Hotsleep...

Hello Friends.

It's so hot right now. ("How hot is it?"). It's so hot that I am very warm, and I'm sweating a lot, and the sweat pools underneath my supple man bosoms giving me a Rorshag-style inkblot stain that looks like rivers of disappointment. But I'm not complaining! We get so few hot days here that I am reveling every moment. Except when I am trying to sleep.

Dream: Get a good night's sleep in this oppressive heat.

Goal: Unachievable, as evidenced by the fact that I am writing you late on a Thursday night instead of, y'know, sleeping.

Plan: Think of a variety of get to sleep quick schemes that will also help beat the heat, such as:

Turn on the air conditioning. THAT'S WHAT IT SAYS WHEN I GOOGLE 'HOW TO SLEEP IN HEAT'? Really, website? Am I so stupid that it never occurs to me, in the insufferable, sweat-inducing, sun-drenched sauna that is my apartment, to turn the air conditioning on? IF I HAD AIR CONDITIONING OF COURSE I WOULD TURN IT ON! I'd turn it on and Doc would say, "Hey! What are you doing?" And I'd say, "I'm turning on the A/C!" And he'd say, "Are you sure?" And I'd be like, "It was on a website" and he'd be like, "Okay." What kills me is how, even though we don't have air conditioning in our apartment, if we were to buy a portable unit, we'd have to pay our landlords extra to use it. What the hell is that? They don't provide A/C, we buy one for a few hundred bucks, they say, "Pay us an extra sixty bucks a month", and we're like, "Durr, okay!" Did we lose a war? Come on, people, rise up against this nonsense.

Sleep naked. Way ahead of you. Well, actually, I'm not ahead of you. You can't be nakeder than naked. I'm at the same pace as you. Some people were just underwear to bed, which I don't get at all. As a human, the best part of underwear is its removal.

Take hot baths. Is it Blanche Dubois in Streetcar who keeps taking hot baths to stay cool, he wondered faggishly? I think it is. Some lady in a play at any rate. She takes all these hot baths because, the theory goes, you raise your body temperature to higher than it is outside, then when you get out of the bath, the air feels cooler. I'm not exactly sure how that works because I've heard the opposite advice:

Take cold showers. Right? Because cold is cold. My trouble is I'm a Baby Suckpants who can't tolerate a cold shower, at least not if there are heated options available. The Doc takes cold showers when it's hot out, but it's like overhearing someone getting waxed. Every few seconds I hear, "BUGH!" and "WAUGH!" and the occasional, "YIPES!" I can't imagine that lulls one to sleep.

I could take some freezer items into bed with me. Say an ice cube under each armpit and a bag of peas for beneath my scrote (those are my heat zones). But then you wake up to a warm, wet bed and a bunch of disgusting peas.

Fans. Fans are effective some of the time, but I'm convinced you just end up circulating the same hot air you're trying to avoid. Plus, rather than comforting, a fan's hum has the opposite effect. It is droning and buzzing and ruffles up your damn sheets.

Actually, the real cure to a hot night, at least in Edmonton, is time. As I write you now, the sun is completely down and some cool air has begun to blow through my windows. Time to, if not curl up, sprawl disgustingly and hope that these hot days go on forever. I might sleep soundly, I might toss and turn, but for now I'll just sweat it out.

Friday afternoon edit to ruin my closing line: It worked! I'm well-rested! Was too sleepy to post last night, so here it is now. FROM THE FUTURE!

Getting Any Younger...

Hello Friends.

There's a funny quirk with two gay bars in this city, which is that one sits on top of the other. The top has a bigger bar, pool tables, places to sit, and tv screens projecting images of hot dudes. The bottom features a dance floor, a smaller bar, dance music, and real-life hot dudes. In terms of which bar attracts which crowd, the tops are older, the bottoms younger (and if there's a joke there, I don't know what it is).

I bring up this homosexual geography because I visited these two bars in one the other weekend preferred the ease of the top to the pain of the bottom. The top bar has an ATM and so required a cursory visit, where I was approached by two (2!) older men on two occasions and complimented! One of them said, "Don't listen to what anyone says, I think you have a nice body!" in a compliment so expertly backhanded he should play in Wimbledon. Once I got to the bottom, though, with its dancefloor, poor lighting, and young clientele, I was completely ignored. One guy did say, "Hey hon?" but then added, "You need to move, you're blocking the bar." Blocking the bar. Like I'm a beached whale. Like walking around  me to get to the bar would require a GPS and a tranquilizer gun.

The point is, though the compliments were nice, I felt too young to be among the older gays, yet I also felt way too old to be with the 18 year olds (18 is the drinking age here) that populated the dancefloor. Really, I suppose I should have taken up residency on the stairs or something, but the point is moot since I don't go to any bars very often anyway and was only there this particular night because a celebration at a friend's house moved to the bar.

I have no desire to be any younger than I presently am. If you're only as old as you feel, I've been a divorced father of two since I was 17. But sometimes I wonder if I'm not shuffling too quickly toward the retirement home.

Dream: Stop acting my age.

Goal: Unachievable. I talked about this a few weeks ago and took the opposite point of view, which is probably the correct one. I'm a big boy now with big boy responsibilities and his own bus pass that says Adult. There's something so sad about someone clinging desperately to their youth, especially when they still have so much life left (despite my whining, I'm only 31 and haven't even been to Dallas yet!). But there are a few things I wish I could get back from my younger days.

Plan: Seek to avoid these small but significant indicators of just how old I am.

Hangovers. I finally know what we talk about when we talk about hangovers. I'd always thought I had suffered them in my younger days-- that persistent headache that only seems to go away with eggs, bacon, and a post-breakfast nap. How foolish I was to think that was the extent of it. After this ill-advised club night, I was out of commission for the entire next day except to shiver, moan, replenish fluids, throw up, and replenish those fluids. The thing is, I didn't even drink that much, but I completely ignored my patented "Pace and Replace" system (copyright Big City James Industries, 2014). No matter what I drink, I tend to have a drink, wait at least a half hour, and drink an equal to greater amount of water per beverage. Failsafe. Yes, I pee all night, but I am more or less daisy fresh the next day. Going from a party to a club didn't find me drinking much more, but I was drinking so fast and barely watering. Bars are often accused of watering down the drinks like it's a bad thing, but in my case, it's preferable.

Back problems. What the hell, spine? I can't believe years of hunching over a computer desk and walking around in ill-fitting shoes has caught up with me. Now I have to do core-strengthening exercises (spoiler alert: I have a softer core than Showcase at 10 pm when we were kids, remember that? Sometimes boobs?) and sleep with a firm pillow.

Works of fiction. I've always been a reader, and assumed the great works I consumed as a youngster would always maintain their stellar reputations. Most have, but I recently discovered after a half-hearted re-read that On The Road really speaks to you if you're young and an asshole. Similarly, I used to so admire The Catcher in the Rye's Holden Caulfield, with his hatred of phonies and his brazen disregard for authority, and now I can sympathize, certainly, but I pity him more than anything. When he buys that record for his sister, and on the way home it breaks (a scene that held no resonance for me as a younger reader), I am completely heartbroken. His one unselfish action, his clumsy gesture of love to the only person who understands him, and he can't even get that right. Unlike On The Road, Catcher still reads great for me, but in a completely different way.

Music. What is music? What is turn down for what? What is Ariana Grande if not a drink order?

I can't sit down after standing a long time without going, "Ohhhhh!" I can't interact with a baby without going, "Awww!"

The news. I don't know if this speaks to greater emotionally maturity or its exact opposite because the news is harder to watch now. The Israeli/Palestine conflict is really murky to me, I can't claim to understand the particulars, but I feel a responsibility to watch and learn what I can. Hearing about kids dying in accidents or cops shooting an unarmed citizen make me feel as if like I have to make a donation or sign a petition or tell a friend. I wonder, is that "we are all global neighbours" maturity kicking in, or "the world revolves around me!" narcissism?

Friends. I forgive more, and expect less, and am somehow just as fulfilled. As a younger person, I expected friends a fill voids in my life that were really my ducks that I needed to put in a row. An unreturned phone call or canceled plans were always taken personally and catalogued for future ammunition. Now, friends matter less and more at the same time. I don't need to surround myself with company every day or join the party every weekend to feel like my friends are important to me. They are a precious resource and the older I get, the more I realize making new friends isn't always as simple as pulling up a chair to a conversation you weren't invited to join.

If I seem preoccupied with getting older, it's because everyone around me is doing the same thing, yet some people get the raw deal of suddenly and cruelly being taken out of the rotation. There has been a recent string of acquaintances, former contemporaries and classmates, who are suddenly gone. I can't claim to have known them intimately, but it's weird to know that I'll never have the chance. To think that someone you saw every day is someone you'll never see again is truly humbling, and in a terrible way. None of us is owed anything, not even time, so best to take the compliments, enjoy your bottoms and tops, and never block the bar.

The Perfect Storm...

Hello Friends.

As I write this on Wednesday night, it has been very hot for days and we are under a severe thunderstorm warning. Such a warning would worry me if I were flying anywhere, had uncovered tomatoes outside, or lived in a house with basement and/or roof. Since none of these conditions currently apply to me, I keep watching the weather reports and checking out the window in awesome anticipation. I love a storm and, with any luck, this could be a big one.

Dream: Experience a huge thunderstorm in ideal conditions.

Goal: Achievable. I should preface this by saying I know that storms have the potential to escalate, thereby devastating communities. I don't mean to make light of the hurricanes and other severe weather tearing through the Midwest and threatening Atlantic Canada. I by no means want to experience the fear and pain that those people are going through. Just give me thunder, lightning, and a break in the heat.

Plan: Determine the ideal conditions that must come to pass for me to experience this storm in the best possible way. For me to relish this experience, I must have the following things:

Food. And I don't mean the stupid bullshit food I buy on a full stomach at the grocery store, like baby carrots and almonds. I mean real garbage food like pizza with beef on it and Dr. Pepper (or in a pinch, off-brand Doctors Zip, Skipper, or Zazz). I don't know if it's survivalist instinct kicking in, or if I'm just a fatty fat fat, but storms make me ravenous.

Storm story. I am in my very first apartment, a one-bedroom that I lived in alone. Being in a new city and single, I had time to spare and even a little extra money lying around (Sidebar: even though I was only working at a video store, my rent was a paltry $435/month! Can you imagine?). Like young, single people do, I became convinced that the way handle crushing loneliness was to change everything about myself and that involved reading more, exercising more (or if I'm honest, exercising), and eating fish. Fish, though bland, scaly, and full of bones, supposedly has a lot of protein and very little fat. While I love fish that has been smoked, breaded, or tuna-fied, I knew that to truly improve myself meant eating a steamed fillet with lemon like a svelte, lean, well-read homosexual. Anyway, on this particular night, I am surfing the web for the most healthful fish recipe while alternately doing pilates from a DVD that came with a box of Special K, which isn't even a joke. I am compiling a list of ingredients for this surely disgusting culinary venture when a lightning strike and thunder clap knocks my internet out. I've lost my recipe, but I figure I can still make it to the store before it starts to really rain, get my ingredients, and improvise how it will all come together. I head out towards the store in a light rain that quickly turns into a downpour. I realize I cannot make it to the grocery store and instead, run into the KFC that is just behind my apartment building. Five minutes later, I am back in my apartment, eating fried chicken, watching Sex & the City on DVD (a good early episode, too, the one where Carrie goes to Yankee stadium in a full-length fur coat and gets drunk), enjoying the storm as it slashes my window. I am soaked, and truly satiated.

Music. Storms are only as good as their soundtracks. A big fan of Joni Mitchell and Sade, I never feel truly depressed or sultry if it's not raining when I listen to them. My friend Dan MacRae, a hilarious and well-versed writer put his ipod on shuffle and wrote down his findings about ten songs for this Tumblr entry. I don't have nearly the frame of reference that Dan does, but he asked me to do one myself, so I will put the pod on shuffle here and pick five songs and random to determine their storm suitability. 

Jeru - Miles Davis. For all his jazzy be-boppin', Miles Davis is someone I only put on when I'm working and need something in the background. I've always longed to be really into jazz music, and I can certainly appreciate that it's tuneful and must be difficult to perform, but I don't melt into it the way that some people do. I took a class in Jazz Appreciation once because I'm a huge fan of wasting my parents' money, and the professor was a brash eccentric who seemed to live for the form. He would put music on and just react to horn blasts, and bass noodling, and improvisational flute like someone was taking him places sexually. He also called Diana Krall and Norah Jones musical wallpaper, so I didn't put my hand up to offer opinions after that. However, for storm suitability, Miles scores a 8/10.

Uncharted - Sara Bareilles. Sara Bareilles is like Sheryl Crow or Ben Harper to me. I want to like these people so much. I hear singles and I think, "Yeah yeah yeah!" But then I listen to a whole album and think, "Nope!". Uncharted was a "Yeah yeah yeah!" song that they used to pump over the loudspeakers when I worked in a drug store. Twas a fine hook with simple, plonky piano. I couldn't even get through listening to it today for the purposes of this exercise. Sara Bareilles is apparently a judge on a singing competition show alongside Ben Folds, which is exquisite casting, because they are both supposed industry talismans. People who like these guys LOVE them and I just can't get on that train. Ben Folds, what are you so worked up about? It's working out for you. Anyway, Sara Bareilles storm suitability 4/10.

Somebody That I Used to Know - Gotye. I'm glad I'm not a betting man, for I would have lost thousands of dollars betting on the follow-up success of Gotye. To me, he sounds like a cool Sting, a Police-era Sting without all the harps and tin flutes and lengthy coitus. And his other songs are better than this one, his only hit! I liked Eyes Wide Open and In Your Light a whole heck of a lot. I hope Gotye gets a least one more hit song so he can be cautious with his money when it comes in, buy a modest property, and live comfortably forever. That's all I want for him. Storm suitability: 6/10.

Buzz - L1ef. L1ef is so cool! I don't know anything about rap music, but I know I've never seen a gay rapper before and this guy seems to be about so much more than that. He can do that super-fast Busta Rhymes thing and his song Wut predates Macklemore's Thrift Shop by a whole year, and I think it's a far superior version that sounds much better. Seems to me Macklemore stole these horns outright and got tons of airplay. For shame. These hot L1ef jams are great for thinking about possibly going to the gym at some point, and would be great for running from the bus to your house during a storm, so 8/10.

Partition - Beyonce. Come on James, really? Yeah. I was one of those toolboxes that downloaded the secret Beyonce album as soon as it "dropped". I think she's the closest thing we have in 2014 to a Madonna or a Michael Jackson in terms of fame and units sold. Her presence is ubiquitous in pop culture, and even if you don't love her songs, you know them. And some of the videos on this release were great! I particularly like Ghosts that goes into Haunted (or Haunted that goes into Ghosts). It looks all avant-garde and macabre and I like the vocals-over-a-heartbeat or whatever it is. And Partition is a good song. But I think the thing that will keep Beyonce from becoming the Queen of Pop she wants to be is that her catalogue in general isn't especially memorable. Single Ladies and Crazy in Love are great songs, but are they Like A Prayer and Vogue? Are they even Push It and Shoop? Time will tell, I suppose. The thing is, Beyonce is exhausting to watch. She's singin' and dancin' and runnin' and posin' and I just want to take a nap. Have some fun, Beyonce! Rihanna has fun, I think. Her songs aren't memorable either, but she doesn't seem like a calculating wunderkind, just a fun girl smoking weed and rocking out. Anyway, Partition has storm suitability of 5/10.

A companion. I'm all over the place with this entry, mainly because it was written during a bunch of different times and I am finishing it post-work on Thursday. It rained a little this morning, but the darkening skies still threaten to really hit us later, and I'm hoping it can wait until I get home. Really, what a makes a storm truly memorable is who you ride it out with, and the Doc and I are great stormchasers together. When I was paying $435/month on rent and learning pilates from a cereal box, I wish I would have known that trying to be something that you're not ends up attracting dates you just don't want. I remember, instead, dropping the act quickly when I met Jon, and not looking back. I remember early on, texting him to hurry over because a storm was brewing and I didn't want him to get caught in it. He texted back, "I'm at the store, what kind of chips do you want?" I mean, how perfect is that? 

May It Please the Court...

Hello Friends.

Every time summer rolls around, I forget just how hard it is to be stuck inside working. No matter how lovely the air conditioning, no matter how many polo shirts I can bust out in July, being inside is always trumped by being outside. That is, unless, what's inside is more compelling, interesting, entertaining, appealing than what's outside.

There are very few options of things I'd stay inside for when it's this gorgeous out, but among them are delicious meals, sex parties, animal husbandry, delicious animals, meal parties, and sex husbandry. God knows those don't happen every day, plus I can't really leave my job to do them. Seems to me when it comes to staying indoors but away from work but not getting fired, there's really only one solution.

Dream: Get called for jury duty.

Goal: Achievable, I think. I'm almost a million percent certain that I am eligible for jury duty. I'm a Canadian citizen, I've never been arrested, I'm not an invalid, and I haven't been officially diagnosed as incompetent by any authority besides my Dad (you try making pancakes without getting batter everywhere, Pops!). By my basic understanding of Canada's judicial system, I think I'm ready to watch the live Dateline episode that is jury duty.

Plan: Remain a healthy, ordinary citizen and hope to be selected when the following events unfold:

For this to work out and be any fun, I cannot serve on a jury for something boring. Apparently in this country, you can be called to serve on a jury for a non-criminal cases. What the hell is that? How incredibly frustrating would it be to pass the selection process, get ushered into the courtroom, and then hear a stream of legalese about a potential copyright violation at an international conference of graham cracker suppliers? I'll answer for you: Very frustrating! For my trial, I want a murder, and the victim can't be someone too appealing. Here are some possible victim and suspect scenarios:

1) Wealthy businessman who has been cheating on his wife is murdered in cold blood by his mistress' brother, who (we found out later) has been involved with the wife! Criss-cross!     

2) Cult leader who runs depraved sex farm is murdered by either his most devoted follower (or is he?) or possibly a hunky farmhand who just comes by to milk the cows and not have sex with anyone (except for juror number 8 what WHAT!)

3) Dr. Oz is murdered by Dr. Phil

4) Dr. Phil is murdered by Dr. Oz

5) Doctors Phil and Oz are murdered by the nameless panel of Doctors on The Doctors

6) A scheming blonde socialite is murdered by her social-climbing best friend who had plastic surgery to look like Kate Winslet. If we are a hung jury (I can't speak for the rest, but #8 sure is what WHAT!) the headline might read, "Nobody Winslet!"

7) The guy who invented Crocs is murdered by the guy who invented drop crotch jeans (whatever we have to do to get both things off the market).

There are several more possible iterations, but it has to be sensational and both lawyers will have to work their butts off to make me feel sympathy for both the murderer and the murdered. As horrific as many of their profiled crimes are, I notice that Dateline and shows of that ilk tend to stop short or the truly devastating. Cases involving murdered children are almost never aired, for example, because such brutality is so senseless that you can't spend an hour with it on a Friday night. Similarly, I don't think I could listen to the facts of a case of that nature and remain impartial until all the information is presented. Give me a soapy, intriguing murder trial, however, and I'll relish my time in the jury box.

I don't want a lot of medical jargon and technical mumbo-jumbo. For that matter, keep away expertise of any kind. Show me a drawing of a bullet riddled body and say, "The bullets came from a gun and went into the body and that's how he died." DONE! No information about point of entry, blood-spatter, shell casings or anything else will take up space in my brain. It's like how, even though I'm a nervous flier who worries about every little bump on a plane, the minute someone tries to explain the phenomenon to me, I'm incredibly bored and irritated ("It's just responding to different air pockets that form over high and low pressures systems which..." "OH MY GOD STOP TALKING TO ME, PILOT!").

I want a reckless, devil-may-care lawyer who plays by his or her own rules. The other lawyer has to scream "Objection!" and the judge will have to shake their head and say, "I'm warning you, counsellor!" Also, if the lawyer or witness says something so potentially incendiary that the judge says, "The jury is instructed to disregard that last remark," guess what? I'm not disregarding shit! If it's so potentially damning that I have to disregard, it's probably one of the most important facts of the case!

I don't want to be the Foreperson, but I need to sit close enough to an entrance or exit of the jury box so I can get to the bathroom. My bladder has shrunk with age and I plan to bring a milkshake in every morning so I can do that "Shkshkshkkk!" thing during some emotional testimony, so I'll need also to be able to easily access the facilities throughout the trial.

The bailiff has to do something. Maybe he restrains the victim's family from physically attacking the suspect, maybe he helps me to and from the bathroom, I don't know.

Finally, the trial itself can't go on too long. I definitely want to take advantage of a hotel stay and free meals, but summer is such a short time, especially here in Edmonton. I'm taking no more vacation days until a wedding in September and by then it's sure to be wintry and gross, and busier at work, and I won't have time to determine the fate of another human being. Right now though, when work is slow and my appetite for a good story is growing, put me in that box, legal system, and tell me a really good story.

Grown-Ups...

Hello Friends.

Hey, real quick: whatever happened to adults? I guess I'm speaking to pop culture specifically, but the same phenomenon is reflected in large social trends. Why, for instance, are we so enamoured of books and movies for young audiences? I'd rather be shot in my goddamn face than learn how to train my dragon 2. And I like Jennifer Lawrence fine, but does she really have to be the biggest star in the world right now? She's barely out of being a bween! She hasn't bweaned, if you will.

Every male star seems borne of some franchise (again, intended for children), and reduced to soundbiting on late night TV. If there is a Dustin Hoffman-type actor coming up today, we'll never meet him unless he's in Spaghetti Kids 4: Uh-Oh, Spaghetti Kids! And Jimmy Fallon has to reduce everyone on his show to viral-worthy clickbait, which I understand gets good ratings, but I can't imagine Dick Cavett and Norman Mailer engaging in a lip-synch battle or forming a barbershop quartet.

I don't mean to suggest that we need proto-typical adult men and women role models to enforce some kind of arbitrary gender binary, but can't we place a little bit more emphasis on maturity? I don't mean we should all find jobs, homes, and families in short order; nailing those first two down is nearly impossible in our economy, but rather that we should be more realistic about just how great it is to be young and cool all the time. I'm neither cool nor particularly young and I've never been good at either. I really feel like I'm becoming more of a person by growing older and having new experiences; why doesn't everyone feel this way?

Dream: Embrace becoming an adult.

Goal: Achievable. In many cultures, adulthood is something that is simply thrust upon you, there's no choice about working to support the family, getting married, providing. But here in North America, there is a generation of us unwilling or unable to move out of a younger person's dynamic, whether that means living at home, having little to no full time work, or being a perpetual student. Contrary to blowhard thinkpieces in several "esteemed" publications, that's not laziness, that's just the reality for many people in this economy. Yet, I still there are things that we can do, that I can do specifically, to grow up a little bit.

Plan: Set foot on the path to maturity by making the following changes:

Cut my hair. No, I can't do that one. While the part may have moved from the centre to the side, I've had the same long shaggy hair in my long shaggy face since I was 14. I know a clean, close-cropped cut looks more professional and less like I slept in a car. But then what would I play with when I'm bored (suggestions aren't welcome)? What would I tug on nervously, or run my fingers through constantly? I was in a play once where a director accused me of relying too much on my hair. This particular show started with my hair slicked back and, over the course of the evening (the play more or less took place in real time), my nervous tics (and hot theatre lights) left my hair bedraggled and wild and I loved that, it was so much fun, and the director wanted to cut my hair because it was distracting. I fought and won that battle, thankfully. I know it's just fucking hair, but I'm also proud to have it. Someday I'll start balding and get that awful Michael Bolton/George Carlin no-hair-up-front-tons-in-the-back look and have to rethink, but that day is not today.

Wear a suit. No, I can't do that one. Suits are flattering and classy on the right person, but I'm no Diane Keaton. Even after working in (and getting a substantial discount on) nice menswear, I still look like a kid in his Dad's clothes when I wear a suit, or a pregnant bean on stilts. At my current job, I can get by in pressed pants and a dress shirt or polo. I never interact with clients, so I could also wear a garbage bag and a Tilley hat and no one would care. Some colleagues are suited up, though, and look great. Maybe if I was a little broader in the chest and narrower in the waist, I could be poured into some quality threads, but I'm not about to starting working out just to look a little better than Jason in Human Resources.

Develop a taste for wine. No, I can't do that one. Wine is so gross, you guys! It's sour and bitter and coats your mouth and makes your teeth disgusting. But people LOVE it! Guzzle it by the bottle, they do! I've heard that your tastebuds supposedly change as you age, thus explaining, for instance, why kids like the taste of Kool-Aid and adults like the taste of wine. I think I missed that all-important transition. The booze I like are sugar-bombed vodka coolers, like Smirnoff and Vex. These selections are terribly gauche and so, so bad for me, but taste so good! Give me a Raspberry Lemonade something with a 7% alcohol content over a Cabernet that was nestled with baby lamb for two hundred years any day of the week.

Travel. No, I can't do that one. Travelling is supposedly a fulfilling life-changing experience, but when I picture doing it myself all I can think is: are the beds comfortable, and will the food make me puke? Well-travelled friends make fabulous guests at a dinner party. Tales of backpacking through some awful mountain and bunking in some kind of eco-treehouse sound admirable from a distance, but I don't want to do any of those things. You know where I'm going on vacation next week? The Big City where I lived for many years. You know where I'm staying? With friends, and then a hotel. Maybe I'll travel someday, but from where I'm sitting, it's better to be home. But about that...

Own a home. No, I can't do that one. Home ownership is freaking impossible, and it's only getting worse, but I think in a sly way, Doc and I might have the market beat. Right now, we rent a small 1 bedroom apartment for $1100/month. I don't know anyone who pays that little for a mortgage and fees. If we were to buy a condo of comparable size, we'd pay at least $1100 per month on a mortgage payment in addition to condo fees (by the way, what the fuck are condo fees? It costs $800 per month per resident to shovel the snow?). The Doc and I don't have any debts, and we're able to squirrel away some nice chunks of change because our rent is so small. If we keep saving, we'll eventually be in a place to buy a little property without hurling ourselves into a massive money-owing pit of despair we won't be able to hoist ourselves out of until we're ready to retire.

Make peace with the younger me. That's the hardest one. I was always the kid who wanted to be older than he was because I never thought my current self was all that interesting. I was a neurotic, overly-sensitive child, prone to tantrums and tears. Despite having a marvelous childhood, I was not a marvelous child. The adults I knew were great role models of how to grow up and it infuriated me that I was not their contemporary. Now I'm the same age my parents were when I was small and I feel like the biggest faker. As if someone will see through my pretentious blathering and self-important dreams and point out that my grasp on adulthood is tenuous; that my veneer of maturity is paper thin. If I could go back and meet Younger James, a device often used in terrible films, I don't know what I'd tell him, necessarily, but I hope I'd be kind. Maybe he'd look at my little apartment, my paltry resume, my schlubby clothes and messy hair and think, "Oh fuck, I'm gonna turn into this guy?" Or maybe he'd take it all in, reserve his fleeting judgments, and decide that I must be trying my best.

Obsessed...

Hello Friends.

There's this woman I've been following on Twitter. At least, I assume she's a woman, her profile picture is some kind of Second Life fairy nymph (although you know she spells it 'faerie'). I won't reveal her screen name, but she's easy enough to find because she is occasionally retweeted by a news personality we'll call Debbie Couchfarm. Debbie Couchfarm retweets the tweets of this woman because every single tweet she sends is directed at Debbie Couchfarm. Every one, morning until night. She will say, "@DCouchfarm Believe in your dreams as I believe in you!" or "@DCouchfarm Do you still like dancing?". It's WEIRD! Weirder still, as I've said, is that Couchfarm seems to be, if not encouraging the parade of fawning tweets, not stopping it either.

For the Twitter illiterate, congratulations on not wasting your time, but the tool works like this: Someone has a Twitter account, from which they tell jokes or talk about their lunch. Twitter users send tweets out from their account, and people who Follow them can read those tweets. I follow Debbie Couchfarm, who is a popular news personality less famous than Diane Sawyer, but more famous than Linda Talisman, an NBC news correspondent I just made up right now. Anyway, the Faerie Nymph lady sends tweets to Debbie, and Debbie retweets them, meaning she publishes them on her own Twitter page, which is how I found this person. I'm sure Faerie Nymph is a harmless fan, but what if a response from Debbie Couchfarm leads her to suppose a friendship is developing when it's not? What if Faerie Nymph reads so far into these meaningless digital interactions that it affects her mental health, if it hasn't already? 

This is the point in the show where I'm awarded Lifetime Achievement in Hypocrisy because I am the WORST for tweeting at famous people. People like Josh Mankiewicz, Julie Klausner, and The Bean Institute receive replies from me to messages that were not intended for me. I'll do that obnoxious "top a joke" thing that lazy internet commenters do, where a famous person will tweet something funny, and I'll try to add to it in a way that's not funny at all. Some famous people have kindly responded something non-committal like :) or "Haha", but to my surprise, no one has ever said, "I must get to know this James better", followed my Twitter account, sent me emails, and become my dearest friend/offered me a job. Because famous people recognize blatant fawning for nothing more than blatant fawning. Behaviour like mine and Faerie Nymph shouldn't be encouraged because, in certain circumstances, we become obsessed.

Dream: Recognize and curb my obsessions.

Goal: Achievable. I'm throwing around the term "obsessed" pretty loosely here. I know true obsession is no blog fodder; that people are tortured by compulsive behaviour that makes day to day living unbearable. But I also think that popular usage dictates a distinctly millennial version of obsession, where unprecedented access to things we like has turned my contemporaries and I into voracious cultural consumers where we feel entitled to not just like something, but love it. We can't just embrace something new to the culture, we have to beat it until it is dead. To that end, here are some things I'm obsessed with, that I must let loose and fly free (like a little bird), lest I kill it (like a little bird).

Dateline. Yeah, here's Dateline again. But it's SO good. A few weeks ago, there was an episode where this man was on a hike with his wife and then she died. Either she fell onto some rocks, was swept away by a rushing current, and was found pinned underwater by an errant tree branch, or she was attacked by her husband, drowned, and pinned to the same errant branch in the creek. Holes were poked in both theories, aspersions were cast in all directions, three devastated children mourned their mother, which doesn't deserved to be minimized in my cavalier write-up. What was truly exceptional about this information, though, is how it was so gloriously unspooled. Over two hours, details were teased out and new information brought to light. A narrative structure is imposed on these stories that make them absolutely captivating. You forget you're watching a story where a woman died on some rocks and you instead feel like you're watching a really good mystery movie. Is this exploitative? Does it minimize the tragedy, or wrongly suggest a sinister pattern where none exists (although thankfully, Dateline has strayed from the "It's one of the most deadly substances in America and you're probably topping your dessert with it" stories)? These questions are not for me to answer. But I should stop reveling in the great storytelling every so often to remember that these are tragedies being recounted week after week, and the pain on the screen is real.

Orange is the New Black. This SHOW, you guys! It's ironic that the show so many of us gleefully binge-watch is so good that it should probably be spaced out a little bit. Since season two debuted, I've been trying to limit myself, but I'm already on episode 7 or something. The writing, the characters, and the acting are SO good, though, that I should probably stop and appreciate it more. There is so much that is dense and layered and clever, and I'm not reflecting on any of it. For instance, when's the last time you saw a diverse group of actresses on the same television show all wearing the same outfit?

Firm pillows. Jon bought me a firm pillow for my birthday (although not just that) and my reading in bed has QUADRUPELED! If firm pillows were a World Cup team, I'd watch.

Body shapes. I'm obsessed with body shapes beyond fat and skinny. Here's what I realized and it's about to turn the diet industry on its head: you can't change the basic shape of your body. Yes, I know there are some people that go from very small to very large, but otherwise, we're all fighting the same battle against a natural shape that can't be won. I know a woman, for instance, who is smaller than a hummingbird. She exercises and eats heartily, but will always be about the same size. By the same token, I know a broad woman who is big because she is broad. She is extremely health-conscious and athletic, but has wide hips and broad shoulders that will never suddenly change their shape. It's crummy to think that people judging her for the size of her jeans might think she is fat, when she's the farthest thing from it, but her bone structure is such that she's broad. That's a thing that happens! I got a free trial at a fancy gym and I've been using it to spy on people who prioritize their fitness. Even the ones huffing and puffing at the toughest equipment have bodies that aren't perfect, but that's because there are no perfect bodies. The point is, we're gonna look how we're gonna look, so we'd better chill out about it a little bit.

What I'm really obsessed with is leisure time, which is why I'm hurrying to finish this before making dinner and watching some more of Piper & the Cons. I know obsession is, by its very definition, unhealthy. But if you replace obsession with enthusiasm, and are more conscious about what earns that enthusiasm, then you're just an enthusiast! I think people stay young when they cultivate interests and explore them fully. In addition to firm pillows, I guess you could say I'm obsessed with novels about sexless lady detectives (Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency, Hetty Wainthrop Investigates, The Flavia de Luce Mysteries, what WHAT!), cooking with garlic, being a good guy, and sunscreen application. Those last two will serve me well throughout my life! So what's a little obsession, particularly if it gets you on your feet and off the couchfarm.

In the Year 2000...

Hello Friends.

I couldn't write anything for this blog yesterday because a particular work assignment had a pressing due date and required quite a bit of evening work at home. I rarely have to take work home and had no plans beyond watching YouTube documentaries about Michael Jackson's fucked-up face, so this assignment was little more than a slight inconvenience (by the way, I'm really annoyed that we can release an album of all new Michael Jackson material as aided by other musical artists, but no visual artist can take a stab at what MJ's 2014 fucked-up face would be? That's careless). That said, the inconvenience of after-hours work would have been extremely annoying if I actually had to do it at work. I sent a final draft off at 10.30 last night, but I was in my jams listening to my jams, and I went to bed after hitting send. But it wasn't that long ago that you couldn't electronically send a work file to your home to continue working on. Even this blog entry, as I start this morning from home and will send to myself to finish and post over lunch from work, digitally exists in two places at once and could be sent anywhere in seconds.

I know we live in a futuristic wonderworld with technological capability our ancestors only dreamed of. It's remarkable that, just a few short years ago, I remember tearing the perforations off of printed paper before handing in a school report and now I get mad when my internet porn has to buffer for more than ten seconds. But part of me sees the progress we've made as an indicator of what subsequent generations will enjoy and thinks, "Well fuck."

Dream: Live an extra hundred years, able-bodied and healthy.

Goal: Maybe achievable. TEDTalk speakers love to trot out the statistic that, because science, the first human to live to be 150 has already been born. Then they go back to openly masturbating in front of nerds. I don't know how reliable such a statistic is, or if medical science is making leaps and bounds behind closed doors (forget about boner pills and work on cancer, why don't you?), but I'd like to be that guy, provided I'm not drooling or dotty, just to see what the future holds.

Plan: Reduce my Dorito intake by 17% percent in order to live to see the following innovations:

The Transporter.  I don't know what else to call it, but I want one of those machines where you enter one portal and walk out the next instantaneously, anywhere in the world. So you get in a chamber in Regina, say, "Saskatoon!" and you walk out of a chamber in Saskatoon in 5 seconds. Although, I mean, it's not a long drive, don't waste your transporter credits on that, go to Paris or something.  I don't know how far we are from this technology, but with fax machines, email, and 3D printers, we must be getting closer. I'm worried they'll develop the first shaky prototype when I'm like 90, and getting in one would kill me instantly because of my old bones and cotton candy hair that would get caught in the mechanism. Think about the ways in which this technology will change the world. Soon, it will go from being a luxury available to the very rich, to a government mandated necessity. We could feed the starving in Africa, illegal labour would skyrocket, and I could finally find that Genesis cassette I left behind on a family trip to Michigan when I was nine. 

And won't it be satisfying to watch the airline industry dwindle and die? Air Canada would be frantically spinning plates and tap-dancing, begging us to please deign to take air travel. "We don't care about carry on allowance! Forget security lines! Take the whole can of pop! PLEASE GOD, FLY WITH US!" Flights would get cheaper and cheaper, and airplanes more and more luxurious. Like a cruise now, a flight would become a destination in itself. Take a vacation ON a WestJet plane. Eventually, though, even that would shut down, and we could convert airports into prisons and convert prisons into cute loft apartments.

No more offices. I love having a little office, though I've been told I'll soon have to share it with a new hire. But it seems counter-intuitive that I'm more productive on certain assignments when I just take them home. Plus, with bosses in Vancouver and Toronto, the only way I'm connected to the clients I write for is electronically. Therefore, my commute can feel like a bummer, and it's definitely productivity lost. We are already a paperless office (never print anything, all materials are digitized), but soon we will be an office-less office, I'm sure of it. If you're not in a line of work that requires face-to-face interaction, what's the point of having warm bodies in a building five days a week? I'll be angry when I retire in order to live my dream of writing full time from home, my replacement will be working full time, writing from his home.

Food pill. I love eating, but I would love it even more if I only had to do it once a week and could indulge in whatever I want. Why haven't we perfected the pill that gives you all your vitamins, nutrients, and energy without leaving you feeling hungry, so that you can live off the stored fat of your once-a-week mega meal? Eating can be an important social ritual, but so often it's grilled cheese in front a computer screen. Such a pill would cure not only world hunger, but eating disorders as well. If food was strictly pleasurable, but nothing beyond the food pill was required for nutrients, people could stop eating, theoretically exercise themselves down to skeletons, but still be somewhat healthy. This trend would mean a terrible increase in stick thin models and unrealistic beauty expectations, but I would suspect a food pill would be rushed into production when our natural food resources started becoming more and more scarce. Therefore, actual food would be expensive, the ability to dine on real food would become a luxury, a fat person is suddenly a status symbol, like the white-pale Victorians of old. Suddenly, the most celebrated famous people start sporting tits and ass again. John Goodman becomes a symbol for virility and manhood, if he isn't already.

Cures for cancer, HIV, and AIDS. In my lifetime, the scourge of the Western population has been cancer, while other parts of the world (as well as here at home, of course) have been ravaged by HIV and AIDS. Surely another superbug will come along to replace them, but for a glorious while, I hope I live to see every cancer patient leave a clinic cancer-free, and no more AIDS orphans. It's just too sad that. Statistically, cancer will a lot of us, and I hate that we're still so in the dark about root causes. In a few generations, people will look back and say, "I can't believe people didn't know that cell phones were responsible for all the cancer in the world." And people putting cell phones to their head will suddenly become imagery that is daring and punk rock, like a rockstar holding a gun to his head on an album cover or something. I don't know if it's cell phones, or sugar, or air, but something is killing us, and we seem more focused on treatment rather than prevention.  Doctors, just find out what's making everybody sick, you can even take time off developing the food pill.

New prejudices. I'm not looking forward to this one, but it will be very interesting to see how our views evolve and we pick new groups to be scapegoats for our cultural fear and hatred. I hope, at least, that we evolve beyond our current roster of "Others". LGB (but not much T)-bashing is less and less culturally acceptable, racism is pervasive, but we'll all eventually become so intermingled that it will naturally subside, yet I worry that women will continue to bear the brunt of our deepest prejudices because so many people are convinced that misogyny isn't a thing. It's a thing. I have never and will never experience what it's like to be a woman, but I am confident that we are waist deep in our own bullshit when it comes to society's treatment of more than half of its members.

Maybe it's greedy to want to experience the future through the lens of the present. It's not as if there is a solution to all of society's ills, and even if there was, it wouldn't be found in advanced technology. If anything, I am grateful to experience my life at the age I am with the experiences I've had. I don't really understand wanting to be older or younger when you're neither old nor young. I'm so glad I'm old enough to appreciate what I have, and young enough to know the best may be ahead of me. Whatever the future holds, I'm ready for it.