Teeth

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

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

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

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

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

Sedaris...

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

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

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

Dream: Write more.

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

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

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

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

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

13

Hello Friends.

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

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

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

Dream: Get a message to 13 year old James.

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

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

Dear 13 Year Old James,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Old James

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

Confirmed Bachelor...

Hello Friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dream: Be a contestant on The Bachelor.

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

Plan: Bro down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Untouchable...

Hello Friends.

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

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

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

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

Dream: Touch more people.

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

Plan: Touch more people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brush Off Your Shakespeare...

Hello Friends.

On Wednesday nights, I meet a man I’ll call George at a public library to tutor him in reading and writing. George is a cab driver, but is taking a high school equivalency program in order to eventually take a course in a trade, and get a better job. He is incredibly motivated, and sees improving his reading and writing with me as one rung of a long ladder. Consequently, the work we do relates directly to his high school equivalency program, which means we’ve tackled a Steinbeck, differentiated some metaphors from some similes, and run smack into Shakespeare.

Dream: Remove Shakespeare from the high school curriculum.

Goal: Unachievable. There is no argument I could possibly make that would sway any school board to remove Shakespeare from their high school classrooms. My mother is an English teacher, and she would surely put spider eggs in my Christmas stocking if she knew I held this opinion. My drama teachers would have expressive and highly-physical heart attacks (ideally before an audience) if they read this missive. A bunch of old white actors like Ian McKellen, John Lithgow, and Brian Dennehey would wail and keen and get Tony’s for it. But I will not be swayed.

Here’s the thing about Shakespeare as it relates both to young teenagers, and adults like George with reading comprehension skills that need the occasional boost: it’s too difficult. The language is dense, the length interminable, the story a foregone conclusion. Everyone knows Romeo & Juliet die in the end, as much is stated in the prologue of the play! But to me, forcing Shakespeare on readers at that level is like making students copy pages out of the dictionary as punishment. Useful as it may be, brilliant though Shakespeare’s work undeniably is, students learn to loathe it. Shakespeare is exercise, vegetables, and church. To a young reader, the only reward of Shakespeare is just getting through the damn thing.

“But you need vegetables!” I hear you objecting, comfortably ensconced in your adult intellect and perspective. “Shakespeare is so important! His work is the foundation of modern literature and drama! He is unparalleled!” I agree. He knows his stuff. No slouch, that Bill. Real class act. But try feeding a T-bone steak to a four year old and see how impressed she is. Suggest to a 22 year old that they ought to put half their paycheque towards retirement. Give a homeless person a gift certificate for granite countertops. They can’t appreciate these things, not yet!

George and I have taken several approaches to the Shakespeare play that will make up at least half of his school term. We try reading summaries before going into the actual text. We’ve watched film adaptations. We learned the choreography to West Side Story (not really). Eventually, we parse line by line and, motivated though we both are, we end each session frustrated and exhausted. I try to remain as driven and upbeat as the man I’m working with, but he sees through my attempts at cheeriness. “You are so tired,” he says to me. “You must go home, get a lot of rest.” This from a man who drives cab all night to go to school all day in an effort to make a better life for his family. But that’s Shakespeare, man! That’s the utter slog through. We will get through one speech, and then another, but by then, we will have lost our train from the first speech. An act doesn’t hold together, even with helpful prodding like, “But remember when Benvolio said…”, or, “Why do you think Friar Laurence agreed to…” When something is foreshadowed, it’s just another cog in an increasingly complicated machine. It’s like putting together a 5000 piece jigsaw puzzle, and the picture turns out to be frustrated man putting a puzzle together.

Plan: Replace Shakespeare with other stuff.

It’s not that I don’t think we should revere Shakespeare, it’s quite the opposite. But I wonder if we shouldn’t treat his works the same way many of us treat the Bible. We know it’s there, we know it is the basis of many faiths, we also know Biblical allusions are found throughout literature. In the same way, we know Shakespeare’s the guy upon whom a great deal of modern work is based. Other than the Greeks, he kinda laid out the template for how we tell stories. But people derive meaning from the Bible in a rather piecemeal way. This verse of that Book, or Dave’s letter to Shawn or whatever. Likewise, why don’t we tell kids that Shakespeare’s the big cheese, and treat the cannon like it’s something to be culled from, rather than pounded into young brains?

Can’t we throw some more diverse literature at kids as a general rule? How many prizes does Joseph Boyden have to win before teenagers read his fantastic work? Does he have to be white and dead? What about Esi Edugyen? I tore through Half Blood Blues, I couldn’t read it fast enough! For that matter, why not give teenagers Gone Girl? Yes, it’s popular, but it’s not 50 Shades of Grey; it’s well-written and engrossing! Why does a good, enjoyable read and an assignment in an English class so often feel so different? In terms of plays, why start at Shakespeare and end with Our Town? Make them read Thomson Highway or Joanne McLeod. For that matter, get them scripts from TV shows or movies and show them what makes a smart sitcom script or gripping drama. Can you imagine how thrilled a classroom of teenagers would be to go through a classic Simpsons episode to try to figure out what makes it so well-written? What techniques are employed, what is the rhythm of the humour? Speaking of humour, what’s so damn funny about Shakespeare’s “Comedies”? At live performances I’ve been to, some people chuckle when the fool character gets up to his antics, and I want to throw my bug spray into their faces. “That’s not funny!” I want to yell at the chucklers. “You’ve just be told it’s supposed to be!” I don’t mean to be like a drunk at a comedy club, but where’s the part where I start laughin’?

I’m not suggesting we ignore Billy S. entirely. I’m just saying I don’t know any adults who tuck into a Shakespeare play when they’re looking to unwind. Shakespeare is always an assignment, always an undertaking. And it’s not as if, by taking it out of a few grade levels, we are depriving the world of the contribution Shakespeare has made. Shakespeare will always be the standard, whether or not 15 year olds scratch their heads over Hamlet for yet another year.

Even as I make this argument, I see the holes in it. We have to challenge students to get them to learn, and what’s a bigger challenge than Shakespeare? Who can say that by eliminating Shakespeare in high school, we won’t eventually eliminate him from colleges and outdoor festivals? Maybe no exposure to Shakespeare as a young person means that, when you encounter him later, you’re just as confused. I don’t know what the answer is.

What I do know is that reading isn’t fun for the guy I read with every week. Shakespeare is a unit to be suffered through, a test to be passed, then tossed aside and never looked at again. As we go back over and over the same speeches, desperate to not only derive meaning, but retain all the information for test time, I can’t help but think this isn’t how Shakespeare himself would have wanted his work enjoyed. I close with the man himself:

If we shadows have offended,

Think but this, and all is mended—
High school years are troubling times
With so much heaped on fertile minds
Take from this text what you will
Sorry it’s boring
Sincerely,

Bill

Used to Think...

Hello Friends.

I just saw the BEST movie. A friend and I spent a lovely cheap Tuesday night watching The Theory of Everything. Friends, run, don’t walk to The Theory of Everything. It’s a movie about Stephen Hawking’s life, which sounds like it might be too science-y at best or boring at worst, but it’s neither. Eddie Redmayne, who plays Stephen Hawking, is really something. As Hawking’s body degenerates over time, Eddie has less and less to work with in terms of physicality and speech, but the character is so well-rendered, you know exactly what he’s thinking and feeling. Anyway, I’m overhyping it surely, but just go watch it because you’ll like it and because what else are you gonna see? Beer Farts? Rage Girl? Dying Tears? Actually, I hear Katherine Heigl gives an amazing performance as Jonah Hill’s mother in Beer Farts.

A lot of things will stick with me about the Hawking movie, but one thing in particular about Hawking’s life and work has burrowed in my brain. Apparently, Hawking spent much of his early work as a Physicist promoting a particular theory about black holes. That theory was the basis of his thesis and his early published work. Later on, however, he determined that his black hole theory was probably wrong and set about disproving it. Think about that. Arguably the most intelligent man of our time looks at his own work and says, “Oh, that’s probably wrong. I was wrong. I should try to fix that.” Amazing! I wish more important people looked back on their actions and said, “I was wrong, let’s fix it.” What if Prime Ministers and Presidents did that? What if the Pope did that? Maybe we’ll never get Bush to admit the invasion of Iraq was a mistake, maybe Cosby will continue to insist that dozens of women are just making stuff up, but I can change my mind about some stuff. Let’s do it now.

Dream: Admit that some of my past beliefs, ideologies, opinions were wrong, and revise accordingly.

Goal: Achievable. I’m just a guy. Who cares if I used to think one thing and now I think another? But I do think it’s important to question one’s values every so often. I feel so young in so many ways. I can’t possibly know exactly what I believe about the world when I have had (comparatively) so little life experience.

Plan: Think of things I used to think, and think about whether I think that thing anymore.

I used to think night was better than day. I was a night owl for many years. At jobs, I would always take the afternoon/evening shift, so I could sleep in, and the night was mine to do whatever I wanted. Turns out all I wanted to do was eat bad food and otherwise defile myself. It would be a different story were I out on the town every night, trying new bars, going to concerts, socializing and cultivating night-based friendships. But I was on the internet in my jam-jams. Now that I work during the day, guess what I use my nights for? Hours of glorious sleep. I indulge in a different kind of gratification by turning in at 9.30 to wake up at ten after seven. If you’re keeping track at home, that’s more than nine and a half hours of bedtime. I can read for as long as I want. If I fall asleep right away and wake up in the middle of the night, I don’t panic like I used to. If I have a lousy night of sleep, I have the next night to do it over. I do this for all those friends with kids, or spouses that work opposite hours, or have such a full life that this amount of time dedicated to sleep is a ridiculous pipe dream they will never realize.

I used to think cream rises to the top. In creative fields, I had faith that the truly talented would prevail eventually, and everything else would fall away. Then I revised that opinion and believe more strongly that it isn’t about what you know, it’s who you know. Now I think it’s a little of both, or a lot of neither. It’s arbitrary. It’s a crap shoot. I know so many talented performers and writers who might not “break out” in any meaningful way, in spite of being incredibly talented. I also know many people who are so good at the game of networking, or making connections. For a long time, I watched the glad-handers, the ass-kissers, and the people who show up to everything, desperate to sell themselves. But I think that desperation comes across.

I knew a guy who was (and I think still is) the Artistic Director of a prominent theatre company. That is to say, I knew him personally more than professionally, and so didn’t consider myself among the networkers and hangers-on, of which there were dozens. People are overly-friendly with him, and slyly working in references to their own ability and wide open schedules. They might say, “So great to see you!” when they mean, “Give me a job, already!” He sees right through it and, while he is gracious, seems pretty immune to the empty compliments. I think honing your talent is just as important as making the right connections, but I also think some people “make it” and some people don’t thanks solely to dumb luck. And lest you think this is a self-pitying diatribe, I make a living writing copy, which is not creative, but I still consider myself among the dumb lucky ones.

I used to think whether or not you were gay was nobody’s business. Now, with important caveats, I think keeping yourself closeted for the sake of “privacy” is a dumb cop out. Obviously, there are exceptions here. If you are young, still figuring life out, and you stand to get the shit kicked out of you, stay in that closet until you can safely get out of there. If you are dependent upon parents who are assholes and will disown you, cut you off financially, etc., then of course don’t come out. If you live in a part of the world where identifying as gay puts you in legitimate danger, stay in the closet with my deepest sympathies and open invitation to Canada. If, however, you are an adult, if you support yourself, and especially if you have some poor secret same sex lover, lurking in the shadows, available for trysts, but not invited to the work Christmas party, then come the fuck out. The water’s fine. I regret waiting as long as I did to come out, as I experienced no fallout, but I also wanted to get out of high school first. I went to a great high school with great friends, and probably would have been fine there, too, but it can be a rough road for any teenager. I knew, on the cusp of adulthood, that I had no reason to hide, and no excuse.

There are still people who will say, “But it’s nobody’s business who I sleep with!” I completely agree. But there’s a big difference between saying, “I have a boyfriend named Greg and this is his home address and we have sex on Tuesdays and Fridays” and telling someone that you identify as gay. Consider, for instance, a person of ambiguous ethnic origin who is learning English as a second language. Maybe they are Japanese or maybe they are Korean, but it’s hard to tell. Another person might ask them, “Are you from Korea?” Maybe that’s a little forward, but it’s not an invasion of their privacy. The person would likely respond, “Yes I am” or “No I’m not”, and that would be that. It would be rude to say to that person, “What are your parents’ names? What do they do? Where do they live?”

Maybe I’m getting too activist-y, but I don’t think telling someone you’re gay is personal; I think it’s political. It helps out. The more straight people know gay people who are cabinet ministers, construction workers, Moms, Dads, colleagues, best pals, and douchebags, the more we’re just part of the world. That’s why I always wake up mad at Kevin Spacey, who plays the “Nobody’s business” game. Or Queen Latifah who “won’t discuss it.” Why not? You’re rich and famous, but made terribly insecure by this part of you that’s supposedly “nobody’s business”? The famous person who made me the angriest was Sean Hayes, who played the flamboyant Jack on Will & Grace. That was the most progressive show on television at the time, he was obviously gay, if not as stereotypical as the character he portrayed and he “refused to discuss it” until finally coming out for The Advocate several years after the show had been off the air. What does that do to the gay kids watching your show, buddy? Man up. And actually, the reason I’m mad at Queen Latifah was that her show was playing in the dentist’s office the other day, and she was taking a picture of her audience with her phone to put on Twitter. She said, “That’s not a selfie! That’s a somebody-elsie! We invented something new, y’all! A somebody-elsie!” The audience laughed and clapped while I seethed. YOU DIDN’T INVENT ANYTHING! A SOMEBODY-ELSIE?! YOU JUST TOOK A FUCKING PICTURE! YOU’RE SO STUPID!

I used to think the world was a magical, wonderful place. I don’t mean that it’s not from a poor me, doom and gloom perspective, because I have been a lucky person for whom the world has been a magical, wonderful place. Everything has been sunshine and lollipops for me because, as a white male, I was born on the sunny side of a lollipop field. Loathe as we are to admit it, much in our lives are dictated by privilege and circumstances, not our positive attitudes. I’m not explain myself well. David Rakoff said, and I’m paraphrasing, that you can believe in all the positive thinking that you want. You can have the sunniest attitude, and a “relationship with the universe”, and the belief that, by putting positive vibes out into the universe, positive vibes will be returned to you. But, Rakoff continued, if you’re a labourer in Bangladesh making 10 cents an hour at a fucking sneaker factory, you can think all the sunny thoughts you like, you’re still going to wake up tomorrow and have to work at the fucking sneaker factory.

I’m finding it hard to transition out of the “magical, wonderful place” model, especially because, as I say, my streets are paved with gold. I’ve got a job and a nice fella and have never been followed around a store, let’s say, or turned down for a job based on anything other than my qualifications. As a white dude, I’ve never felt vulnerable walking alone at night, or standing alone at a bar. I’ve never turned on the tv and not seen myself reflected back a hundred different ways. I haven’t seen hundreds of young white people go missing or be murdered, and if that happened enough times that it was noticeable as a larger trend, it would be on the front page of every newspaper every goddamn day.

It makes me heartsick when well-intentioned people like me say, “I just prefer to see the good in people.” Someone on my Facebook feed, in response to a Ferguson post said, “This whole situation is so negative! There are so many good things happening in the world, why not focus on that?” When someone says something so inane, what they’re really saying is, “It doesn’t affect me.” War in Iraq? “Doesn’t affect me.” Missing and murdered Aboriginal women? “Doesn’t affect me.” Unarmed black teenager shot dead by a police officer? “Doesn’t affect me.” It should affect you, it does affect you. To pretend otherwise is to be at best, a shitty person, and at worst, culpable in the injustices being committed.

It’s so tempting to deal in absolutes. I always do this, I never do that. I believe in this, but not that. I’m not a religious person, and I used to think that was a trait of religious people—the world is black and white, good and evil, etc. But now I think that’s true of only pious people, and the truly faithful struggle as much as the rest of us do.

In the course of proving and disproving his theories, Stephen Hawking became known as the most brilliant mind of our time. David Rakoff, in spite of his pessimistic nature, wrote some the funniest and most elegant prose I’ve ever read. I still can’t read his last book, published shortly before his death from cancer at 47, because the idea that such a writer has nothing left to be read makes me incredibly sad. The point is, neither man was content to say one thing and leave it there, they were furious and curious. Furious and curious aren’t bad things to be these days. At least that’s what I think.