Travelogue...

Hello Friends.

It seems like everyone I know is going places. A dear friend just returned from years of work in South America. Another has pulled up stakes in Scotland (or is it put down stakes? I’m too lazy to look it up). Another friend left just recently for Iceland, and she plans to backpack across Europe afterwards, until she gets bored or her money runs out, I suppose. I envy this wanderlust in other people. What must it take to board a plane that will take you away from everything you’ve ever known, because that’s precisely the point? I wish I could be like that.

Dream: Travel.

Goal: Achievable. I say travel is achievable but really, I don’t know how people do it. My finances are pretty well tied up in three streams: Essentials, Non-essentials, Bird Art. I can’t imagine depleting the coffers in any of those areas to go somewhere. Yet my pal in Iceland was a co-worker, meaning she had the same financial capabilities and restrictions as I do, and yet managed to scrimp and save (even more as she was a single gal and so can’t split costs like I can), so I know it can be done, financially.

Time, of course, is the other factor. Now that I have a job that could conceivably fund some travel, any kind of extensive travel would likely require leaving that job (as my colleague did). I know there are those who accrue vacation days and plan all year for two weeks in France or something, but then you put all those eggs in one basket and dump the basket over international waters. As it stands, I’ve been meting out my vacation days in fits and starts to make long weekends longer, see family over Christmas, and attend the Nokomis Bird Art Fair (see you next year, gang!).

Of course, the only thing really stopping me here is fear. I’ve never really gone anywhere, save for road trips as a child to Michigan and Georgia, and little holidays to BC or Ontario. Chicago was my biggest adventure, but poor Jonny’s broken leg curtailed a lot of our planned outings. Besides which, I’m not sure a trip to Illinois is considered much travel at all. I have friends who have backpacked through mountains, explored ruins, and summered in Kamloops. I’m sure those experiences are rewarding, the people I know who travel routinely swear by it. So why do I immediately jump to a worst case scenario of cramped quarters, pickpockets, and diarrhea? Time to get over myself.

Plan: Take a real trip.

I’ve thought about it, and I’ve come up with a pretty bad-ass itinerary for my long journey. First, I will go to Saskatoon, where I lived for many years. I’ll reconnect with old friends and visit all my old haunts, like that spaghetti restaurant that looks like a cave and that place that I’d get “Hello Friend” written on my t-shirts. My booze tolerance would return to that of my 20 year-old self, like when I lived there, as would my waistline. I’d stay up late and sleep in later and everything would be just like it was.

Then I’d pack up and make the long journey to Regina, where I grew up. I’d see old friends and classmates I haven’t spoken to in years. I’d see my parents and my brother not as my parents and brother but as people and we’d get to know each other in a whole new way. I’d be even thinner by then, but escape the plague of acne this time around. I’d stay in my old room, stare up at the ceiling, and dream of the day I’d be moving out to go to Toronto. Then I’d go to Toronto.

Toronto was a great place to live, but lately it’s been an even better place to visit. I loved my time in the Big City and wouldn’t trade it, but unfortunately there was so much anxiety around getting and keeping a job, making rent, and paying bills. For such a cool place, it induced a lot of stress I’ve been happy to more or less escape in recent years. That’s not to say I wouldn’t hit up all my favourite places with all my favourite people. Moving away from there (and from Saskatoon, come to think of it) felt like cutting off so many important friendships in their prime. That’s something I’d want to ask those people that travel all the time: how do you deal with missing the people you are constantly leaving behind?

I’d go to New York, a place I’ve never been before. Admittedly, I’m drawn in by the New York I’ve read about in books and seen in movies and TV. I know I won’t take a subway train with a slice of wedding cake alongside Lena Dunham, or walk the streets with Diane Keaton, or stay in the Plaza Hotel with Macaulay Culkin and that lady covered in pigeons. But I do wonder how much of the mythology is true; if the city is really its own entity that sucks people in and keeps them forever. A place of amazing opportunity unlike any other where, if you are one in a million, there are seven other people just like you. Oh and plus, I’d like to see a bunch of plays.

I’d go to England and visit all the merry old English relatives I have in pockets across the pond. I’d get a really good plate of fish and chips, have tea with one of those dame actresses, and solve a murder with a bobby or a lorry or whatever the hell it is. I’d go to Paris for the art and beauty. I’d go to Greece for the ruins (but I wouldn’t deposit any cash), then go to China and maybe get a baby while I’m down there.

In actual fact, I do have weekend trips coming up to Saskatchewan and Kelowna to see friends and family. Naturally, I’m flying WestJet, so who knows if the airline will even survive the summer (Google it if you don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s terrifying). But I do hope to hit more exotic destinations soon. I just have to get over my inherent fears and prejudices. Not prejudices against foreign people and places, mind you, but against the idea of travel at all. For all its advantages, something about it still seems imprudent. It really costs a ton of money, folks, and I’m trying to save up for a home, or to buy a stuffed falcon. Also, I’m weirdly against men travelling for some latently sexist reason. If I find out a gal pal is spending six months abroad I think, “Good for you, Maureen!” But if a guy I know is backpacking around aimlessly for another summer I think, “Get your fucking life together, Dale.”

I know I will regret not travelling now once I’m old or bedridden with super-morbid obesity or something. But I’ll stick to my little trips for now and work up to the big ones. As I write this, I’m looking ahead to several really fun weekends with friends, family, and, once his cast comes off in a few weeks, Dr. Jon. I’m lucky to have found someone with the same travel priorities in this respect. Jon likes a good trip as much as the next guy, but we both really appreciate the journey home even more.

The Most Important Meal…

Hello Friends.

As I write, it is nighttime. I am feeling sleepy and accomplished. I’ve gotten a lot done at work this week, squeezed in visits to both the gym and the pool, and still managed to avoid all Game of Thrones spoilers (I should point out that this includes avoiding watching all episodes of the program, as it seems devoted almost exclusively to dragons and child murder, and I already watch Mad About You for that). I am also satiated from an easy chicken and veg stir fry and, though I had a big helping, I know I’ll be hungry again in eight hours or so and I’m kind of pissed off about that.

Dream: Find something to eat for breakfast.

Goal: Not achievable. I’ve been eating breakfast for 32 years now, and I’ve never felt ready to “take on the day” based solely on what I choke down upon waking. As you will soon discover, I’ve tried everything for breakfast, and it’s not a quality issue when it comes to the food or its preparation, it’s just that the concept of breakfast seems flawed from the get go.

Plan: Systematically take down breakfast food choices until I’m left, tired and hungry, with the best option.

1) Cereal. This was the breakfast staple of my childhood and, I suspect, everyone else’s. This remains my go-to morning sustenance, but it’s got a lot of problems. First of all, it’s either incredibly bland or incredibly sweet. Sugary cereals were banned from my childhood home and I resolved that I would stock my adult shelves with Froot Loops and Lucky Charms and Chocolate Peanut Butter Oat Discs when the time came. I did, and it was disgusting. No morning is successfully greeted with a bowl of wet candy. But the plain cereals are just as disappointing. A bowl of Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, or Grape Nuts (what the fuck are those, by the way) is like eating flavourless pellets of chipped paint. And it’s cold! And it gets soggy! There’s nothing less inviting. Except maybe:

2) Oatmeal. The hot, moist cousin of cereal, oatmeal is what happens when someone chews up unflavoured popcorn and spits it back into your mouth. Yes, you can add brown sugar or honey, but that seems like an excuse to load up on sugar and head for a spectacular crash mid-morning. Some people add almonds, other nuts, or grains to their oatmeal, but that’s almost always an unpleasant textural shift. How do I know I didn’t just swallow some sand or gravel? I don’t.

3) Fruit and yogurt. I’ve been a fan of this combo for a while, but it too can fall into the trap of being cloyingly sweet. The only way to last a morning on a breakfast of fruit and yogurt is to have a lot of it, and nobody’s guts take kindly to too much yogurt. Doesn’t lactose have the opposite effect on an adult than it does on a kid? Like milk/yogurt/cheese for kids: good. Milk/yogurt/cheese for adults: bad? My stomach feels off when I’ve had too much dairy, and yet when I replace my fruit and yogurt with fruit and tuna, it’s never as good.

4) Pancakes. Pancakes are awesome, but they are dessert for breakfast. I love a pancake, but I also love the nap that follows a pancake. My father doesn’t cook much, but he will often make breakfast on Sundays when my brother and I are visiting, and there will be pancakes. They are awesome, but I have to go straight back to bed. Not a viable daily option.

5) Eggs. I love eggs. They solve the problem of an oversweet breakfast by being a savory front-runner. The variety of egg preparations means you’re not repeating the same meal every day. But then you’re one of those egg guys. If I have an egg for breakfast too many days in a row, I’m convinced I reek of egg. And it’s hard to have an egg without going overboard on sodium, even if it’s just a salted and peppered egg on buttered toast—that’s your salt for a year and a half. This is to say nothing of eggs with bacon or sausage, which brings me to…

5) Brunch. Brunch wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t for Brunch People. Ohhh, I loathe you, Brunch People. Every weekend, you line up out the door with your unwashed hair and your “You know, people aren’t meant to wear deodorant” smell, and you ruin everything for everyone. It’s because of you, Brunch People, that I can’t get a glass of water in nearly any restaurant that is not served in a mason jar. Plus, Brunch People operate under a tremendous double-standard. Tell a Brunch Person that you had a hamburger or pizza for dinner and they will scoff at your unhealthy lifestyle. “Was it at least goat cheese pizza?” they will ask, doubtfully. “Was the burger made of grains?” But THEN, these same people will devour massive plates of eggs benedict with piles of meat, egg, and hollandaise (which is essentially a butter sauce with the consistency of you-know-what). They will deride my unhealthy food choices, then order eggs benny with a double helping of butter cum sauce and arrange their strips of bacon in a crisscross pattern so they can Instagram their #brunch.

I guess what I’m really looking for is a kind of breakfast soylent. A nutrient rich stew or bar that is texturally appealing, neither too sweet or salty, and packed with enough nutrients and calories to get me to lunch. As passionate as I am about delicious food, I’d forego the first meal of the day all together if I could. I think about becoming one of those busy businessmen who skips breakfast entirely. But then, because I’m so much fun at a party, I think about the sad breakfasts prepared at Meals on Wheels, or in hospitals, or for poor kids in schools. The cold, limp toast, the spotted banana, the overcooked egg substitute. Then I pour my cereal, or toast my bagel, or scramble my eggs, and shut the fuck up.

The 51st Shade…

Hello Friends.

Tomorrow night, I will be running a seminar for the organization at which I volunteer. The organization normally facilitates one on one tutoring, but occasionally plays host to bigger sessions where tutors lead workshops on life skills like eating healthfully, renting an apartment, or finding your “best side” for picture-taking. By the way, the older I get, the more I’m convinced that all but very few of us have a good picture “side” and a bad one. I always find my side when I look in a mirror and think, “Just remember to pose facing this way!” And then I forget which side is my good one and my portrait comes out looking like when crackpots see the face of a saint on an old potato. Anyway, my workshop tomorrow is on finding a job. I’ll go through how to write a resume and cover letter, and how to best prepare for a job interview. Well gosh, if ever there was a topic I was unqualified to cover, it would be this one. I spent years underemployed, and only landed my current job because my resume was uploaded to one of those job search sites (that’s lesson 1-10 tomorrow--find a good recruitment site and eat chips every night, hoping someone contacts you out of the blue).

This is all a roundabout way of explaining that I went through my old job board haunts just the other day, just to see if those sites were all the same (they are). Just for kicks, and because we’re always running out of the coffee in our department’s Keurig machine, I wanted to see what jobs would be pinging into my inbox were I still hunting for Writing Jobs across Canada. That’s when I saw it. The ad read: Erotic Overnight Writer Wanted. Are you a writer who has always wanted to explore adult themes? Do you have the ability to think on your feet and a flair for improvisation? Then we want to hear from you! Must be able to work from 11 PM to 8 AM, five days a week. This job does not require you to make or receive telephone calls.”

Dream: Become an Erotic Overnight Writer.

Goal: Achievable because this is a job that apparently exists, and I suppose I could have it.

What? I mean, what? Naturally, I applied for the job immediately. I have no plans to actually quit my current job, but if any job ads warrants further interest, it’s this one. I mean, what the hell is an Erotic Overnight Writer? Of the three words in that job title, it’s the Overnight that stymies me the most. I asked Jon, and everyone at work, what they thought it meant, and nobody had a plausible answer. The only thing I can think of, bolstered by the “flair for improvisation” bit, is that the job is like phone sex, but typing? Maybe there are real lonely, horny folks who are desperate enough to reach out to a stranger for stimulation, but too embarrassed to do it over the phone? Or maybe I’d be typing responses for one of those webcam performers. I guess their hands get busy with other stuff, but they still need closed captioning? The other possibility is perhaps the need for erotic literature is so great that they need someone at a desk, banging away at a manuscript, literally every hour of the day.

So I sent my resume along with a brief email in lieu of a cover letter, trying to convey that I was serious about the job, yet totally in the dark as to what it was and needed clarification immediately. I never received that clarification, nor any follow-up from the Erotic Overnight Writer people. When I checked on the same posting later that week, the ad had been removed with a note saying the position had been filled.

Plan: Never let that happen again.

Again, leaving my current job to sleep all day and work all night isn’t the least bit desirable but I’m just so curious! What IS this job? In case it ever comes around again, I’m determined to answer the ad with not just a vague cover letter, but samples of my as-yet-unwritten erotic writings.

I’ve always heard that men like to watch porn whereas women like to read porn. Literary erotica stimulates the female brain which allows their furtive imaginations to cultivate a sensually appealing scenario, which in turn puts the reader into an emotional headspace where she can create a pathway to arousal. Whereas men are like, “Are those boobs?—SPLORCH!” Of course I’m generalizing, there are surely exceptions, but it stands to reason that erotic literature is the province of women readers. By coincidence, Jezebel has been running a few pieces on the romance literature industry, which is home to varying degrees of erotic lit, and it seems that this industry runs the gamut of topics to cater to all possible tastes. This is good news for any creative writer, because as long as you can think of a unique sensual idea, there’s someone out there who’s bound to be turned on. Here are some scenarios I intend to flesh out in future Erotic Overnight Writings.

The Pilot with Long Hair. Basically, a woman gets on a plane and she’s bored and thinking, “Will I ever find love?” The stewardess, who is a dumb bitch, leaves the cockpit door open and the woman on the plane sees the pilot’s long hair, blowing in the wind (I guess the plane has an open window on it). So the woman’s like, “Alright, this is appealing to me” and then she and the pilot make love for hours.

That’s My Cat! A lonely lady lives alone with only her cats for company. One day she is pouring her cat Brock Sanderson a bowl of milk, when lightning strikes her house and she feels a jolt of electricity pour through her body and into the milk bowl. Then she’s like, “That’s weird” and goes to bed. Brock Sanderson drinks the milk and turn into a sexy grown-up man. At first their relationship is tentative because of his weird origin story, but they push that aside because the sex is so good.

On A Moored Houseboat with The Trivago Guy. Call me crazy, but I think The Trivago Guy has really stepped his game up with this new round of ads. He’s got that close-cropped silver hair and he still seems pretty laid back about all the great deals you can get on hotels. Anyway, he owns a big houseboat that’s dry-docked for some reason and he takes women there for nights of passion.

I Don’t Hate You Because You Didn’t Do The Stupid Thing You Always Do. A woman goes to the bathroom and just when she sits on the toilet, she realizes her partner only left two squares on the toilet paper roll. She’s about to yell across the apartment at him to launch into the same argument they have every couple BMs, when she notices there are fresh rolls of toilet paper under the sink. Rows and rows of neatly stacked, fresh rolls. “How practical!” she thinks, her eyes brimming with grateful tears. “Why doesn’t everyone do this for their partner?”

Let’s Watch All Your Shows, Honey. A night of un-commented on Masterchef culminates in a grateful half hour of satisfying, if perfunctory, lovemaking.

That’s all I have so far, but that’s something, right? It actually makes me a bit sad to think about what this mystery job might actually entail. What depraved junk might you have to create at 2 AM on a Wednesday? What’s the demand for that from a customer standpoint, and what would that do for your soul? I mean, sex is great and fun and ridiculous, but the bloom is off the rose if you have to sell it all night long for your income. Tomorrow I’m just going to tell my session attendees to thoroughly research all the companies they apply to. Applying for a job when you can’t picture what the job is seems far from ideal. But I will also tell these people that, once they find a job, to stick around if things are basically working out for them. I mean, yes, you never know what else is out there, but in the case of the Erotic Overnight Writer, maybe that’s a good thing.

Politico...

Hello Friends.

There are a lot of things I pretend to know a lot about. When someone on the Food Network describes how they’re going to prepare a dish using this technique, I nod knowingly, like that’s just what I thought they should do. Or if a friend is talking about a problem with their children, I tell her how to solve it because, as a childless man, I am an authority on such matters. It’s fun to pretend you know something when you don’t, and it’s even more fun when you can back up any ill-informed opinion with passion and anger. That’s why like to pretend I know a lot about politics.

You could fit all I know about politics inside a bejeweled evening clutch purse and still have room for your tampons. I know the far right are wealthy, god-fearing assholes and the far left are degenerate, vegan homosexuals. I know money trumps ideals and everyone can basically be bought. But I also know that the few times I’ve stuck my head out of the proverbial sand to learn just a little about how things run around here, enough to become engaged and vote, I’ve felt better about myself.

I felt really good tonight when Alberta voted in an NDP government, the first non-Conservative government to hold power in this province for nearly 50 years. The tally Dr. Jon and I were watching on CBC had the PCs winning a bunch of seats as the votes were initially tabulated, and I became deflated and discouraged, but then the pendulum swung the other way and our TV screen started to fill with orange. Jon was as excited as I’ve ever seen him (aside from the time a streetcar driver told jokes over the loudspeaker and Jon laughed and clapped like an insane person). I’m really excited too. I mean, who knows if this new crop of youngsters will affect real change, but at least they can shake things up a bit, can’t they?

One thing is plain: I’m glad I voted and I was excited to therefore be a part of something historic. Imagine how much better I’d feel if I actually knew a thing or two.

Dream: Become politically aware.

Goal: Achievable. I marvel at Jon’s encyclopedic memory when it comes to political figures and events. He uses the part of his brain that the rest of us for pop culture. For instance, he will never recognize an actor out of context. If someone from one TV we watch shows up on another, he doesn’t notice, or care. But he can tell you who won which seats in 1996.

I have other friends who, though they may have less of a “dates and times” memory, believe strongly that history has proven x so therefore they lean y politically. So confident are they, that any discussion is useless. I’d like to be that loud and obnoxious too.

Plan: Learn about Canadian politics uggggggggghnnnnn no! I’m already so bored!

I think Canada’s greatest political strength and liability simultaneously is the fact that every figure is just so boring. I’m glad we’re not won over by smooth-talking charlatans, but would it kill these guys to give good soundbite once in a while? Barack Obama, for whatever he’s been able to accomplish (or not) is a smooth, well-spoken character who (far as I can tell) deals almost exclusively in platitudes. Yes we can, change we can believe in, etc. He’s the Oprah president. There’s nothing wrong with having an Oprah president; it made for an interesting campaign and election, but I still don’t know that guy’s game. If he was as idealistic and pie-eyed as he presented himself in 2008, how is he not crushed by the weight of constant opposition? He can’t get a bill passed, why isn’t he raging?

By contrast, Harper could be gleefully rubbing his hands before tucking into a meal of endangered species topped with taxpayer sweat and I wouldn’t notice because he’s such a dullard. I remember watching the debates last federal election, and it seemed like every other party leader’s plan was to knock him off kilter. They confronted Harper on his hypocrisy and lies, getting more and more fervent in their delivery, and old Harps was stable as a table. He just stood there like he was waiting for a bus. I may not know what he’s thinking either, but it’s the quiet guys you’ve gotta watch, and I think we’ve let him stay too long at the fair.

I used to be one of those guys that eschewed voting. “It’s a fixed system, man! Your vote doesn’t count! Why participate in a process that’s broken?” But then I realized that rhetoric was all coming from middle-to-upper-class white dudes, who are in no danger of having their lives affected by any political change. No matter what party is in power, middle-to-upper-class white dudes (like me) are gonna be fine, so of course they (we) can say that. Show me a low-income immigrant to this country espousing the same philosophy, and we’ll have ourselves a chat. Until then just vote, you wanks.

When folks talk politics at a party, I feel like the pretty girl around the blackjack table. I become involved only ornamentally, but really my job is to keep my mouth shut and think about having a shrimp cocktail. And it was easy to completely disengage from politics when I moved to a province that seemed to staid and unchanging in its own. But now that change is here, I want to be a part of it. And I’ll always vote because you know what they say: if you don’t vote, you can’t complain. What could be worse than that?

Icelandair and The Unfriendly Skies...

Icelandair has our money and won’t give it back. My better half, Dr. Jon, was supposed to be flying through the air with them to Denmark right now, and instead he’s just home from the hospital, laden with painkillers, and we’re trying to figure out what the next few months will bring. Let’s back up a bit.

This was supposed to be a very sophisticated springtime for Jonny and me. Last week, Jon travelled to Chicago to present a paper as part of the American Educational Research Association conference in Chicago, and this week, he was to fly to Copenhagen to present another paper at another conference. I couldn’t get time off to attend both, and the trip to Denmark was prohibitively expensive for two, but I managed to get six days free to go to Chicago and I was thrilled.

I did that dorky thing where you get travel recommendations from everyone you know and I planned a dream itinerary of things we might do. Definitely the art gallery and museum, maybe the trip to Oak Park if we have time, etc. On our first day, we managed to take in the Magnificent Mile and get some shopping in. That night, Jon got out of bed in the middle of the night, tripped or slipped or something, and broke his leg in three places.

If you’ve never heard your beloved screaming in pain at four in the morning, limbs akimbo, I wouldn’t recommend it. I would recommend the fabulous Sheraton Chicago Hotel and Towers who had staff at our bedside instantly, wheeled Jon to the lobby and into a cab, saved us an incredibly pricey ambulance ride to the hospital. I would recommend the Northwestern University Hospital who spent the next seven hours trying to determine the extent of his injuries. I would recommend trying to stay cool and think logically while your partner is writhing in pain and you are asked to leave the room.

Turns out that most people that fall out of bed don’t come away with multiple fractures and breaks. The doctors were inclined to disbelieve our story and we were separated for a time in hospital because they thought this was potentially a domestic violence situation. As this dawned on me, I felt awful of course, but also became hyper aware of my behaviour. Would a domestic abuser be crying in the hallway? Should I be more concerned? Less concerned? I knew becoming hysterical wouldn’t help my case, but I felt like screaming that I was not the person they should be focussing on right now. Anyway, after some x-rays and consultation with orthopedic surgeons, it was determined that this break was indeed the result of a bad fall and not abuse from me. I just wanted to go the art gallery. After many hours and $550 in prescription costs (our hospital visit was thankfully covered by traveller’s insurance, but we have to claim any prescriptions after the fact—fingers crossed), we headed back to the hotel, where we parked.

Needless to say, the rest of our itinerary was scrapped in favour of days and nights in our hotel room. Jon’s injuries were to the extent that he was basically immobile and so required help for everything. Again, major props to the Sheraton Chicago Hotel and Towers who put us in a disability-friendly room with a high toilet and walk in shower. Also, major thanks to the AERA disability services shuttle who got Jon to his session, where he (unbelievably), presented his paper while stretched out on a couple of chairs. Our flight home wasn’t necessarily advised, but we just wanted to be back in Canada, where further medical care was available. After a bumpy, tense, but relatively pain-free flight, we arrived home.

Because Jon was in a splint and not a cast, we were advised to go to a doctor and get a cast put on once we returned home. Instead, the doctor sent us right to Emergency, who took x-rays anew and told Jon he needed surgery right away and admitted him then and there. Because “right away” for surgery never means “right away”, Jon spent the next three days waiting, but finally has had pieces of metal inserted where bone used to be, been packed into yet another splint, and now he sits across from me on the couch in our apartment. His pain has lessened and his swelling has reduced, but there are still awful periods where one dose of meds wear off before another dose is due, and we get through it.

Obviously, the visit to the second conference, the one in Denmark, had to be scrapped. The hotel canceled Jon’s reservation instantly and kindly wished him well in his recovery. The airline, Icelandair, has refused to issue any refund or credit. They claim that because Jon did not purchase cancellation insurance, nothing could be done. These were arrangements we tried to make well in advance of the actual flight, mind you, they could have resold the seat, but no dice. Furthermore, because Jon paid for the flight through a third party travel agency on his debit card, there is no credit card insurance to rely on either. The travel agency, Merit Travel, also refuses any liability and will not refund or credit.

Our main concern, naturally, is Jon’s recovery. The cost of an $850 flight down the drain is a vast expense, but we’re lucky that we are able to afford it. We ought to just let it go, I suppose; we didn’t purchase the stupid cancellation insurance after all. Ironically, we would have been happy with a credit to Icelandair because we would have spent more money on top of it so both Jon and I could go on a kind of do-over trip sometime in the future. But we certainly can’t afford any more travel for the next little while.

Icelandair, if you’ve read this far, I hope you’re satisfied with the results of your iron-clad “no refund” policy. Instead of extending courtesy to us as potential customers, you have alienated us and (hopefully) anyone who reads this blog post. As corporations go, you’ve done a bad job of convincing us you do business in the interest of your customers. Canada’s airline industry is a tough market to crack, and you seem intent on making inroads, but how successful will you be if you choose rigid self-interest over compassionate consideration? My partner and I are not powerful or influential people (though Jon does get invited to speak all over the world), but we don’t hesitate to talk about our consumer experiences, both good and bad. So if you’re following along at home: Sheraton Chicago Hotel & Towers: Great. Hotel Ste. Thomas, Denmark: Great. United Airlines, who accommodated Jon in a higher class of seat to get a desperately needed extra six inches of legroom: Great. Northwestern University Hospital and University of Alberta Hospital: Great and Great. Icelandair: Bad.

Our springtime of being grownups has turned into a stressful few weeks where we just want our moms. We’re lucky to have the means and the friends to help us out if we need it, and we’re especially lucky that broken bones eventually heal and life goes back to the way it was. Really, beyond the surgical scars and depleted savings accounts, there won’t be much to remind us of Spring, 2015, except the people who showed us so much compassion and the airline (Icelandair, Icelandair, and if you’re Googling a third time, Icelandair), that did not.

Blocked...

Hello Friends.

Fair warning. We’re about to go to Bragtown, USA. I'm sorry to self-promote, but I really can't help it. Two weeks ago, I flew back to the Big City for the coolest weekend of my life. After corresponding for a composer for about a year, sending him chunks of prose based on a vague idea, I got to see the text performed as a song cycle, a 20 minute operetta of sorts, by this composer at the piano and a fantastic baritone. I don’t want to overstate my involvement, here. I had nothing to do with writing any of the music and wasn't part of the rehearsal process in any way, but hearing the text that I wrote performed as a piece of music at a concert hall in front of a paying audience was an incredible feeling. On top of which, my parents travelled down to see it, as did one of my best friends who I hadn't seen in years. I also reconnected with some family and friends, saw the sights, generally had an excellent time.

I bring this up not just to boast, but to explain why I haven’t been able to write anything since. It happens every time I help create something that I’m especially proud of; everything I attempt afterwards seems pathetic and small. But if I were to give myself a big long holiday from any creative writing, I’d lose the ability. Writing is funny that way, or maybe I’m funny that way. If I don’t do any writing of any kind for more than a week, I forget how. I’ll string a bunch of words together that, when read back, sound like an ESL textbook (“It is hot out today. I am glad I am not wearing a jacket. What is the deal with jackets?).

So now, high off the experience of such a cool project, but fueled by the dread that I’ll never produce something as good again, I have to think of future projects to propel me forward, in the hope that something sticks.

Dream: Create a wealth of projects to pursue. Force creativity through opportunity.

Goal: Achievable. It’s hard to be a self-starter, but if I sat around waiting for people to ask me to write things, I’d be one of those super morbidly obese people who have to have their walls torn down in order to leave the house.

Plan: List some ideas for things I could write.

Idea: I write a sitcom where a slacker poses as his optometrist twin brother to give eye tests to sexy ladies. The optometrist brother is a big nerd and reluctantly agrees not to rat out his brother if his brother gives him advice on how to pick up women. The working title of the show is Seeing Double.

Idea: I write a passionate Huffington Post op-ed about how sweet potato fries turned me into a homosexual. Hopefully, it would gain the same viral traction as the equally ill-informed “vaccines will give my kid autism” movement. Sweet potato fries didn't make me gay, but I’m really sick of seeing them at restaurants. The other night I went for dinner and they served sweet potato fries INSTEAD OF French fries. Unacceptable. Let’s pull those out of some kitchens.

Idea: I write Christmas Letters for Hire. I love getting a Christmas letters; those generic, “This is what’s up with the (Surname)s!” communications that are both boring and boastful (for more, see the first two paragraphs of this entry). But so many of them are badly written because they are not honest. I will write you a brutally truthful, meaningful holiday letter for a small fee. “Denise was fired from her job at the hair salon and Doug’s taken a real interest in showing off his penis on the internet, so we've got high hopes for 2016!”

Idea: Inspired by the film Boyhood, I write and direct a film about the life of a goldfish in real time. It is infinitely more interesting than the film Boyhood.

Idea: I write headlines for Buzzfeed listicles. 10 Things Every South Asian With Restless Leg Syndrome is Tired of Hearing. Which Character from Hotel Rwanda is Your BFF? Americans Try Cat Food for the First Time.

Idea: I’ll write the interstitial singing bits between verses of a rap song. So far I have “AY!” and “Oooh”.

Idea: Write a terrible science fiction book about a dystopian future. Must remember to keep things dystopian. Turn the dystopia up to 11. Whenever I start to think, “Could I make this more dystopian?” My answer should be, “Yes.”

Idea: Write t-shirt slogans. I’m sure t-shirts with words on them are the last word in uncoolness, but maybe that’s just because nothing has been clever on a t-shirt since 1981. A girl at my gym routinely wears a shirt that reads, “I hope your day is as nice as my butt.” What the hell does that mean? She has a nice butt, I suppose, but I never want to have a day I would compare to anyone’s butt, good or bad. I could top that. I can’t think of any examples right now, but I could.

If you’re only as good as your next project, I’m clearly no good at the moment. But here’s the cool thing: for all the wonderful, supportive friends and family that came to see this thing a few weeks ago, there were also people in the audience I didn't know, and they also seemed to enjoy themselves. Those people will likely never read anything I've written, or remember my name in association with the project, but if they thought something I had a hand in creating was funny or moving, that proves that the project exists on its own merit.

I still feel like a 5 year old at a piano recital. The reason why children’s piano recitals are not attended by the public at large is that if you happened to overhear 5 year old playing piano, you wouldn't think, “Oh what a lovely tune”, you’d think, “That’s terrible, it must be a kid.” So any time something I helped make gets some validation from total strangers, that’s pretty cool. Combine that with the support of family and friends? Well that’s a feeling so perfect I don’t need to write another word.

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.