Old Yeller...

Hello Friends.

Dr. Jon teaches a class on Thursday nights, so I usually use those nights to cook the dinners only I like and watch the shows Jon has no interest in. I’m embarrassed to report that those shows include a program I will call by its Spanish name, Escandalo!

Escandalo! is a soapy, melodramatic program that centres around Kerry Washington and her impossible cheekbones, and together they fix what’s wrong in Washington (the place), and the presidency. Kerry is having an affair with the President (Escandalo!), but has also uncovered a secret government organization that exists beyond the powers of the White House (Escandalo!) and she’s having another affair with the interim leader of that organization (Escandalo!) who holds the position previously held by Kerry Washington’s father (Muey Escandalo!). While the show purports to be about corruption and intrigue in the highest office in the land, it’s basically House of Cards for stupid people. In spite of myself, I am hooked.

One thing the show likes to do (with the subtlety of a freight train, btw) is examine the effects of power. Who has it, who wants it, what will they do to get it and keep it, etc. Kerry Washington is especially good at playing this dynamic as every subtle shift reads on her stunningly beautiful face. She’s a great actress, but lately her job has been to simply react to horrifying things, and you couldn’t find a better canvas. But I digress. Because it’s all about power, and because the show is a little ham-fisted in delivering emotional punches, everyone on Escandalo! is always yelling at each other. As much as I enjoy the escapism of a night time soap, I couldn’t last in that world for two seconds because I can’t handle being yelled at.

Dream: Handle being yelled at.

Goal: Achievable. When I say, “Being yelled at”, I’m defining things very loosely. I don’t mean someone screaming obscenities in my face, which nobody should put up with, I mean when someone belittles me, or chastises me like a child for some perceived transgression. I don’t understand this practice at all.

When I was a child, I stupidly thought that kids yell at each other, sometimes grown-ups yelled at kids, but grown-ups don’t yell at each other (and yes, that naiveté is the incredible privilege of growing up in the stable, happy home that 1/10 of 1 percent of all kids get, my brother and me among them). Consequently, as an adult, I don’t know how to respond when someone starts yelling. My stomach churns, my heart drops, and I am immediately cowed and subservient, even when I know that I’m not in the wrong and have nothing to be chastened for.

Plan: Shake it off.

How does Taylor Swift do it? With all the haters, and the fakers, and the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world?

Sometimes I wonder if I have one of those easy-to-yell-at faces. Like a droopy, “duh-duh” face. During one job I held, I caught my reflection in a window once after I was yelled at from a supervisor who had actually gathered other coworkers around for some kind of public shaming. My posture was defensive, my hands were shaking, and I had the stupidest look my face.

There was a director I have worked with who is notorious for his verbal tear-downs. Years of doing it had given him a lot of practice and he could, without warning, really decimate someone he was displeased with. People will always work with him, though, and I’m certain his tenure as a great director will continue because he gets great results. Loathe as I am to admit it, he knows that intimidation works. After a particularly blistering rebuke of someone on a rehearsal day, he sputtered, “I care about putting on a good show. I don’t care about everyone having a good time” or something to that effect. What bothers me is that both things are possible.

I can think of bosses, supervisors, directors, teachers, and other people of authority who get stuff done willingly by a happy crew. I have stayed in lousy jobs and worked really hard to please people like that. I might put forth extra effort into something if I don’t want to get yelled at, but I’m going to give my truly greatest effort when I’m helping someone that I respect. If you want to find stressed out people, go to a retail store or a restaurant. If you want to find calm people deftly handling stressful situations, go to the some of the stores where I have worked. I’ve seen managers on the floor all day getting shit from customers, then get a call from some head office and get shit from corporate when the day is done, and those managers then take their shit out on nobody. People don’t get yelled at, people get treated with respect, and the work gets done.

There are always going to be people that behave badly, who believe that threats of catastrophe is greater motivation than positive feedback. There’s no point in trying to change people who exhibit that behavior because often it gets results from chumps like me. But chumps like me can change how we respond to bad behavior, even if it means faking the shake off until we can successfully make the shake off.

Dr. Jon never yells at me, nor do my work colleagues, nor friends, nor family, and I don’t yell at anyone myself (at least I don’t think I do). Still, I think it’s important to remind myself that yelling itself is inevitable, but valueless. The more import I give to this lousy method of communication, the more likely I am to internalize it the next time someone yells at me. If yelling at James gets results, James better stop producing results to reinforce the behavior. It is then that I am the worst version of myself and likely to treat someone badly in turn, and that would be truly scandalous.

Sexy Man Costume...

Hello Friends.

Halloween falls on a Friday night this year, it’s not uncomfortably cold, I don’t have any children, and I’m not deathly ill. For all of those reasons, I really should go out and have fun. I’ve complained in the past about adults celebrating Halloween is juvenile and just a chance to get skanky, but really, who am I to deprive my contemporaries of the privilege? Plus, I am told that Halloween is truly the gay man’s holiday. It’s an event where outlandish behavior and dress is not only tolerated, but encouraged. Actually, considering the ceremony and pageantry associated with Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, I’m fairly certain that any holiday is the gay man’s holiday, but anyway.

This ghoultide season (ha HA!), I’m stymied as to what to dress up as, particularly since the practice is encouraged around the office. My only idea (and therefore the strongest contender) is Business Cat. This costume will involve wearing my normal work clothes, plus maybe some cat ears, and going about my day.

If we do go out on Friday night, I’m not convinced Business Cat will play well at the bar. As much as a truly original costume like Business Cat is appreciated, funny’s no money when it comes winning the prizes offered at the night spot we might visit. There will be some women dressed in sexy lady gear and, because it’s a gay bar, there will also be men dressed in sexy lady gear. Since the only lady I’m comfortable dressing as is Diane Keaton, I need to find a Sexy Man’s Costume.

Dream: Design or discover a Sexy Man Halloween costume.

Goal: Achievable. My feeling is those sad Halloween stores really miss the mark when it comes to costumes for men. One I saw recently was lumberjack. I don’t know any actual lumberjacks, but I think if I met one, I wouldn’t be turned on by virtue of his profession:

ME: What’s your job?
LUMBERJACK: Lumberjack.
ME: Oh! So you… chop down trees?
LUMBERJACK: Basically.
ME: Huh! Don’t they have machines that do that now?
LUMBERJACK: Do they?
ME: I think so.
LUMBERJACK: I’ll be along now. Exuent LUMBERJACK

Plan: Design prototypes for Sexy Man Costumes based on the following ideas:

Sexy Single Dad. This one is for you, ladies. I’m not sure why, but many straight ladies I know turns all jello-kneed at the sight of a handsome single father. This costume is simple, fellas. Dress somewhat conservatively and walk around the party calling out modern names. “Makenna? Zaden?” People will be like, “Awww, those must be his kids!” Although I suppose they would think you were calling for your kids because they were missing at a large party, I don’t know how you dig yourself out of that hole. Okay, wear a t-shirt obviously made by children. So it has paint handprints on it and says “WE LOVE YOU DADDY” in crude font and then something like, “PS OUR MOMMY IS DEAD” so that everyone knows you’re a single parent, down to clown.

Sexy Vet (like veterinarian, not war veteran, let’s not make fun of that). One of the loveliest thing about Dr. Jon is how much he cares for animals. There’s something so appealing about that quality in a fella. So a Sexy Vet could wear a stethoscope, but have scrubs with puppies on them. Or he could carry around a bandaged bunny rabbit. No, that’s weird, that’s weird.

Brendan Fraser. Just dress like Brendan Fraser. Where is that guy? I miss that guy. Or rather, I miss him from 20 years ago. I remember seeing Encino Man when I was 11 or 12, where this dude finds a prehistoric naked and vulnerable Brendan Fraser and thinking to myself, “This shall be my life’s work.”

Sexy Apologizing Bastard. You know how there’s that person in your life, from work, or high school, or college who was/is a bastard? And there’s something about him that could potentially be attractive if he wasn’t a bastard? This costume is that guy, but he spends the whole night apologizing for being a bastard.

Sexy “What About You?” Guy. This one will be an even bigger hit than the Apologizer. This guy’s costume could be a mirror, or a t shirt with a big question mark on it. All he does is ask about your life and seem genuinely interested. Yeah, that would get annoying and suspicious after a while, but it could be sexy over the course of a party.

Sexy “Strong Without Effort” Guy. I don’t mean muscle-y juiceheads, or the guys at the gym lifting insane amounts and screaming with each movement like they’re making Sophie’s choice. I can’t explain it, but to me there’s something incredibly attractive about a man (a woman too, come to think of it), doing something taxing without obvious strain. Again, I don’t know why, but when a guy competently helps to move a couch or does pushups because he’s bored, that’s insanely hot.

Guy in a suit. Gentleman, just buy a basic suit that is TAILORED TO YOUR BODY and wear it around. This is so easy, especially because the resourceful guy can wear many combinations of one suit and a well-made suit lasts forever. Just wear a suit. Just wear a suit!

It says a lot about our culture that a sexy lady costume requires wearing some variation of a skimpy garment and who cares about the context, and a sexy man costume just asks that guys not be dicks for a night. I’m not the one to solve this quandary, but in general, I do think the sexiest thing anyone can be is an open, honest version of themselves. Or a Business Cat.

Do Not Not Disturb

Hello Friends.

I had to give up my little office last week to make room for a new guy. Now I work in a more communal area alongside my colleagues. Not really a cube farm, just a corner of a much larger room with three other people and a bit of foot traffic. Higher-ups broke this news to me as gently as possible, as if I might burst into tears, or cling possessively to the inspirational picture mounted to my wall. “No! I need my solitary space! How else will I LIVE?”

The answer is, quite comfortably. Though it was cool, when I got this job, to have my own office, it quickly became weirdly isolating. I found myself wandering over to the common area that now includes my desk to ask innocuous questions about a task, find out if I could help anyone out, or just chat. Turns out, unless I’m deep in the throes of a complicated assignment, I’d rather have some activity around me than none at all. Though I still would consider working from home the gold standard, but only because I imagine it the way Homer does, where Jon brings me a lemonade and a beer and we dance while I wear my fat guy muumuu.

There have been times in my life when I’ve really wanted to be alone. When I was a kid, I wanted my own room and when I finally got one, I guarded it fiercely (although it wasn’t as if anyone was desperate to gain access to the inner sanctum of a disgusting teenaged me). When I moved out on my own, I dismissed the idea of roommates entirely. At the time, my rent was so low I could easily afford a one bedroom apartment while working a crap job (something all but impossible now). Even after I met Jon, we kept separate residences for four years, and then have lived apart for long stretches since due to his work and mine.

The thing that surprised me about getting the solitude I thought that I wanted was that I became the worst version of myself. I’m not a depressive, but I am incredibly neurotic, and left unchecked by the presence of others, I become a literal and figurative mess.

Dream: Live in less privacy.

Goal: Achievable. I know that doesn’t make sense on the face of it. Who wants less privacy? Especially when one considers, beyond the tinfoil hat sort of way, that we lack so much privacy as citizens. Surely our emails are monitored, our money tracked, and suspicious movements subject to surveillance, and we’re not even important people. I wouldn’t mind if that scrutiny was lessened a bit; it creeps me out to think that none of us has any autonomy as a citizen of the world, I’m just saying I want people around.

Plan: Find ways to make myself more accessible and less imprisoned by my impulse to isolate. Such as:

Secrets. I don’t mean that I’m going to spill anyone’s secrets, anything I’ve put in the vault stays in the vault. I mean that I’m going to try to keep less secrets about myself, not that I have many anyway, but you get the picture. Anything I’ve held inside, for whatever reason, eventually festers and feels gross. Whether it’s times I’ve been bad with money, bailed on a commitment, treated somebody like shit, I have to own that stuff.

Relationship criteria. In my case, I’m not talking about criteria for a romantic relationship, as I’ve already got a good one of those; I’m talking about developing more connections and friendships with people. To generalize with wild abandon, I feel like straight women and gay men feel this need to have an inner circle, or maybe one or two confidantes, or one bff, and nobody else gets in. I look at the Facebook walls of my straight women/gay men friends and they’re filled with self-centered platitudes like, “I’m officially done with apologizing to people!” Or, “This is me, deal with it!” Or my personal favourite, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best!” Did you ever notice that people who say that actually have no best and are always the worst?

I’m not saying don’t be who you are, but never apologizing? Really? Isn’t life full of the mistakes we make and how we choose to correct them? Shouldn’t we be pliable as people, willing to accept different points of view, especially if it means changing our own? Isn’t that growth? If you’re going to summarily dismiss the people in your life who occasionally rankle or upset you, be prepared for the loneliest life! Ironically, these are the same people whose social media platforms are filled with Oprah quotes about “Living in the moment” and “Practicing gratitude”, but they can’t seem to do much of either.

Every body (even mine, even yours) is fine. The older I get and the more my body changes, the less I understand our collective insistence on privately (or publicly) tormenting ourselves about how we look. I don’t mean to be all free love and creepy, but they’re just bodies, man. Who gives a shit? It was awful and a huge breach of privacy when some person (or persons) hacked into the phones/computers of a bunch of female celebrities and posted their nude photos. A terrible violation, to be sure. But as I understand it, these aren’t pictures of people engaged in sex acts; they’re just naked selfies. The more we clutch our pearls and ready our fainting couches over nude photos that don’t depict anything sexual, the more we send the message that there’s something inherently wrong with our bodies.

I know taking this view is a little gross, it sounds like I’m defending the people that stole and leaked these photos, of course I’m not, but I read this article about teenagers and sexting recently that gave me a lot to think about. Because teens are perpetually horny and disgusting, and the dangers of sexual activity are hammered into them at every opportunity, a titillating but physically safe option seems to be sending each other naked pictures. I was surprised to learn that, at least among the teenagers surveyed for the article, there is rarely, if ever, a fallout as a result. It is only when parents find out and involve schools who in turn involve law enforcement, that it gets truly awful. Senders and sendees are interviewed, monitored, and in some cases, charged and arrested. The subjects of questionable photos have scarlet A’s permanently affixed to themselves as they walk the halls. Remember that this is not the result of explicit imagery of people engaging in sex with each other (though those do exist among teens and ought to be handled quite differently), these are kids standing there with their clothes off. Granted, if a naked picture of me was circulated among my classmates when I was a teen, I would be horrified and embarrassed. If cops showed up to interview me about it alongside my parents, I’d actually want to die.  

Again, I’m speaking only for myself here. And I think perhaps I’m confusing privacy with secrecy, or being alone with loneliness. There are private parts of my life that I keep close to the vest, and I wouldn’t want that to be violated, but I also know that I want people around that really know me, warts and all. I like how nobody has to awkwardly knock on an open door to get my attention at work now. Nobody needs to be invited into my space; you’re already here.

Katy Perry's Superbowl of Love

Hello Friends.

For an event I’ve never watched all the way through in my life, I have some pretty distinct Superbowl memories, and all of them involve performers. The Superbowl was where Whitney Houston sang that iconic version of The Star Spangled Banner. By the way, isn’t it sort of weird that the American national anthem is called The Star Spangled Banner? A star spangled banner sounds like a festooned sash at a children’s beauty pageant or the décor at a homosexual-hosted house party. The Superbowl is where Justin Timberlake grabbed the breastplate off Janet Jackson’s breast, momentarily exposing it to a pearl-clutching nation. I’ll never stop being mad about the fallout, by the way. He ripped her top off. Regardless of whether this was pre-planned, it’s an act of sexual violence to rip someone’s top off, why didn’t we get mad at him? A wall of shit really fell on Janet from which I’m not sure her career ever recovered, but Timberlake got off scot-free. Micheal Jackson did a half time show one year where everyone in the audience had to hold up placards to form a shitty picture of children holding hands, which is arguably the greater crime against humanity. The Superbowl was where Madonna and Beyonce led the half-time shows of 2013 and 2014, respectively, in a blatant attempt to bring women and gays to the tv for ten minutes and it worked.  

This year, it has just been announced, will feature a half time performance by Katy Perry. Madonna was good, Beyonce was fine, but Katy Perry? It’s like okay, universe, I get it: this is the most important Superbowl of all time in history, and I want to be a part of it.

Dream: Katy Perry performs a song about me in The Superbowl.

Goal: Achievable. Listen, stranger things have happened. Nobodies have star making turns all the time. Have you seen that “Apparently” kid? He hosts Ellen now. With viral memes, videos, and blog posts (right??) dictating popularity, it’s only a matter of time before something I produced gets beamed around the world into millions of homes, and I think Katy Perry is the perfect conduit.

Plan: Write to Katy so she has adequate time to rehearse James Is My Friend, Look At Him Go.

Dear Katy,

Hi! I’m such a fan of some of your music. I think you can craft a hit like no one else. Teenage Dream? Roar? Birthday? Forget it. Those will be pleasantly stuck in my head until the end of time. I even have an hour long workout mix of your tunes that I listen to while I sit around eating.

I’m not sure why you’re not given the credit of a Lady Gaga or Beyonce. To me, your songs are more instantly memorable, and you’re far better looking. I bought the issue of Vogue with you on it because look at you! You’re a goddamn painting! Wow!

Anyway, I know everyone is looking forward to a medley of your hits (but leave off Dark Horse, that one never really burrowed into my brain like the others), but what I’d like to do is really shake up your forthcoming performance with a brand new hit called James is My Friend, Look At Him Go. I’m not super good with music, but it should be upbeat and poppy. Lyrics below.

James Is My Friend, Look At Him Go

Who is the boy who has all the moves?
Who is the friend that’s closest to you?
Who is the man you want right by your side?

He is the guy who’s healthy and strong
He works in the day and sleeps all night long
He can’t drive a car so I’m taking him for a ride *Katy, good place for a sexy move here*

CHORUS:

James is my friend, look at him go
He is a friend I think you should know
Patient and kind
He’s not your friend he’s mine
Go Big City James Go!

There comes a time when you’re all alone
No Likes on your status no texts on your phone
There’s only one boy who can make you feel alright

So give him a call and there he will be
He’s not just your friend, he’s friends with me
I’m Katy Perry and our friendship lasts all night

CHORUS

BRIDGE

James is his name, and that’s all I know, Go Big City James Go (Go go GO!)

CHORUS x2

And that’s basically it. Easy, right? I don’t have any suggestions for dance moves, but maybe point in random directions in the audience like you’re pointing at specific people, in a “You! You! You!” sort of way.

Alright Katy, realtalk, that time you sang with that girl at an autism benefit makes me cry buckets when I watch it. If you want to do something as poignant and meaningful in your half time show in lieu of singing to me, I can’t stop you (though I have some musically inclined friends who just might decide to record this track if you take a pass). I’m just a fan and a nice person and it’s been such a long time since someone publicly performed in my honour, so…. Come on.

Love your friend,

James

Under the Knife…

Hello Friends.

Starting off on a bad foot because this is already late, but I also have to warn you not to expect a blog next Thursday either because next Thursday I am getting some work done.

The Cobra Superstar Oral and Facial Surgical Centre (not its real name) is just a few blocks from my house and offers everything from nose jobs to Botox injections. After an initial consultation and getting the right forms signed by a doctor, Jonny is driving me to and from Cobra Superstar for a brief procedure on October 3rd.

I could continue with this misdirection awhile because it’s fun, but truthfully I’m just getting some dumb operation done on my jaw because apparently (this is gross) there’s a tooth imbedded in there. I was hoping the tooth would be attached to one of those fetus twins but no joy. My dentist tells me that, while this imbedded tooth gives me no discomfort now, it will eventually hit nerves and the pain will be horrendous. The op is totally covered by my insurance combined with the Doc’s, so there’s really no reason why I shouldn’t get this troublemaker yanked outta me. If there are no complications and recover quickly, this procedure could open up a whole new world to me, and it might be fun.

Dream: Get extensive cosmetic surgery.

Goal: Achievable. Recently, I asked a friend, “If plastic surgery wasn’t at all stigmatized, would you do it?” She said, “Yes, totally. Wait, what did you say?” and I said, “If plastic surgery…” and she goes, “Ohh! I thought you said prostitution. But yeah. Yes to both” (she’s one of my best pals). And she’s right (about plastic surgery, anyway). If there was absolutely no stigmatization (and procedures were affordable and safe), wouldn’t many of us fix up our faces and bodies the way we get our hair cut or go to the gym? I know I would.

Plan: Make a list of potential procedures to undergo, assuming my rogue tooth is extracted from my jaw without causing me undue duress. Here’s what I’d fix if I could.

Ab implants. Would that be cool? I’m so tired of obscuring my pizza gut with big sweaters, Chinese dressing screens, and obvious props like a pregnant tv actress. I want to know what it would feel like to rub my hand on my belly and feel taut ridges rather than a hairy sack of gluten.

Face shortener. I have a longer face than a cartoon basset hound. I’m scared of ever getting a caricature done of me because I know it will just be a long bean riding a skateboard or something. What else?

Eyebag de-puffing

Ballbag de-wrinkling

Wit sharpening

Nipple sharpening. Just open cans of tomato juice instantly.

Nasal cavity widening. This will be a tricky one. I don’t want bigger nostrils, but apparently I have an irritating nose whistle. I saw apparently because I can’t hear it, but everyone around me can. In fact, I’m probably sending out a merry tune as I write, but I’m none the wiser.

Preemptive jowl filler. I know I should smile more to eliminate the future perma-creases on either side of my mouth rendering me a living Ben Wicks illustration. Actually, this has nothing to do with anything, but I read an article positing that facial fillers are a boon to AIDS patients. A small amount applied to either side of the face eliminates the gaunt, hollow-cheeked look common among sufferers. That’s a major downer, but the kind of thing one is tempted to trot out in defense of plastic surgery. Sorry for the AIDS digression.

Permanent hair. My hair has done me a solid over the years, can I get surgery to keep it on my head for the rest of my life? If that doesn’t exist, it should.

Finally, to steal a joke from Maria Bamford, what I’d really like to surgically alter is that part of my brain that cares what other people think. I’m not really considering any plastic surgery for myself right now, but I’m not one those people who casts aspersions on people who nip and tuck. A beautiful friend of mine confided that she had had a nose job in her teenage years and I stupidly thought, “But that’s impossible, your nose is so pretty!” But of course I’ve only known her with her current, pert and beautiful nose on her pert and beautiful face. Being (forgive me) nosy in turn, I asked if she had any other procedures done and she laughed and said, “No, I just had a big nose growing up. Now I don’t.” Simple as that.

Of course anything can be overdone and ghastly, and the effects of plastic surgery are permanent, but so are tattoos and we’ve become perhaps too permissible where those are concerned. All I would hope is that if I do ever seriously contemplate getting something done, it’s for my own peace of mind and nothing else. I hope I don’t age into Botox where a 60 year old James looks like a permanently surprised 70 year old James, or buy myself a new schlong for Christmas, but it’s my own damn business if I do. If there’s something different about me one day that you can’t quite put your finger on, don’t ask me to explain myself because I’ll probably just do what is advised for my recovery after next Thursday: keep my mouth shut.

Blinded With Science...

Hello Friends.

Do elementary school children still have to participate in science fairs every year? When I was a kid, science fairs were mandatory. I don’t remember what all of my projects were, though I never did that copout, the volcano one. One year, my mother saved all the bones from a helping of chicken wings, and then I traced a picture of a dinosaur onto a piece of cardboard, then put glue over the tracing, then glued the chicken bones onto the picture. I’m not sure what about this project made it an experiment, exactly. I know people walked by my display and probably asked, “What is your project about?” and I probably pointed to the picture and said, “Dinosaur.” It really shed light on the age-old question, “Did dinosaurs have bones?”

There’s a picture of note in our family album from my third grade science fair. Little James, in his little sweat suit (my uniform of choice, apparently), standing proudly in front of a big folded cardboard display that we all used for science projects. On one side of the cardboard display, written in red marker in my finest all caps printing read, “ARE FINGERPRINTS DIFFERENT?” Below the text were fingerprints from various family and friends. On the other side of the cardboard display, written in green marker was, “YES.”  

All of us laugh at this picture when it appears in the family album, but no one can get on a better roll about it than my father, who lapses into hysterics. “Are fingerprints different yes! What the hell kind of project is that? Look at you, what a wiener!” Lest this paint a bad picture of Dad, trust that he was always supportive and encouraging to me when I was a child, and it truly is the most heinous science project imaginable. Are fingerprints different? The fact that this was my topic suggests two possibilities: one, even at eight, I was more interested in taking the easy route where projects are concerned and built a project based on a foregone conclusion or two, more troubling, I genuinely didn’t know that fingerprints were different! What a stupid kid! That’s literally the second thing you learn when you learn about fingerprints! A) They are prints of your finger and B) They are all different from each other! How could I have missed those facts as a child?

LITTLE JAMES (pointing to smudges on window): What’s that, Papa?
DAD: Those are fingerprints, James. When you touch something with your fingers, it leaves behind a fingerprint. And every person in the world has their own unique set of fingerprints. Nobody’s fingerprints are ever the same as somebody else’s!
LITTLE JAMES: Ohhh.
JAMES’ BRAIN: I WONDER IF FINGERPRINTS ARE DIFFERENT.

Dream: Improve my grasp on science.

Goal: Not achievable. If trendy listicles are to be believed, science is really enjoying a cultural resurgence. My Facebook feed is littered with posts from a site called, “I fucking love science.” Everyone seems to be watching that show Cosmos and kneeling at the altar of Neil Degrassi Junior High.

My trouble is, I lack even the basic principles upon which scientific discovery is based. For instance, you could tell me anything about what bees do in the wintertime and I would believe you. Fortuitously, I found out in high school that a twelfth grade science class was not required for my university program, so I scraped by in an eleventh grade physics course before leaving science behind forever. Even in University, though a science elective was required, computer science counted as a science! I barely eked out a pass making animated gifs out in MS Paint. The point is, having never taken any courses, I still have a child’s grasp on chemistry, biology, geology, astronomy, and all mysteries of the universe. It is time, therefore, to start figuring out the basics for myself.

Plan: Develop a successful third grade science project. Look, I’m not going to do research for fun, or read any books, but the least I can do is try to erase the distinct impression of my fingerprints fiasco. Here are some hypothetical projects that I could undertake:

Does a Plane Stay In the Air? Yes. This project would actually be another cheat because I did hear something on the radio the other day that explained the phenomenon quite plainly. Airplane wings curve up slightly so that it takes longer for air to travel on top of the wing than it does for air to pass below. This creates stronger air pressure on the bottom so the plane cannot fall out of the sky. However, I wonder if the muffled farts of airborne travelers doesn’t also help somewhat.

Do Cellphones Give Us Cancer? Yes. It’s gotta be cellphones, guys. To think that we’re sending and receiving enough signals both determine our exact coordinates on the planet and also download the new Taylor Swift song, how can that be healthy for our squishy melon heads?

Do Animals and Babies Keep Us Healthy? Yes. I want to hold your baby. LET ME HOLD YOUR BABY! Also, can I pet your dog? I really think my daily worries would decrease dramatically if I could play with a baby and/or dog sometimes. Pets are no longer allowed in our building and the Doc and I aren’t at the parenting stage yet, but I just want to have a friend with a baby who lives close by so I can snuggle it and give it squishes. Sometimes a baby will reach out and grab your finger with its little fist and that’s better than any 2 for 1 drink special. And sometimes you’re worried about your job or how fat you are and a dog comes by and puts his head on your knee and says, “Hi, can we play?”

Further to this idea, I know a man who is originally from India and he told me, in half-apology for his irreverence, that in India, they refer to Alzheimer’s and dementia as the white man’s disease. There are conflicting studies on this issue, some suggesting that degenerative brain diseases simply aren’t properly diagnosed in other parts of the world, and some maintaining that they are actually more prevalent in Western society. But anyway, my friend said that the cultural expectation where he is from is that the elderly parent is moved into the family home, or is otherwise integral to the family life. There’s no, “Going to visit Grandma”, Grandma is as much a part of the family as Mom and Dad. This structure keeps Grandma sharp in turn, because there’s often a baby or young child underfoot. There’s no boring routine to settle into if there’s a baby around! Grandma’s mind is sharp out of necessity and constant stimulation. Anyway, science.

Can We Smell Better? Yes. I really don’t think we’ve hit the zenith of what perfumes, colognes, deodorants, and breath freshener can be. I know people will tell you those are chemicals and toxins and “you don’t need it!” but those people are wrong and they especially need it. How come some people carry off a great scent so perfectly from morning until night and the rest of us somehow lose the smell of our cologne by ten in the morning and smell like ham the rest of the day? For all the shit I give my former job, the cosmeticians who work in those big drugstores really know their stuff. They have to attend several workshops a year as put on by various vendors so they can both speak knowledgeably about what they sell and sell it. Anyway, from learning at their feet, I know that a lot of people choose the wrong scent for their body chemistry. Also, and this is fascinating, did you know that the pigment in a person’s skin determines how deeply they absorb the scent on their body? In other words, the darker someone’s skin, the more the smell of their cologne or perfume sticks around, the better they smell. I’ve worn Armani Code pretty consistently in my adult life, but I don’t know that it does me any favours. That said, I have to be ahead of the game somewhat if I’m not dousing myself in Axe. People still do that. A guy beside me at the gym had so much on that I was tempted to move from my machine, but Chopped was on and I can really only enjoy that while moving at a glacial pace on a bike screwed to the floor.

Is Science Necessary? Yes. Despite my reluctance to learn anything, nothing chaps my ass more than willful ignorance to scientifically proven information. I read recently that schoolchildren in the wealthiest part of Los Angeles had vaccination rates lower than the South Sudan. Are people insane? The long ago study supposedly linking vaccination to autism was debunked and the study’s own conductor admitted to fabricating all of it! Perhaps we don’t know the long term residual effects of some chemical combinations in vaccines but we know it sure as fuck prevents polio and whooping cough in the short term. And I sure hope members of the “No such thing as climate change” crowd were relaxing in Calgary two weeks ago when Sunday was a balmy 25 degrees and Monday saw the city covered in snow.

I can admit to a lack of both interest and aptitude in science, but I can certainly appreciate the tireless work of the people in that field. While I don’t think it is the worst thing to be stymied and confused by scientific discoveries, I do think it’s crappy to be incurious. Learning things makes me feel smarter, and being convinced you know everything already makes you a real dope in my book. Every person accrues a certain amount of information and expertise in their lifetime, and everyone’s base of knowledge is completely unique. No two are the same. Much like snowflakes.

Pizza Day...

Hello Friends.

I am writing to you this afternoon on my lunch break at work. After a fairly hectic week, my boss has ordered pizza for the office and we’re waiting for it to arrive. I can only think of pizza. Anything could happen right now and it wouldn’t take my mind of pizza. Joan Pizza could be brought back to life and hit the pizza carpet with her fashion zingers and I’d still be all, “Pizza!”

The trouble is, my gut, ass, thighs, and upper arms are also pizza. Upper arms, that’s the cruelest fat depository! I was feeling so pleased with myself at the gym yesterday doing shoulder presses. The machine faces a mirror and I saw what I thought were muscles bulging under my shirt, but it was only goddamn pizza. If I can grab and manipulate the flesh on my arm, It’s not muscle tissue, it’s DiGiorno.

Notice how I aggressively inserted that “In the gym yesterday” bit? Yeah, so did I. After parting ways with my Big City Gym when I moved, I was content to just go swimming at the university for any kind of fitness, but now that classes have started up again, the pool is so goddamn full of youths that I can’t be bothered to go anymore. Instead, I found a good gym and a pretty good rate and thought, “Now everything will change! Goodbye, fat guy underwear!”

Anyway, one of the “perks” to this gym membership is a consultation with a hunk employed by the facility. I dreaded my consultation because I knew I’d fail terribly at all of the tests and I was right. But beyond sweating, humiliated, at the machines, I also had to have a chat with him about nutrition, during which I lied through my goddamn teeth.

Dream: Eat better.

Goal: Achievable. The hunk explained that diet was responsible for like 70% of achieving a successful fitness goal, to which I wanted to ask, “Could I counteract some of that with aggressive pooping?” I don’t eat garbage food, I cook at home a lot, but I cook red meat, and chicken, and pasta, and dishes where the only vegetable is mushrooms, and the only side dish is more of the entrée. But at the same time, my own lightning-fast metabolism has slowed down because I’m too old to figure out how Instagram works.

Plan: Adopt the following strategies to eat better, get healthier, and buy thin guy underwear again.

Cook and eat more nutritious foods. That’s definitely something that works better in theory than in practice. Have you guys had nutritious food lately? It’s fucking gross. Kale? Gross. Quinoa? Gross. Spinach is okay, but only because you can wilt it in garlic and toss it in some goddamn noodles. I think I’m going to try to integrate healthy components into unhealthy dishes. I’ll put an orange segment next to my steak, for instance, or a broccoli floret will garnish my tumbler of Baileys.

Eat less. It would really be a win-win if I could do this. I would have less food to eat, but more food leftover for lunches. As often as not, however, I’ll make a big dish of something, justify a second helping, eliminate all possibility for leftovers. I guess I could just make more at suppertime but I feel like I’d just keep eating, like one of those awful competitive eaters, expecting a prize at the end.

Not care what I eat. Man, I wish I could do this. The Doc appreciates my cooking, which is lovely, but he could also just as easily eat a frozen dinner, a plate of beans, a slice of bread, a piece of string. He’s the rare bird that just eats because he’s hungry and doesn’t recognize the truly enjoyable experience of eating really good food. Consequently, he has no guilt about what he eats or whether or not he gains weight (though he doesn’t). That’s the way to go. Also, he’s great to live with because if there are chips in the house, they’ll usually stay in the house until I eat all of them.

These are all very first world problems. I’m lucky to go to a grocery store, or eat at a restaurant, and get whatever I want in unlimited quantities. It’s only good genes and being raised by health-conscious parents that keeps me from tipping the scales. Plus, I know age is only going to make me gain weight faster and restrict food further, so why am I kvetching now?

In elementary school, we had Pizza Day. I don’t know if that’s still a thing, but I remember regarding them as akin to days off from school entirely. “I don’t have to pay attention in class today, it’s Pizza Day!” As if all of our activities would somehow be pizza-related. Now, of course, all food decisions are stupidly fraught, and tied to all kinds of feelings of either superiority (“Just a salad”) or shame (“Can I get a side of mayo with the fries?”). But all I’m really serving up is a helping of gluttonous vanity, which is the first thing I have to shed before stepping on the scale. But now I have to go. Pizza’s here.