurant. From the small section where I was sitting, I counted six men sitting at different tables wearing their stupid ballcaps while eating. Look, you’re not a movie star or the son of an oil baron. You don’t need to be incognito and you expect to be so blatantly impolite. Hat goes off, sir.

3) Let other people get off before you get on. This applies to busses, subways, even elevators. I can’t believe I’m having to type this, it should be so obvious. Don’t just charge on there, idiot, wait your turn. Also, small digression, what’s your big goddamn hurry to get on the plane? Do you think the plane will take off with just you on it because you were clever enough to skip all boarding protocol and run on there? I hate these idiots. The ones who, when they make the pre-boarding only announcement for the elderly, the very young, the differently abled and that person “who may need a little bit of extra help” that I always wonder about, these jerks start standing and hovering, like they’re waiting for the bathroom. “Is it time yet? Can’t I just get on?” And THEN, these same stupid morons, stand like cattle once the plane lands. They get up and stare dumbly ahead, waiting until the last possible moment to struggle with their stupid 50 pound bag and hold everybody up. FUCKING GO! Okay, sorry.

4) Moms, feel free to breastfeed in public. I don’t know why this is even an issue, y’alls gotta feed your babies. However, Moms, be mindful of where and how your child is discovering the world around them. By this I mean, don’t let Junior just walk around a store unaccompanied. Don’t let Caydence run up and down the aisle of the bus or wail at the top of her lungs at the mall. Reign your kid in. Also, vaccinate them.

5) Adults, kids movies are for kids. Yeah, here I go again! But COME ON! Challenge your minds! Expose yourself to culture. Film is a wonderful medium, but just leave children’s entertainment to children! Parents of young children, you get a pass. Grown ass childless people? Look at yourselves!

6) Careful runners. Look, I have nothing against running as a sport, an exercise, or a way to catch the ice cream man. However, on a recent outing with my friend Shannon, who is a runner, I learned something deeply disturbing. Runners, when they run, just puke. They just vomit while they run. They run so hard they wear out their bodies and the food in their bellies comes up and they vomit. Just throw it all up. WHAT? This cannot be acceptable. I don’t want to see a group of willowy lycra-clad do-gooders take up all the space on my walking path so they can do fast-trotting stopping only to PUKE. Nope.

7) Put whatever you want into your body and I’ll do the same. Ironic, isn’t it? Puke is unacceptable in my Society, but putting waste inside your body is met with no judgement. I don’t know if I will change this stance over time but right now, today, I feel like people can eat or choose not to eat whatever they want. I’m sick of the vegans judging the vegetarians, the paleo’s judging the organics, everyone judging fat people. I’m sure there are healthier choices we could all be making, I don’t think anyone has the definitive answer. I’m also sure that something is going to kill every single one of us sooner or later, so why don’t we just lay off?

8) This is the grossest one and requires a preamble. Out for dinner (the dinner of the hatted gentlemen from earlier), one of our dining companions told this story:

“So I’m on a flight and I see this guy I recognize and give him a nod hello and he sticks his nose in the air, which I found kind of obnoxious. Anyway, we start to take off and I hear this ‘click, click, click’ as the plane moves down the runway. I look over and the guy is clipping his toenails.”

.

..

…

..

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CLIPPING HIS TOENAILS? ARE YOU EVEN SERIOUS? COME ON! If there’s one rule I have, it’s that I live by several rules, number ONE of which is DO NOT CLIP YOUR TOENAILS IN A PUBLIC PLACE. WE’RE LIVING IN A SOCIETY!

In reality, there’s no force that can police less-than-desirable behavior that is not illegal. But it shouldn’t be too hard to take inventory of the people around us and call out the rude nonsense. No matter where we’re from, or whether we’re navigating busy streets or empty food courts, most of us are just trying to get by. We’re all on the same team here. Let’s act like it.

The Third Man...

Hello Friends.

Did you know that most new TVs come with something called an HDMI cord that connects your TV to your cable box, and that you can use that same cord to disconnect your cable box and plug your TV to your laptop and what’s playing on your laptop will play on your TV screen? After having all of this technology at our disposal for years, Jon and I recently figured out how to do this and spent a quiet evening at home watching old American Justice from YouTube on our tube.
American Justice is an old documentary series about horrific crimes hosted by a crusty old man named Bill Curtis who records voiceover for the show and also introduces segments standing outside in a trench coat. He’s sometimes on the steps of a courthouse or in a dark alley, but my favourite location is when he steps beyond police tape and around investigators to deliver his intros. We, the viewers, are supposed to believe he’s disrupting an ACTUAL CRIME SCENE to tell us about the show we’re going to watch. It’s ludicrous, but he has such phony newsman gravitas that I sometimes believe police and investigators were like, “Don’t mind us, Bill! You do your segments wherever you like, we’ll move the bloody corpse.” This was a long digression that has nothing to do with what I’m talking about, so if you reread this blog entry, feel free to skip the preceding paragraph.

Anyway, this episode of American Justice was about this married couple, both lawyers, who were accused of criminal negligence causing death. Compounding suspicions heaped upon the couple was the fact that they were presently in the process of adopting a violent prisoner in the hopes that he would be remanded into their custody if paroled. When questioned why this couple would want to “adopt” a full grown violent man, they admitted that it was the only way they could legally take part in a kind of three way couplehood. Both the husband and wife loved this scary prisoner and wanted to take him to their marriage bed. We never did find out what happened to them because our wireless connection was suddenly lost and we rung our hands, cursed our internet provider, and sulked until it was bedtime.

Dream: Invite a third person into our relationship.

Goal: Achievable. Before you all start worrying or picturing a disgusting bedroom closet filled with candle wax and feather boas, rest assured that this would not be a sex or love thing. We’re fine. The reason we need a third person in our relationship is that we need a guy or gal who knows how to fix the wireless, hook the computer up to the TV, tell the neighbors to shut up after 11 pm, and make a goddamn palatable curry. I know there are people out there who can do these things because every time I whine, “I wish I could watch the internet on my TV…” or, “I wish I could drain my tub faster…”, people seem to have a million suggestions on how these thing get accomplished! So I just need to encourage them to basically be on call for me and the Doc in exchange for… what exactly?

Plan: Hire a Work Experience Husband.

When I worked in a restaurant and in various retail jobs, my various employers would occasionally hire on Work Experience students. As I understood it, Work Experience was a course one could take in high school that put a student into a job for a few hours a week to get a feel for the work environment. The student got course credit, the employer got cheap labour and someone to take care of the menial tasks. It was really win-win.

We need such a thing for our relationship for those times when we both, unfortunately, are incompetent to the same degree in the same arena. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen often. I can unclog a drain and Jon can file an insurance claim, for instance. But nothing feels worse than that those moments when both of us throw our hands up and admit that we don’t know what to do. It is in those scenarios that I feel like there will be a knock at the door and members of some council will strip me of my status as a grown-up. “You obviously aren’t prepared for adulthood,” they will say. “We’ll get you on a bus to your parents’ house immediately.”

That hopeless feeling is particularly crushing when we idly contemplate the Someday Kid (the kid we might have someday). How will we care for a child when we can’t darn a sock, use the broiler, hang a picture?

Our Work Experience Husband would be able to do all that and more, but disappear when we needed him to, allowing us to preserve the idea that we’ve got it all figured out. Maybe we should all be each other’s Interim Spouse, from time to time. Jon could file legal and government paperwork for that couple that instinctively throws all legal-looking letters in the fireplace. I could tie neckties and pan fry steaks for the couple hosting work colleagues for dinner. Another friend of mine can rig up electronics, another could reorganize kitchens and closets for maximum efficiency. I guess the key is not expanding your team, necessarily, but being available to pinch-hit when required and hope that others return the favour. That’s a form of justice I completely understand.

Teeth

I will spend my lunch hour at work in various ways. Sometimes I bring leftovers from home and join coworkers, sometimes I walk to the grocery store or fast food places nearby. But every lunch hour, after I’ve eaten and returned to my office, I brush my teeth.

I keep a toothbrush and tube of tooth paste at my desk, and I think maybe the trouble starts because they are full-sized. Maybe if I had a travel-sized baby toothbrush and a discreet mini-toothpaste, taking them to the washroom would be less conspicuous, but right now people react as if I’m carrying two dildos. Their eyes register what I have, and they sort of recoil.

I brush my teeth at the sink, like a citizen proud of his dental hygiene, and guys coming in to use the bathroom observe me with disgust. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? These guys are coming in to expel waste from their personhood and I’M gross?

Consensus from people that I’ve spoken to about this seems to be that the practice is extreme. Chew gum if you want fresh breath after eating, they say. But that’s a temporary fix, like dousing a turd in CK One. I’d rather really clean my teeth before returning to work, and take that fresh mouth feeling back to my desk (along with, apparently, my two rubber penises).

I open it up to the group. Am I doing something strange or bad? Do any of you brush your teeth at work? Let’s swirl this around our mouths a bit.

Sedaris...

As we browsed an independent bookstore together more than ten years ago, a handsome fella put a David Sedaris book in my hands and said, “Have you read him? I’m buying this for you.” I hadn’t, and he did. Things didn’t work out with the fella, but everything worked out with David Sedaris. I read that book, which was Naked, then everything he wrote before, and then since. I’ve been an unattractive version of the handsome guy in the bookstore many times over, foisting Sedaris’ work on unsuspecting friends and family like a talisman. “Just read it,” I whisper, reverently. “See what happens.”

What happened for me was that everything I write is forever soaked in his blood. As with other writers I admire, his style permeates everything “original” I think I’m doing, and then reads back like a watered-down, substandard, poor man’s version of. But if I were to fight that impulse and consciously try to avoid his influence, I’d never write anything at all.

On Monday night, a dear friend and I went and saw David Sedaris perform at a concert hall downtown. It’s a trite thing to say, but it was everything I could have hoped for plus more. He read, as far as I could tell, all new material, or at least nothing he’d put in a book before. The seemingly off the cuff remarks he made between readings were funny and endearing, and he ended with a Q&A where (thankfully) no one said anything stupid. Just before the Q&A, he read from his diary, one that he apparently writes in every night. Now, surely these were cleaned up a bit for live readings, but still, even his diary was written so deftly, so funny and simply, in the best sense of the word, that I was inspired. Inspired is a term we throw around so often and it has this kind of squishy, overly sweet connotation that makes me think of do-gooders and kids missing part of their faces, but what I really mean is I was encouraged by his example. I was galvanized.

Dream: Write more.

Goal: Achievable. I write every day as part of my job, and I rationalize with a consistent whine that I “write eight hours a day!” even though that writing is strictly technical copy and not creative. I complain that I “look at a screen all day and the last thing I want to do is go home and look at a screen”, which is an argument that would only hold water if I didn’t go home to watch TV or look up garbage on the internet.

I can absolutely take the extra time required to write creatively, if only for my own amusement, because even if nothing comes of it, even it doesn’t earn me any money, it’s something I’m incrementally better at now than I was before. I owe it to myself if only so that my writer brain doesn’t collect dust in the cobwebs of my brain, like a clarinet shoved in the back of a closet.
Plan: Get back on a schedule and hold myself to it. It’s weird, I’ve never missed checking my bank balance on a pay day, I carve out 90 minutes a week for Saturday Night Live, I manage to get to Dairy Queen with alarming frequency in the summer months. If I can make time for those things, it stands to reason that I can make time to write.

David Sedaris signed books both before and after his performance. When we got there before the show, the line was pretty short, but that was because he could only sign so many books before he had to go onstage, and someone from the Line Police had determined the end point. After the show, the line snaked around the lobby and back into the theatre by the time we’d gotten up and out of our seats. Apparently David stays to sign everyone’s book, though, even if it keeps him at the venue until midnight. My friend wanted me to wait in line. “I have no problem staying,” she said. “Who cares it takes hours, he’s your favourite!” But I begged off.

The line was long and we would have been there late, but truthfully I didn’t want to interact with him, however briefly, because I knew there would be nothing I could say that would honestly express what his writing means to me that wouldn’t make one or both us extremely uncomfortable. Plus, I figured that people that wait in line to meet someone who writes so perfectly about the humour of the everyday would want to somehow be memorable. They’d say something outrageous or odd enough that it would engage his quirky brain and maybe a story about them would end up in the diary, or a book, or a live show. I hated those people because that’s so nakedly needy, and also because I’m probably one of them. Maybe if I met David Sedaris, instead of fawning all over him, I’d have told an off colour joke, or lied about having some intricate hobby so as to make an impression. Because the worst case scenario is also the most likely: that I wouldn’t make any impression at all. I’d just be another fan, clutching a book, believing some sort of special relationship existed between us, if only we could meet and then we’d surely become fast friends.

Writing about writing is like masturbating and calling it a “self-administered handjob.” It’s only special if you think it is, and nobody but you gives a shit about it. But this is my annual public reminder to myself to just keep plugging away. By posting it on a blog like this, it will stand as indictment if I keep letting weeks slip by with no contribution. Tune in next week, then the next, then the next, until I get back in the swing of things, dammit. But in the meantime, pick up anything by David Sedaris and see what happens.

13

Hello Friends.

I had a sick day this week, but it was one of those lucky sick days where, though I was indeed feeling poorly from a cold, I wasn’t throwing up, or in terrible pain, and so got to appreciate the naughtiness of a midweek day off. I stayed in my jams and watched TV, read a book I’d been meaning to tackle, and generally lazed about, coughing intermittently.

It reminded me of a fabled day in my 13^th year, a story I’ve surely told before. About ten minutes into the school day, the principal walks in, takes the teacher aside, then speaks to us. I guess a water main had broken in the basement and they were about to lose heat to the building and the upshot was that every student got to go home right then. I don’t remember exactly how I filled that day, except that it was unremarkable. I probably did just as I did earlier this week (watched TV, dozed off, etc.). Around that same time, my best pal Ryan skipped the elementary school track meet to go home and eat mini-donuts. We were truly living our dreams in those days.

On the night of my sick day, as I drifted off in a Nyquil haze, it struck me that I had spent a perfect bonus day, the kind I would have relished as a 13 year old, and I hoped that I fully appreciated it. Here’s hoping that advances in technology will allow me to communicate just that.

Dream: Get a message to 13 year old James.

Goal: Not achievable yet. Here’s the bummer about time travel: either it never gets invented, because no one from the past or future has come to visit us, or it has been invented, but we live in such a boring, shitty present day as compared to the glorious future, that nobody thinks to return to 2015 and let us know what’s up. That said, in case they do perfect the technology, I want to have crib notes for when I talk to a young James.

Plan: Write a letter to my 13 year old self.

Dear 13 Year Old James,

It feels weird now to qualify your existence based on your age, but our youth was all about that, wasn’t it? “Am I teenager yet? Am I cool yet? When does growing up happen?” 13 year old James, I’m sorry to tell you, but age matters less and less, at least to 31 year old me/you. As much as I’d like the directive, “Do this because I’m telling you to because I’m 31!” to hold weight, it just doesn’t. Nobody cares how old I am. The good side of this situation is that nobody cares how old I am, and so I have friends of all ages and it’s not weird.

Anyway, the main thrust of what I want to say to you is, it’s gonna work out. Whatever you’re worried about, stop worrying because I can’t remember it, this many years later, so how important could it have been? I think the luckiest people are those of us whose worries don’t transcend their circumstances. That is to say, you’re worried about grade 7 or 8 now because that’s where you are. You’ll worry about this job or that relationship because that’s where you’ll be at the time. But thankfully, you are/I am blessed enough that the worries seldom outlast their environment, so chill out. There will be peaks and valleys in the next 18 years, but nothing insurmountable. Enjoy the ride.

You’re not gonna get much fatter or skinnier. Okay, you’ll get a little fatter. Not a lot, though. Relax.

I know you’re SO WORRIED about being gay and having sex, but you’re gonna be and have both and it’s FUN!

You’re spending a lot of time cultivating tastes in music, movies, books, but that’s all going to change, as well it should. Get all you can out of those first two Spice Girls CDs because they’re done after this.

I know your parents bugged you about quitting piano and how you’re going to regret it someday, but so far you haven’t regretted it for a goddamn minute. You know what’s better than practicing piano? Almost everything.

Learn to cook now. It will take you too long to learn too many basics and you’ll eat too much garbage food. That’s why you’re going to get a little fatter.

Try to temper your teenage feelings of self-importance and guilt. You’re neither as good nor as bad as you think you are. You’re just a guy.

Spend time with your grandparents, and try to visit more. They miss you now, you’ll miss them later.

Keep your youthful fear of drugs. It keeps you off of them, and tempers your early alcohol consumption, so you are thankfully, blessedly, dependent on neither.

People are going to tell you, or you’re going to glean from pop culture, to savor these moments, these are the best years of your life. This is a fallacy because you can’t nostalgically appreciate the present time. And the good news is, there are better years to come, and better still for 31 year old you/me, I’m confident!

Memory helps us recall the circumstances of a particular time, but not always what we felt. Though nothing bad happens to you/me, I wouldn’t go back to our teenage years for a million bucks. The prevailing feeling was uncertainty. We bought into the idea of the significance of adolescence and took ourselves SO SERIOUSLY as a result. In so many ways, it’s just a deeper voice and more hair.

I don’t know more about life now than I did then, except to say that the view from here is pretty sweet. You don’t get everything you wanted, but you have everything you need.

Love,

Old James

An important programming note: Regular readers will notice I’ve fallen off regular updates terribly, and I don’t know yet what I’m going to do about it. I don’t want to stop blogging, but I don’t want to update for no reason either. Please be patient with me while I figure out the best way to keep Big City James going without repeating myself. I’m not going away, but I may not return as regularly as usual. It's all gonna work out. Stay tuned.

Confirmed Bachelor...

Hello Friends.

I’m pretty sure genocides have happened because bored coworkers have nothing to do on a free weekday evening. How else to explain how I recently came to view, understand, appreciate, and become obsessed by The Bachelor?

Let me clarify up front that I’ve only seen the first two episodes of this season, and those under very particular circumstances. Much of it was fast-forwarded, and all of it was derided and joked about with my esteemed coworkers, one of whom was particularly insistent that we enjoy this experience together. We all had to pick potential winners off the first episode, and roundly mock everything that came out of everybody’s mouth (something I am very good at).

The Bachelor is somehow nothing like I thought it would be and exactly like I thought it would be. I knew the Bachelor and the women would all be stupid, but I wasn’t prepared for how unapologetically stupid they would be. For instance, I expected a Miss America-type background for the competing ladies. Something like, “Karen is a Marine Biologist who works with underprivileged kids and plays the cello.” Instead it’s like, “Daisy is a Sports Fishing Enthusiast.” I’m not making that up, “Sports Fishing Enthusiast” was come contestant’s byline, where a job should have been. Secondly, they all seem to know they are competing for each other, yet are consistently surprised by any competition. Last week, some woman sobbed, “I can’t believe he kissed that other girl! I feel like he’s my boyfriend.” What kind of show is that, doll? He’s been given a buffet, but shouldn’t sample? Plus, are you aware of how many hours of television need to be filled here? He picks you day one, what does ABC put on Monday nights?

This brings me to the Bachelor himself, who is a professional-grade lunkhead. He feels so privileged to be the Bachelor on The Bachelor, and affects the appropriate “aw shucks” demeanor when ladies throw themselves at him, but he also has trouble with long sentences. Like speaking them. He trails off towards the end and it’s like watching an old car sputter and die. “And that’s why I’m really excited because… I think.. I. Will. Find. A. Wife.”

Funnily enough, though all the women are supposed to come with an interesting angle, or memorable hook to entice the Bachelor and (presumably) keep the audience interested, Chris is under no pressure to develop or demonstrate a personality. He smiles genially at everything and occasionally takes a deep breath, like he’s pretending to think. The ladies have gotten drunk, gotten angry, cried, been sexually inappropriate, and he just grins like an idiot.

The host is another Chris, and he seems to know exactly how good he has it. He walks into a room, says, “Ladies. It is time for the Bachelor to make his choice.” Then he goes and smokes cigarettes for an hour or whatever. He has the perfect amount of investment in the proceedings. He alludes vaguely to the fact that stuff is happening, but tips no hand regarding who he himself prefers. In fact, I hear he’s being joined by Jimmy Kimmel this season which makes sense. Regardless of the obvious cross-promotion between a prime time and a late night show on the same channel, Kimmel’s always struck me as a pretty solid emcee. I don’t find him particularly funny in his own right, but he segues between jokes, guests, and commercials like an old school broadcaster.

In many ways, I think The Bachelor is old school as well. It’s a tarted-up Dating Game, with the suggestion that the relationship will last beyond the time the cameras stop rolling (but will it?) crossed with beauty contests and Queen For a Day. Sexist, antiquated, and mindless it may be, The Bachelor is an old dog with a new trick, unless something comes along to shake things up.

Dream: Be a contestant on The Bachelor.

Goal: Achievable. I don’t want to be the Bachelor himself, and I don’t want to be one of the dudes up for grabs on The Bachelorette. I want a limo to pull up on that first night, when the Bachelor meets all the hot ladies, and then I come strutting out in my finest cargo shorts.

Plan: Bro down.

It would generate an enormous amount of publicity if it was announced that a lone male contestant would be competing alongside the ladies to be chosen by the Bachelor. Does this mean the Bachelor is gay, or bisexual? Not necessarily, but it would attract the attention and speculation of both communities.

I would present myself the way I hope I come across in really life. Friendly, and gay, but not flamboyantly so. But I would add cool touches like a skateboard and the catchphrase, “Bro down throwdown!” Then I’d tackle the Bachelor and we’d wrestle playfully and people would be like, “What the fuck is going on?”

I would represent two special interests simultaneously. I’d be playing for the gay guys with crushes on straight men who believe they can “change him”, and I’d represent the bromance contingent that seems to dominate so many movies of late. The overgrown manchild who picks “bros before hos” and would much rather hang out with dudes than get a steady lady.

On me and the Bachelor’s “alone time”, we would shoot the breeze and drink beer and talk shit about the other ladies. During my time with the ladies, I would completely ingratiate myself. Not to generalize wildly about your typical Bachelor contestant, but these gals seem like the type for whom a gay male friend is a status symbol or cute accessory. I met a really pretty blonde woman at a party once and when she found out I knew the host of the party through my boyfriend, she screeched, “You’re gay?! We should totally go shopping together!” Within seconds of meeting me, she said this. I’m not suggesting the women competing on The Bachelor aren’t smart enough to realize that gay guys are as diverse within that group as they are outside of it, but actually that’s exactly what I’m suggesting.

I would become a viewer favourite, and so far I’m convinced that viewer favourites are given roses and kept around thanks to strong suggestions to the Bachelor from the show’s producers. My coworker said, for instance, that a crazy woman will make it very, very far because she’s interesting, and that the Bachelor will never kick off a visible minority in the first few weeks lest he, and by extension the show, be accused of racism (although a whiter show you’ll never come across). Sure enough, in the two episodes I watched, he put through a crazy drunk, and a boring African American woman, in spite of not knowing much about either.

As to my intentions, I just want to be on television instead of watching it because fun. And for the record, I don’t think even the most charming charmer can turn a straight guy gay, but that stupid people or narcissists (the Bachelor fits snugly in categories A and B) might be convinced to make out with you for a bit. I would have to work very hard to convince poor Dr. Jon to give me a pass to openly flirt with another man on national television, but I feel like, if I explain the premise of my participation in the same way I’ve just explained it to you, he will see that, by objecting, he is standing in the way of my Dreams and also letting down the Bachelor’s loyal viewers.

There are troubling issues at play with a show like The Bachelor that I can’t even begin to contemplate. Why do we watch women (and men) degrade themselves in this way? Is sexuality such a commodity that it can be bought or manufactured for the right price? Do farmers really look like that? I know I’m doing a disservice to my feminist ideals and my brain by watching every week, but my coworker’s making spaghetti tonight for us to eat while we watch it! I don’t know how much our society values love and marriage anymore, but I will go to war and fight and die for my right to eat spaghetti and laugh with my friends. To put it another way, from week to week, I will always accept this rose.

The Untouchable...

Hello Friends.

I tend to book a window seat in the last row when I check in for a flight. WestJet lets you check in 24 hours before you fly, and I like to get as close to that 24 hour mark as possible to book what I slyly figure is a spot undesirable enough that it will keep others from selecting the seat beside me. This tactic often works, but didn’t last Sunday when I flew back to Edmonton after a lovely weeklong trip to see family.

There was a woman sitting in the seat beside mine who had that same, “Please don’t sit here, please don’t sit here” face I adopt when I’m watching others board. She gamely got up to let me sit down and we studiously ignored each other for the entire flight. She was a big person, broad and overweight, and she didn’t fit very comfortably into her seat. At 6’1”, neither did I. Those seats are built for no one’s body, and our bodies touched the entire flight. It’s an odd sensation, being hip to hip to a stranger for two hours, but we were, and maybe that’s why we couldn’t comfortably talk to each other. I couldn’t be mad at this woman, for whom flying has to be an uncomfortable experience, but on the other hand, maybe she flies all the time and doesn’t think anything of it. Had it been an international flight spanning several hours, maybe our mutual discomfort would have made us tense and irritable, but as it was, I was fine with this forced snuggle.

Dr. Jon was waiting to board a flight earlier this year where he saw parents waiting at the gate with two young children. The girl was being cute and dancing and twirling, and Dad completely ignored her. At one point, she went in to give her grumpy father a hug and kiss and he shooed her away because he was doing something on his iPad. I know travelling with kids must be awful, but Jesus Christ, hug and kiss your damn kid!

I bring up these two stories of flight because they illustrate how resistant we are to touching each other, even among loved ones. I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions (mostly because what is this blog if not that), but if there was something I’d want to pay more attention to in 2015, it’s this.

Dream: Touch more people.

Goal: Achievable, I guess. I know it sounds so creepy to say that I want to be in more physical contact with people, but it’s true. I noticed over the holidays that I’ve grown rusty when it comes to my hugging, if such a thing is possible. I’m all chin and shoulders somehow. Plus, I’m constantly paranoid that I smell bad, or that the person I’m hugging doesn’t want to be hugged and I’m torturing them with my spindly arms and pizza gut. I read this article once that said you’re not supposed to hug and kiss children that aren’t yours without asking permission of them, because you “rob children of agency over their own bodies.” I guess I can see that, but if I can’t squeeze the squirmy little lovebugs of friends of mine without getting everyone to sign a notarized document, that’s a real drag.

Plan: Touch more people.

This is one of those problems where the answer is inherent to the question. If I want to have more physical contact with people, I’ll just become a more touchy-feely guy. But how does one do that?

I could be in a play. I haven’t done any acting in a while, and while I’m pleased to be on the writing side of things for now, and I certainly don’t miss auditioning, I do much the insane amount of physical closeness that seems part of the process of making theatre. I went through a four year acting program and, while I didn’t have sex with any of my classmates, I can’t believe I didn’t graduate with an STD. Everyone’s always hugging and kissing, onstage and off. Or adjusting eachother’s bodies to optimum posture, or feeling someone’s diaphragm to ensure the right kind of breathing. Or you’re building human pyramids in some fruitless exercise, or starting classes with massage chains, or pounding on someone’s back while they sing. I didn’t even notice it while it was happening, but now that I’ve got an office job, I probably can’t run my hand up the spine of a coworker to check their alignment without getting a complaint sent to Human Resources.

The most tactile and physically demonstrative person I’ve ever met was in a play with me. I’ll call her Jill in case she reads this and is weirded out by my description of her. I could be misremembering, but I think Jill hugged me warmly the first time we met, and she was like that with everybody. We played a couple in the show, and we would kiss and hug without any initial awkwardness or jitters, but she would also grab my hand impulsively in rehearsals, or sling an arm over whomever she was sitting beside. Again, this wasn’t just me, she was like that with everybody. There was something so warm and friendly about Jill, and everyone was incredibly drawn to her, and I’m sure they continue to be. It wasn’t like she and I were best pals that connected on every level either. We were perfectly nice to each other and chatted backstage and whatnot, but it’s not as if we had a deep abiding love for each other, or a mystical connection that transcended beyond friendship. And yet I will always feel incredibly connected to her because she was so, for lack of a better term, touchy-feely.

I wish I could find it again, but I read a really interesting article recently disparaging the fact that men, and straight men in particular, suffer from such a lack of physical contact, and it’s such a shame. And it’s really true! Not to engage in stereotyping, but women and gay men tend to be physically affectionate with each other and it’s not weird. But straight men must only ever get physical attention from their partners in a sexual context, and that’s about it. I don’t know how that gets fixed. I suppose I have straight male friends that I will hug, but not nearly with the frequency as my female friends. There’s a Friends episode I remember where two of the guys (Joey and Ross, I think?) fall asleep on each other once and realize they have amazing naps together. Of course the situation is played for laughs, and once they are discovered, they stop, but why is that such a problem, culturally?

The other side of this coin, of course, is that I’m a fella and I may not be strong, but I’m tall and imposing. That is to say, no one’s physical presence or attention has ever been a threat to me, ever. I’ve never been hit, or slugged in the gut, and I’ve certainly never been into (or really understood) anything rough or painful when it comes to sex, so touch is always a good experience. A stranger grabbed my ass in a crowded bar once, and all I felt was flattered. I spun around in surprise, but also gratitude, as he vanished into the throng. I wanted to find him and ask for a rating out of ten. So maybe I’m only seeing the good side of physical contact because that’s all I have ever experienced, and asking everyone to be more physically demonstrative is asking too much.

That said, something’s gotta change. I wear headphones at work, and if someone tries to get my attention by placing a hand on my shoulder, I act as if someone’s just fired a gun into the air. I jump three feet and spin around and can’t seem to temper that reaction. I have to get my hug back and I can’t turn into one of those people who genuinely doesn’t like to be touched. I mean, there are some things I can’t abide (don’t ever pat my head, I’ll tear your fucking arms off), but otherwise, let’s walk hand in hand when next we meet, or institute a kiss hello. I won’t think it’s weird if you won’t. I hope to see most of you in 2015, so let’s make a change! Here’s to a Happy New Year, the fun adventures that await us all, and staying in touch.