Put Me In, Coach...

Hello Friends.

Applying for jobs online is deceptively easy, and I think that ease gives the applicant a sense of entitlement he does not deserve. I've lived here in my new digs for a little while now and have applied for many, many online jobs. The process has become easier and faster, and I therefore have lead myself to believe that it's only a matter of time before a lucrative contract pings into my inbox. Weeks of no responses from any potential employer (not a one) is teaching me that perhaps that's not the case, and has me exploring other, less desirable options. An anecdote:

A few days ago, I pitched this blog as a column of sorts to a website. I wrote a lengthy, but informative email explaining the tongue-in-cheek Dream, Goal, Plan format, and sent a long a few entries as samples, as well as repeatedly including the web address. After that was sent into cyberspace, I gathered up my stack of boring resumes (the ones that, instead of saying "Writer, Researcher, Funny Guy" say, "Cashier, cashier, clerk, key-holder, cashier") and headed out to drop resumes off door to door to all the businesses within walking distance. There's nothing quite so demoralizing as dropping off a resume to a place you'd never want to shop in, much less work at, but your options are dwindling and so you have to just do it.

I went into a clothing store that specializes in expensive athletic wear (I shouldn't say which one but it's not Lululemon, it's actually Roots). Anyway, so the bored clerk engaged me in small talk and said, "Do you own a lot of [athletic store] clothes?" And I said something vague about liking their brand but not having any of their "exciting new line" yet and the clerk said, "Well, you should know if we hire you, that we want all of our employees exclusively in our brand." This is not a cheap brand, I should mention (think of an Eddie Bauer-type store, because Roots is what I'm referencing and they're close) and so I jokingly said, "It sounds like you have to spend a lot of money to work here!" and the clerk was not amused and said, "We don't see it that way." It was then that I should have grabbed my resume out of his hands and sped off on a motorcycle, but instead I smiled thinly (meaning I looked really thin) and left to continue to ply other merchants with evidence of my "work experience."

When I returned home, with no clearer prospects, two hours later, a prompt reply from the website awaited me. It was your generic rejection form letter with a personalized note indicating to me that the person who reads the pitches didn't give mine more than a cursory glance and maybe skimmed the part about "Dream, Goal, Plan" but missing the part about it being funny because she wrote, "Sorry James. We're not looking for anything in the vein of life-coaching." That's when, like a drunken Scotsman back home from the pub, it hit me.

Dream: Become a Life Coach.

Goal: Achievable. Though I've never consulted with one personally, I've met a few self-described "Life Coaches" and it seems to me they've got the biggest racket running! Using buzzwords like "self-actualization", "creative-enabling" and "bi-weekly consultation fee", they rake in your money without actually doing anything for you. I could do that! They promise vague things like, "I will help you remember the essence of you are meant to be", but they don't get you the job interview, the house, the partner. They bolster you up to go after those things yourself, I suppose, but it means they don't have to do squat. And I'm sure people who are Life Coaches believe they are providing a valuable service and that they were destined for this "work", but to me it's a bit like aspiring to be a busboy. "I don't want to prepare the delicious meal, and I don't want to eat it myself, but please, God, let me set the table." But they're profiting from this deception and I want in!

Plan: Create my own Life Coaching program using the breadth of my wisdom, knowledge, and experience. Build the foundation of my self-empowerment empire on strong tenets like:

You are the biggest waste of your own time. For instance, stop folding underwear. The old James spent precious minutes of every laundry load, carefully folding a pair of underpants like it was a pocket square. The fact is, my underwear is getting placed in the drawer where it will rest until I literally strap my balls into it. Let's not get precious. By the way, do ladies fold their tiny underwear? Particularly thongs and the like? They would be so small without a person in them, I can't imagine they take up any space. Feel free to call me about this issue, female acquaintances. I know you're dying to tell me. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Wasted time.

Treat yourself, but treat others in kind. When the cheque comes in a restaurant, don't waste time pretending to look for your wallet in hopes of avoiding payment. Look your friend square in the eye, place your hand firmly on top of the bill and say, "You can't put a price on our friendship, and I hardly think quibbling over who gets what item should impede this wonderful time we're having together. The fact is, I pre-authorized my credit card to be charged while you were absorbed in the menu earlier. I will incur the charges today and I don't want to hear another word about it. Now let's burn off some of this deliciousness, Friend! Race you to the parking lot!" Then run like hell because of course you didn't pre-authorize your credit card, but the confident way you handled the billfold will suggest to the server that you've placed some form of payment there and they're unlikely to stop you at the door. If they figure out your little game and you are stopped at the door, laugh it off! Say, "Ah, you've cottoned on to our little ruse! Clever girl, Amber! You deserve this crisp, one hundred dollar..." then bite down on the blood packs you tucked into your mouth (always bring blood packs for business and casual lunches) then stand perfectly still as blood pours from your mouth. While they rush to call medical personal, resume your run for it.

Find your tribe. Though this endless process of job application should have me sour and grim, I've been anything but thanks to friends old and new. The other night, my friend Steph and I got drunk watched this Dateline about a man who was murdered in cold blood by his own son and the son's friend. The lead detective set up an elaborate sting to catch the son based on his hunch. Keith Morrison, the host of the program, asked the detective, in hindsight, how sure he was that his hunch would pay off. The detective demurred modestly and said, "Oh, about 30 percent sure." And Keith Morrison said, "30 percent! But if this plan were to fail, if you were wrong. If you couldn't prove this man was brutally slain by his own son's hand, you've given yourself a 70 percent chance of being a goat." Of being a goat. We rewound it several times and laughed until we cried. Of being a goat. It's moments like that you can't apply for, that no paycheque is big enough to afford. Of being a goat. Life's a game that requires some amount of strategy, I'm sure, but with plays like that, who needs a coach?

Crybaby...

Hello Friends.

In the past few weeks, I've been fortunate to spend lots of time really connecting with young people. Like really young. I took in the Olympic Closing Ceremonies with Luka (9 mos.), flew from Saskatoon to to Edmonton beside Nate (10 mos.), went swimmin' with Nevaeh (7 yrs) and Naima (3 yrs), took a shopping trip with Finn (2 yrs), and spent last night watching movies and gossiping with Cole (2 yrs) and Carson (9 mos.), and all of their wonderful moms and dads. The thing I couldn't help but notice is that one of the traits we commonly ascribe to babies or young children, was absent in all these little guys. I was prepared to deal with it before paying social calls on all of these babies, and yet it was wholly absent, and it made me wonder why I continue to tolerate this behaviour in adults. Well, no more. Starting now.

Dream: No more sulking, pouting or whining from anyone, even and especially, me.

Goal: Achievable. I'm not saying youngsters don't get upset, of course they do. So too should adults. But when a baby gets upset, they might kick and scream, or rant and rave, or throw a raucous tantrum, but sooner or later, they are completely over it. One notices that sometimes even before the tears have dried on a baby's face, they've spotted a butterfly or a firetruck, giggled at a funny face, or scooted off in pursuit of something shiny. Little ones are certainly fragile in the physical sense, but have the strong, flexible emotions to live completely in the now. "One of my carrots fell to the floor, I'm completely devastated. I don't see how I can continue any longer. I may as well just pack my bags and--oh my god, another carrot! You are a jewel of a Mummy! Look at this carrot I'm enjoying!"

Why then, as adults, do we pout for hours, sulk for days, hold grudges for years? What's the point? Are we such delicate flowers, our feelings so precious and pliable that any perceived slight can turn our world upside down? We can walk and talk and think and reason, but please don't say the wrong thing or else we'll fall to pieces? Come on.

Plan: Identify those situations that potentially create a pouty, whiny, sulky James and get over it.

Let me clarify that I in no way mean to impugn or discredit people facing legitimate challenges and/or suffering with depression. I have no idea what that is like, but I'm smart enough to know that I haven't faced any insurmountable emotional burdens myself, and that depression is a whole other ballgame. I wouldn't wish clinical depression and it's associated maladies on anyone, but I certainly know and love people who faces such illnesses every day with dignity and determination. This is not an indictment of you. This is to encourage your healthy brothers and sisters to grow a pair, to see the big picture, to not get excited over the small stuff.

I have become far less of a pouter/sulker since meeting Dr. Jon. We've taken the maxim "Never go to bed angry" and extrapolated it to mean, "Never leave room peeved." With a mother and eldest brother who are both psychiatric nurses, the Doctor comes from a family who puts it out in the open, sorts out the sore spots, says what they mean, means what they say, and passes the rolls around the dinner table every night. Jon puts it out there, and has no tolerance for emotional manipulation or the bevy of bullshit I have in my arsenal. If he senses I'm discontent in any way (and he gets it right every time) he says, "What's bugging out? What's the problem? Why are you upset? Why? Why? Out with it. Tell me. Let's sort it out." and the like until I explode, "WHY do you leave one piece of paper on the toilet paper roll? Who EVER needs just one?" or whatever the issue is. My example argument is trite, but we've gone over the relationship minefields (money, sex, work, nose hair) in the exact same manner. He doesn't let me stew, and thank god. He doesn't let me avoid confrontation either, which has certainly been my m.o. since forever. I feel like the epitaph on my family plot might read, "Here Lies The Ostime Family. Let's Change the Subject." This is not to say we never get upset. If I discover I'm short one ingredient while cooking dinner, or if Here Comes Honey Boo-Boo didn't record on the PVR, or if his computer freezes up mid-project, we are an intolerable two. We yell and curse and rage but eventually, we get the fuck over ourselves.

Knowing these things, when I see other couples that employ sulking and pouting, it really cooks my noodle. I was once on the subway near a young couple where the woman was having a full on sulk. Sighing, shaking her head, and not answering her long-suffering mate. "What's wrong, babe? What'd I do? Are you pissed?" and she kept denying it and denying it and then finally she turned to him and snapped, "I just need you to know when I'm hungry!" I swear to you. I'd accuse her of being infantile, but as I've said, I don't even see infants like that. Another time, I was out for dinner with some couples, and one man was giving his companion major attitude. From what I could surmise, they had been shopping earlier in the day, and the man either didn't have a credit card or it was maxed out or something, and he was mad that his girlfriend wouldn't front him the money to buy a video game. He was sulky all night and kept saying things like, "I get paid on Friday, you know! This Friday!" In front of all of us! It was just gross.

I compare these situations to another time when I showed up on the doorstep of a dear couple I know to spend the weekend. They had just figured out, the day of my arrival, that somebody had been putting nails behind the wheels of their parked cars in the driveway. They had had a few flat tires in the past, but hadn't connected the dots until that day, when the gal's tire had deflated just feet from the driveway and they found the offending spike. She had a job interview the next morning and had just found out the car couldn't be fixed in time. Was on the phone with the car people as I ding-donged and stood there with my suitcase. In spite of these terrible circumstances, zero pouting and sulking. Or rather, if sulking/pouting did occur, I never saw it. They were gracious hosts, I had an amazing, hilarious time, and that's just the name of their tune.

I really have to quit my bitching. Bitching and kvetching are just the tarted-up cousins of whining, and doesn't give any better impression than the sulkster does. I love a good bitchfest, but I've noticed that bitching begets bitching, it doesn't truly make anything better in the long term. Have you ever noticed that the quickest way to find common ground with an acquaintance is to complain about a situation you have in common? I might say to a new co-worker, "Just so we're on the same page, Sally is a total beast, right?" and they'll go, "Oh I know!" and we're off to the races. But as I say, I've got to curb that impulse. When someone complains about their lives to me and I can see their situation objectively, I never feel that connection through kvetching. If they say, "I work in this office, and I work with this woman, and she's always so bleeeerg", I think to myself, "Oh stop it, you're getting paid, aren't you? No one's holding a gun to your head." So why do I think it's cute when I do it? It's not. I shouldn't.

It comes down to how one chooses to see the world, I guess. Babies get to discover the world every day and it's pretty rad. There's always a new experience, new touch, new taste. Every moment has the potential to be bigger and better than the last. Babies don't sulk when things don't go their way because babies don't know what way things are supposed to go. They're just catching a wave, enjoying a flight, or chonkin' on a carrot. They take the world as it comes, tiny bodies be damned. They're some small stuff that's worth getting excited about.

The September Issue...

This entry of Big City James is brought to you by Sparkle. Jordin Sparks and Whitney Houston star in this surefire summer hit from Sony Pictures Entertainment. Is Whitney Houston dead? Not in Sparkle! Only in theatres.

Hello Friends.

Forgive me my terribly long absence. The past two weeks have seen me packing bags and unpacking bags, loading cars and unloading cars, saying hello to friends and saying goodbye to friends. Now I am in a new Big City with new horizons to explore and expectations to meet and find that the most pressing crop of Dreams (find a job, make new friends, master the deceptively difficult Edmonton dialect) to be at best, a little daunting to consider, and at worst, a little tedious to read. But that doesn't mean this week's Big City James shouldn't be our biggest, boldest, most circulated entry ever.

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Dream: Create a Big City James September Issue.

Goal: Achievable. Conventional wisdom in the publishing industry used to be that any monthly publication would see it's highest sales at Christmas. While that's surely still true of gift catalogues and reindeer porn, such figures have been upset in recent years with the rise of the September issue. As trends often do, this one began with Vogue magazine. I once knew a fey but stylish man who spent a good third of his time and income shopping for little outfits and he said, "If you care at all about the clothes on your back, you need to know only two things. Your measurements, and Vogue's September issue." Instead of pushing him in front of a moving car for so simperingly justifying the gay male stereotype, I heed his advice and every year since, buy September's Vogue when it hits newsstands. Not for my own little outfits, you understand, but just to pore over the excess, the style, the pageantry of it all. And I am not alone. Circulation is so high for Vogue's September issue that a documentary film was made about its production, its estimated ad revenue hovers around $100 million, and other publications follow suit. Victoria Beckham covers Glamour this month, Katy Perry does Elle, Kate Middleton has this month's Vanity Fair, Lady Gaga landed this ridonkulous Vogue spread, even Prancer gets this month's Reindeer Porn Digest. So why can't I get in on the action with my little blog?

Get in on the action for your September dinners with avocado, the vegetable that tastes like nothing! Add a negligible amount to a soup, a pinch of zilch to your casserole, weird green stuff for your sandwiches, with avocado. "Mother, can we please have avocado?" no children will ask. Look for it in the blandest part of your grocery store.

Plan: Take what I know about September issues and apply the same features to my blog. Features like:

Advertisements. This month's Vogue is over 900 hundred pages and more than half of them are ads. While I have been ad-free up until now, the keen-eyed reader will notice a few subtle endorsements throughout this entry.

An interview with a hot young star. If I had my druthers and could interview whomever I liked, I might put the Twilight stars on the cover, mopey Kristen Stewart and sickly Robert Pattinson, but inside I'd profile two far more interesting co-stars. I haven't seen the Twilight movies, but the imdb entries for them reveal two familiar names to me that I want to know more about: Bronson Pelletier and Nikki Reed. I wrote a brief piece that mentioned Bronson Pelletier for this book, but always felt like a bit of a faker, having written about him but not contacting him directly. I'd still like to know how he forged a path from the Askinootow First Nation to the biggest movie franchise in the world. Were there opportunities afforded his small Plains Cree home that helped him? Or his journey solely the product of his own tenacity and talent? Likely some combination of the two paved his road to success, but how does he feel representing a small, heretofore largely-unknown community and culture via the pop culture juggernaut known as Twilight?

Then in turn I might ask Nikki Reed how she feels about teenage girls. Reed's first film is Thirteen, an especially wrenching movie about a girl who, at thirteen, begins to experiment with drugs, sexuality, and self-harm when she is introduced to another thirteen year-old who begins to exert her bad influence. Reed doesn't play the protagonist, but rather the "bad" thirteen year old who shoplifts, cuts herself, and tries to seduce men. What's interesting is that Reed herself wrote the film, and did so when she herself was thirteen. She allegedly based the film on her own experiences which were those of the film's protagonist, not the bad girl she ended up playing. Do you follow? She writes a movie, which against all odds get read by the right person, greenlit by the right studio, casts Holly Hunter as the concerned Mom, then casts Reed as the bad influence that was her own undoing, and Evan Rachel Wood as the main character. I wonder what the experience must have been like for her, especially as that is the only writing credit she has to her name. She has since appeared as an actress in typical teen fare, like The O.C. and now, Twilight, a franchise bankrolled almost exclusively by teenage girls. I wonder what she thinks about teenage girls, whether she knows something we don't, and whether she'd ever go back to being a teenager herself, or if the price was too high.

No price is too high at Anthropologie. Crummy knick-knacks? $80! Old watering can? $240! Peasant top? If you have to ask you can't afford it! Why are our prices so high? Fuck you, that's why! Ha ha ha! Anthropolgie! Suck our dicks!

A report on the latest trends in fashion. I don't know if it's a thing yet, but I have high hopes for a men's onesie or, if you prefer, a Mansie. A Mansie would be a trendy long t-shirt that, when it hits the crotch, changes fabric colour and texture to look like high-end underwear. Calvin Klein briefs, maybe, or Diesel boxers. Anway, the boxer material extends below your danglies, then tucks underneath the crotch and buttons somewhere in the ass area, with the back of the shirt. Like a onesie! You'd wear this with a pair of jeans that covers the bottom part (except maybe the underwear logo if you're materialistic like that). The advantage to this seemingly uncomfortable design is this: no matter how you bend or stretch in the Mansie, unlike a regular t-shirt, this will never ride up your sides or lower-back because it simply can't! It's affixed beneath your danglies! No longer will men fear leaning forward to get the last chip off the floor and exposing rolls of back fat. Leave your wobbly, white side rolls where they belong, beneath your shirt. I figure my eating habits suggest the self-control of a baby, so why not dress like one? Someone make this, I'll buy it.

Finally, I suppose I'd have to feature something about what to expect for Fall 2012. I have no idea. But I do know the friends I have here, the people I've met, and the guy I now live with 24/7 have made this transition pretty great. I may not have a job yet, or any new little outfits, but I hope to be a bigger and bolder Big City James this September and all year round. The party's just getting started, time to circulate.

You Asked For It...

Hello Friends.

Perhaps I should consider a name change for this blog. When I began writing Big City James, I intended it as a sort of weekly letter home to my friends and family in Saskatchewan. This was nearly three years ago, as I adjusted to life in Toronto. From the beginning, however, this blog was less to do with differences between a big and small city, but rather about my Dreams, both large and small in scope. As the doctor and I pack three years of pants and books in our little blue car (our garbage second-hand furniture is garbage), I'm becoming reflective.

I'm not the biggest fan of Oprah's homespun wisdom, but the fact that she carries Anna & Kristina's Grocery Bags on her network means I'm subjected to her faux-inspirational platitudes before a commercial break. Sidebar: Anna & Kristina's Grocery Bags is this show about these two ladies who aren't professional chefs but they are best friends and have a witty rapport. They buy a popular cookbook at a store and try to make the recipes for a legit chef who comes over and says, "Well this isn't very good." It's the best show. Anyway, one of Oprah's favourite interstitial bits is a title card that reads, "You get in life what you have the courage to ask for." Though my knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss such a philosophy as self-centred and greedy, what if it's true? What if, by not articulating my real desires, I'm depriving myself of even the chance of getting them? Maybe the Fates or God or whomever reads blogs sometimes and just by putting these desires out into the universe, I'm taking the first step to having them fulfilled.

Dream: Ask for what I really want.

Goal: Achievable. What else do I do every Thursday if not that? But my Dreams tend to be narrow-in-scope, tongue-in-cheek, and not entirely honest. There's something boring, naked, and self-interested about using a public forum to say, "BUT WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS?" especially when your basic needs (food, water, internet) are consistently met. But saying goodbye to Ontario friends and family this week has me sentimental, emotional, and yes, a little needy, so forgive me, but here goes.

Plan: Find out what, "You get in life what you have the courage to ask for" means for me.

So what would I ask for, had I the courage? Well, I'd like to write. If I'm allowed to be specific, I'd like to write a funny tv show where the people on the show are friends and really love each other (like my friends in real life), but still say funny things and get in zany situations. And if I really had my druthers (incidentally, who da fuck took my druthers in the first place?), I'd put my theatre training to good use and give myself a small part on that show. The guy with breathing problems, maybe, or the guy who can't dance. A second or third banana that may not have a rich interior life, but always gets a laugh. But if I have to be vague, I just want to write, and make enough money at it not to obsess over my bank account every day.

I want to keep the friends and family I have, but just keep adding more. Kind of like a love snowball, where the more you pack in there, the bigger it grows. I'd like to keep the friends I have now, but add more young dads, maybe, or throw in another vegan. I'd like to know a mortician and a bartender who has no aspirations beyond being a bartender. I'd like more nieces and nephews, please, who draw crayoned pictures of my likeness, with long yellow lines for the hair. I'd like a sister-in-law whose gaze I could silently meet across the table at holiday dinners and communicate, "You're hearing this too, right? You realize how much crazy is around this table right now."

I'd like a strong body that continues to like long walks and good food. I'll cut down on the high-fat foods if it means keeping my sturdy gait and off-rhythm dance moves for a few extra decades. I'd want a less sibilant 's' just for when I'm answering the phone. A telemarketer asked if I had time for a survey the other day and I said, "Thorry, I'm in thort of a hurry..." like Drew Barrymore in ET, and he launched right into his pitch anyhow. I'd like to keep all of my hair, but if that's asking too much, I'd like to at least have a decently-shaped head under all this hair so when I start to lose it, I can cut it really short and still look okay.

I'd like to keep Dr. Jon around and for him to be as happy as I've always known him to be, but especially this past year. He's really at his dream job making unbelievable strides. He has enough self-doubt to keep him humble and curious, which is great as I couldn't bear to eat dinner every night with an asshole. No matter how long I live, I'd like for him to live just one more day, so I don't have to live in a world where that guy is dead.

I want more books and authors like the ones I've already discovered. There's nothing that changes my outlook so frequently and profoundly as books. The cliche we forcefeed children all the time is true, you really can be transported through reading. I'll read a book of such a particular style that I'll begin to believe that my life plays out in just that way. That I may as well live in Carl Hiaassen's Miami, Anne Tyler's Baltimore, Fannie Flagg's deep south, Mark Haddon's England, because I get so deeply ensconced in their worlds. I'm in the middle of a book right now called In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. It is so gripping and addictive that I can barely pack the rest of my books into the boxes, tubs, and suitcases set aside just for literature as we head out on our big move.

I want that first sip of morning coffee to always be so satisfying.

I'd like a more flexible mind. I admire someone with the courage of her convictions, but I would also hope that I have a mind smart enough to be changed. This is not to say I want to be talked into becoming a Methodist or Conservative, but I'd like to know more about groups I don't belong to, and not get defensively pissy along the way.

I want to consume less porn and more art.

I want to stop overcooking eggs, chicken, and pasta.

I used to watch this show Boston Legal, where James Spader played a young hotshot lawyer, and William Shatner was a legendary attorney who appears to be slipping in his advanced age. Sometime in the first season, Shatner explains to Spader what keeps him in the courtroom past retirement age. "We're all desperate to be relevant" he says. Like Oprah's, "You get in life what you have the courage to ask for", "We're all desperate to be relevant" sticks with me to this day, because I find it to be true. Deep in my heart of hearts and gutsiest of guts, I want to be relevant in my life and the lives of others. I want to write things that change minds, I want my thoughts to be worth more than the paper they're written on. In other words, I want to matter. Is this an ego thing? Or does everyone want that? If everyone wants to matter to everyone else, can that possibly happen?

Forgive the rambling here, but I promised I wouldn't go back and edit this one. I wouldn't return to paragraphs and insert jokes in an attempt to lighten the content, lessen the impact. This is what I want and what I currently have the courage to ask for. And I also know how lucky I am to have what I have. So my Dreams will follow me from big city to smaller, and I'll continue to set Goals for myself and see what comes to pass. Sounds like a Plan.

Now We Just Need a Title...

Hello Friends.

A few years ago, I was an usher/ticket-taker for a one-woman show. Normally, I loathe one-person shows, but this one-person was one person I particularly liked, and I was all too happy to rip tickets and find seats for her tour-de-force performance.

The perk of being the usher/ticket-taker at a play is, if the play isn't sold out, you can take a seat in the audience for free and watch the show. On opening night, I did just that, and sat back comfortably to experience the performer's unique journey, or whatever is you're supposed to do at those things. The show was humming along, I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and then the actress (let's call her Diane) looked to us, hopefully. "And every night, we'd go to the bar and drink and sing! Who wants to come sing with me?" She happily scanned the opening night crowd, as I shrank in my chair. An uncomfortable murmur went through the audience. People busied themselves by looking through their purses, or fake-coughing. I prayed someone else would step forward when Diane's gaze met mine and we locked eyes. She looked at me pleadingly, I could almost hear her thoughts. "Come on, James," she looked to be thinking. "Help me out! Nobody else will! For god's sake, I'm dying out here!"

I broke her gaze. I fake-coughed. I pretended to be engrossed in my wristwatch. Finally, after what seemed like an hour of cajoling, a young woman volunteered, sang half the Flintstone's theme, and sat back down, to hearty applause. Diane finished her show to a standing ovation, and I caught up with her in the lobby after the show. We hugged and I congratulated her, and she said she was glad to see me, and we were perfectly nice to one-another, but we both knew what I had done or rather, what I hadn't done. I hadn't come to her rescue by simply raising my hand. I couldn't do it. I let her die.

Dream: Avoid audience participation forever.

Goal: Achievable. It seems like I'm continually running the risk of being called up on a stage to do some stupid thing, despite my complete lack of enthusiasm for it. However, there must be something about me that tells performers, "Yeah, that guy! He'll do whatever we tell him, nyuck-nyuck-nyuck!" But someone like my dad, for instance, whether it's his appearance or demeanour, you would never ask him to be part of a scene, shout out a suggestion. He'd look at you like you were crazy, and perhaps suggest you learn a trade of some kind.

Plan: Until I can manifest that inherent quality that says, "Please ignore me, this demeans us both", I will simply remove myself from situations that require audience participation. Situations like:

Improv comedy shows. A few words about improvised comedy: When improv comedy succeeds, it's like nothing you've ever seen. It's like watching a perfect golden orb fall out of the sky and split into two perfect halves through which an eagle majestically bursts forth, flies through a hoop of fire, and soars through the horizon, fast and free. When it fails it's like tripping over a dead fish and falling into a bucket of sewage. And based on what I've seen, and I'm sorry Improvisors, it fails 90% of the time, or more. A group of hilarious, zany comrades will get onstage and take suggestions from the audience to build a scene, with variables like occupation, activity, and location. It's like a live action Mad Libs with all the potential for embarrassing filth (eg. A gynaecologist going to the bathroom in Hell). And again, the best improv teams in the world can make this stuff fly, and everybody else dies slowly and painfully up there.

When I first moved to the big city, I took in a show at Second City, which is one of the most famous sketch and improv training grounds in the world. They had put together an SNL-style sketch revue and it was hysterical. I laughed all the way through, I couldn't believe homegrown talent was producing such amazing work. Then they invited the audience to stick around because after the sketch set they had rehearsed, they were going to do an improv performance! I stayed in my seat, delighted, and watched, disbelieving, as it all went to hell. This group of performers who, just moments earlier, had the entire audience eating out of their hands with their well-crafted comedy, were now a desperate showcase of zany tics and quirks and unbearable "look at me!"-type stunts. One guy lapsed into the worst Cosby I've ever heard. And anyone can kind of do a Cosby, you just sort of let your language deteriorate, but this guy was doing a ham-fisted, borderline racist homage and one of the other performers said, "Hey Dad, I'm dyslexic!" which was a take on Theo Huxtable, which is an always timely and hilarious reference. Now I'm not saying I could do this any better myself. Quite the contrary, I did improv in high school badly, and knew enough to never try again, but every part of me gets tense and queasy in the audience for one of these things. I see the naked desperation in a performer's eyes as they frenetically demand suggestions for something that might salvage a scene, and I just can't bear to be there.

Similarly, I can't participate in 50/50 draws, or raffles, or anything where a winner of something is announced over a microphone and somebody comes to the front to collect their prize. I will throw out or ignore any ticket stub, and forgo winning anything just to not be that guy, because everybody hates that guy! Think about it, if the prize is a good one and you win it, everybody's mad at you because they didn't get it for themselves. If the prize is bad and you win it, you're stuck with a shitty prize you have to carry around until you can re-gift it at Christmas. Either way, not worth the strife.

Speaking of strife, being on the other side of audience participation is no picnic either. For a few summers, I performed in shows for children. It was fun almost all of the time. They were funny, well-written shows, I got to be sing songs and goof around with a different group of kids a few times a week all summer long, it was a good gig. The only problem was that every show I did had a dreaded part in it where I, as one of the actors, would have to pick out a Mom or Dad to take part in a bit we were doing. I understand the appeal of that conceit. Kids think it's hilarious when grown-ups act silly, and it loosens to kids up sing along with the songs or do the wacky dances or whatever. But getting that first Mom or Dad was the worst job in the world. Dads plain didn't want to do it, or participated so grudgingly, looking daggers at me the whole time, that I suspect some of them are still mad at me, wherever they are. Moms were more game, initially, but so afraid of looking stupid that they would simply refuse to do certain things, leaving us hanging onstage, desperate for a way out. I always begged to cut the Mom or Dad parts, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. However, I must also thank the truly standout Moms and Dads who wore the crazy hats, did the silly voices, and gave it a hundred percent up there with us. You're the dream participant, and that's just your cross to bear.

I even chafe at orientation exercises at school or work. You know, those silly games where you say, "I'm Jumbled James, you're Devilish Dave, she's Boring Bernice" and so on. Or when a boss or team leader says, "Just tell us your name a little something about yourself." I always want to respond, "My name is James and I wish I was dead."

Sometimes I'm afraid that my reluctance to participate in something for fear of embarrassing myself or looking stupid is symptomatic of a larger problem. That I'm a misanthrope , and that what I'm actually afraid of is participating in my own life. I know this guy we'll call Pete who participates in life like he's gunning for a promotion. He pursues passion and projects, be they personal or professional, literally all over the world. He's spent his adult life travelling the globe, and not in a flaky tourist way either. He seems to establish all kinds of connections, make strides in a variety of industries, only to take off again for something new. By contrast, I had a dining companion last night (who's equally successful in personal and professional endeavours, by the way) say, "I think I'm just going to give up on the world." He's not a depressive or anything, but just meant that he's tired of hearing about how fucked up the planet is, the myriad of ways we screw up life for ourselves and each other. He's content to claim his corner of the world, with his husband and his dog, take necessary trips for work and family obligations, but otherwise draw the shades and live happily ever after. I think I vacillate between Pete and my dinner date. The part of me that winces, "Oh god, please don't call me up onstage, Diane!" seems to fly in the face in the joy I experienced singing silly songs and wearing a variety of wigs with groups of children every summer.

I think the difference is that I need to plan. When it comes my life, I'm willing to take centre-stage sometimes, but not to throw the script away. That's why, as hard as it is to face another big move, I'm so grateful to have Jonny, my favourite co-star, with me along the way. Goodness knows, without him, I'd be dying up here.

If You're Ready to Learn...

Hello Friends.

Did you ever get into an argument with someone who's unwavering belief in their own opinion is their only defence, even when faced with facts and figures that prove the contrary? Like if someone were to say to you, "They stopped making any good music after 1994", you might call that person's opinion highly subjective, then run through a list of records or musicians that you think are great, and the first person says, "Nope." And when faced with more evidence, a louder and more definitive, "NOPE!", maybe with a head shake?

That method of reasoning is extremely frustrating, but seems to dominate discourse on any topic these days, subjective or not. Someone like Bill O'Reilly might challenge a guest on his program, "Give me one reason why the passing of this law makes any sense to you." And the guest will say, "Well, Bill, if you look at the case of X v. Y in 1996, several wrongfully accused men would have been exonerated because..." and Bill will go, "Nope" and then "NOPE!" It's wilful ignorance. It's saying, "I would rather accept my version of events versus what is actually true." This is a trait I loathe in other people, and so it is rather hypocritical of me to ignore this trait in myself.

Dream: LEARN STUFF.

Goal: Achievable, I hope. I don't know when it was that I became hardwired to resist learning new information. When I finish school I suppose I thought, "Well I've got a degree now. Fuck you, knowledge! DONE!" and clapped my hands smugly. But even in school there were teachers I resisted, information I wouldn't retain, brain parts I couldn't activate. I took Computer Science 100 as my required Science class, for example (it was a lax degree) and could not absorb a single fact. Nothing was less relevant to my interest, I figured, so why bother thinking about any of it and risk wrinkling my smooth, be-pimpled forehead? But now I face overwhelming examples of topics and fields of study I know nothing about and I truly believe I'm ignoring them at my peril. I've gotta give a pep talk to my brain here, lest I atrophy into a mindless mush waiting for the new Racing Car Robot Tits Beer Gun movie to come out.

Plan: Identify and discern those topics which I could stand to research a little further, like:

Canada. What's your deal, home country? How come so much of you is one way, but then the rest of you is another? Why does it cost so much money to buy groceries in Nunavut, for example? If it's an issue of transportation costs, why is there no subsidy to cover them? Also, Canada, why do you make it so expensive to travel through you? How come I can fly to Cancun for less money than I can to fly to Regina?

Violence. How come it's so easy for me to ignore violent crime as long as it's over twenty minutes away by car? Why do we continue to glorify gang culture when it is so clearly a destructive path for everyone involved? How many people have to shoot each other dead in the street before we give a shit?

Aioli. What are you? Why are you on every food I order in a restaurant? Can I buy you in a store? Are you fattening? Can I get a different kind of aioli? Is it organic? Is organic still a thing?

The guy from Avatar. Who/where is that guy? You know what's cool? I can't help but think the lead guy from Avatar's relative obscurity is somehow his own making. Gonna Google him, brb... Okay, the guy's name is Sam Worthington. I feel like Sam Worthington was an actor making the rounds, ended up in a room auditioning for James Cameron, got the part in Avatar and then was like, "This is all too much. I need to sit down." And then he did! Hey celebrities complaining about the perils of fame, take a lesson from Sam Worthington. That guy was the lead in one of the biggest movies in the world, at least from the past few years. I don't know anyone who didn't see that movie, and he was in nearly every scene. But I don't know if he has a girlfriend or a boyfriend or what his next movie is or where he had dinner last night. He probably did the requisite amount of press appearances for his movie, then found a home in some non-Hollywood place and was like, "See you in a bit if they make Avatar 2, gonna just sit here and make waffles on Sundays." Good for you, Sam Worthington. Out of respect, I'm not going to learn anything about you.

While we're at it, I'd like to remain wilfully ignorant of YOLO, Pinterest, Dance Moms, bath salts. Can't be bothered.

I would like to know more about political prisoners, guerrilla film-making, Shawn Atleo and his ties (or not) with Harper, reunited twins who have led eerily parallel lives, and The Green Party. I don't know why learning is something that becomes more challenging the more you do it. It's kind of the opposite of any other pursuit. It's trite, perhaps, but true that the more I learn, the less I know. But that shouldn't stop me, or any of us, from reading a newspaper, attending a lecture, and uncovering our ears during an argument, daring ourselves to be wrong.

Culture Shift...

Hello Friends.

I don't know whether it's all this 2012 talk, or the fact that I recently went up a jean size again, but I feel like change is afoot. I don't mean change for me personally (though I am in the midst of a move and new job hunt), but rather a larger, sweeping change in the culture.

I sometimes think about people who came of age in different time periods, like the sixties or the twenties, and wonder what it must have been like to be alive during that time. Did young people know, for instance, that they were living through a massive societal change? Did they appreciate it?

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that our generation is doing just that, and I want it on record that I acknowledge it and I dig it too. People of my generation lived life before the internet, experienced it's introduction into the culture, and now see it as integral to their lives. I was a teenager before we got the internet in our house, saw it as a cool diversion for a few years, and now I can't imagine my life without it. We are globally connected in ways never before possible, which seems to have alternately expanded and shrunk our entire universe. It's as if a growing segment of the population is comfortable playing high-stakes poker with wealthy elite in Japan, developing long-distance romance with with a chat room friend in Germany, keeping track of the every move of a favourite celebrity, but unable to sit at a bar and actually speak to real people in real time.

In spite of, or maybe because of, all these changes in a relatively short time, I feel like there's more to come. Consider how saturated the average North American adult is with pop culture every day. We can watch any tv on demand, get ten thoughtful, inspirational, or funny memes on our Facebook feed every couple of minutes, see new jokes literally within seconds as amateur and professional comedians alike update their Twitter accounts. There has to be a breaking point where we get sick of it all, and demand something new.

Dream: Anticipate and predict sweeping cultural change.

Goal: Achievable. You know how Call Me Maybe is the hit of the summer? I predicted that shit back in February! So, yeah, I think I know a bit about the way the wind is blowing.

Plan: Based on where we've been, determine where we're going. I anticipate a rise in:

Street culture. I think there's bound to be some pushback to our Facebook, LinkedIn, Twittered existence, by people who refuse to put anything online. Unpluggers, they'll call themselves, or Luddites. I predict more bands refusing to make websites and instead playing killer live shows that people only know about by showing up to the venue. Strange theatre companies suddenly creating appointment plays again, where nothing is recorded, and nothing is preserved. I know hipsters think they already do this, but I think hipsters yearn for nostalgia where these unpluggers will seek to create things anew, and hipsters love things ironically, but I think ironic detachment is on its way out in some respects.

For instance, comedy. Free form rants peppered with non-sequiter one liners seems to be all the rage in comedy these days. Comedians have Twitter accounts which limit tweets to 140 characters (not words, characters), and so Stephen Wright-style witticisms ("I spilled spot remover on my dog, now he's gone") seem to be the rage. I love this trend, I attempt it myself, but we're gonna get sick of it soon. There's only so many non-contextualized throwaway lines you can hear until they stop being funny, and the proliferation of them in all forms of media continues unabated. I watched a few minutes of The Big Bang Theory the other night, a show I'd never seen before. They had canned laughter after every single line. Every line! No scenes built to anything, it was just a series of bad jokes, but The Big Bang Theory is one of the highest rated shows on tv. I predict a future where comedy is based more on the slow burn. The story joke that builds and builds, like comedians of old. Tig Notaro kind of works like that now, and John Mulaney too and both of those people have a rehearsed, precise form of delivery that seems to fly in the face of the off-the-cuff style preferred by other popular comedians.

To that end, television is going to change too. We've been so inundated with reality shows, that I predict the medium will be turned on its head when one brilliant executive decides to hire some really realistic-sounding mumblecore actors, a script writer who writes just the way people talk, and just writes out the next season of Big Brother. Stage the entire thing, but toss in more scandal and betrayal than usual, I bet we'd be riveted. Even the most critically acclaimed scripted television now is starting to look less polished and is the better for it. Consider the gritty, documentary style of Louie, or the stark honesty of Girls. That seems to have attracted more fans than the slick and speechy Newsroom or a polished but laughable reboot of Dallas. I predict a future of auteur television where the vision of one talented writer/director trumps the focus group mentality of a room full of executives who "know what the public wants." There will be more Lena Dunhams and Louis C.K.'s and I'm really looking forward to it.

Finally, and I really hope I'm right about this one, I think we have no choice but to love our neighbours a little bit more. Seems to me we're culturally losing faith in what we used to look to, be they politicians, religious leaders, news media, even celebrities. There's a growing appetite for equality in the bedroom and boardroom, political correctness appears to be turning from whiny rhetoric to the new standard in manners, we just want to get along better, and I think we will. When I worked the late afternoon/evening shift at a drugstore, I'd walk down a street filled with kids who had just gotten out of school and were walking home together. It was unbelievably heartening to notice that when these groups of kids would break off to go home, or down different streets or whatever, they'd hug each other. When I started to notice it, I made a conscious effort to track the huggers, and it was almost every group of teenage kids, guys and girls both, that would greet or part ways with a hug. Sure, the guys did that bro-hug thing, but even that is so different from anything I remember from my days in school. Maybe it's a small trend that doesn't mean anything, but if we're striving to be more tactile, more connected, more "in this together" than before, doesn't that signal some kind of revolution? I hope so. I want to be a part of it.